George Pelecanos - Hard Revolution

As the Buick Skylark pulled out of the lot, Martini put the Hurst in gear and motored slowly past the space, getting reverse and backing in cleanly between a Satellite and a Bel Air. Looking over his shoulder to navigate, Martini saw Hess, amped on speed, his jittery, piggish eyes pinballing in their sockets. Behind the Nova was the sidewalk, and then the plate-glass window of the bank atop a three-foot marble base.

“You ready, Shorty?” said Stewart, his face colored by a head rush of blood.

“Born ready, dad. We gon’ get it all. ”

“Look at me, Dom,” said Stewart. “ Look at me.”

Martini turned his head and stared into Stewart’s eyes.

“You’re gonna wait for us,” said Stewart. “You keep it runnin’ and wait. We won’t be but five. When we come back, you make it scream. Head south and work the side streets back to your alley. This ain’t nothin’ but a cakewalk, I shit you not.”

“I’ll be here,” said Martini.

I’ve been headed here all my life.

Stewart and Hess fitted the stocking masks on their heads and pulled them down over their faces. They put on their gloves. Stewart, his features mutilated by the mask, his lips fishlike against it, made eye contact with Hess and nodded one time. He got out of the car first, then waited for Hess to push the front seat forward and climb out. Stewart shut the door. Martini looked in the sideview and watched them cross the asphalt and white concrete. Stewart opened the door to the bank and let Hess pass. Stewart drew the cut-down from the harness beneath his raincoat as he followed Hess inside. The door closed quietly behind them. Then there was only the sputtering of the Nova’s 350 rumbling beneath the hood.

Martini’s eyes stayed on the mirror, not looking ahead, not seeing MPD squad car number 63 as it slowly passed on Georgia Avenue.

VAUGHN FLIPPED OPEN his Zippo, lit a cigarette, and snapped the lid shut. He rested his elbow on the lip of the driver’s window as he smoked, one meaty hand atop the wheel. He went down Georgia to the business district around Sheridan, checking out the sidewalk in front of Victor Liquors, Vince’s Agnes Flower Shop, John’s Lunch, the Chinese laundry, and, on the corner, the 6200 tavern. He kept going and cruised slowly by Lou’s, where men who looked liked Martini, Stewart, and Hess drank, smoked, and shot pool. He saw no trace of a black Nova curbed along the Avenue or on the immediate side streets. He continued down Georgia, knowing in his gut as he saw the dark faces of the residents here that he was getting cold. These were men who had run down a man who had done them no wrong, and that made them cowards. They would never try to pull a job in the colored part of town.

He was turning the unmarked in the middle of the street when the 211 came over the radio, describing a robbery in progress at the Capitol Savings and Loan, up near the District line.

Vaughn grabbed the portable magnetic beacon light sitting on the passenger floorboard beside him. He put the cherry out the window and onto the roof, its power wire lying across his lap. He hit the siren and light switches on the console before him. He pegged the gas. The Ford lifted from the power surge. It fishtailed on the lane change as Vaughn swerved to avoid hitting a D.C. Transit bus.

STRANGE, ON THE shotgun side of the squad car, was the first to spot the black Nova in a space out front of the Capitol Savings and Loan. Exhaust drifted up over its trunk line.

“Slow down a little, Troy,” said Strange.

“What’s up?”

“Just slow it down.”

Strange had learned from the bulletin that the plates were stolen and their numbers unknown. But he could make out the full head of wavy black hair on the man behind the Nova’s wheel.

“Pull over,” said Strange. “We got a hit on that all-points.”

They were on Georgia, well past the bank now, directly in front of the A amp;P.

Troy took the Ford over to the curb as Strange radioed in the sighting. He was instructed by the voice on the other end to wait for backup. He ten-foured the desk man and cradled the mic.

Peters looked over his shoulder at the Nova and the bank. He looked at Strange.

“What now?” said Strange.

“You heard the man,” said Peters. “Won’t be but a minute or two before backup comes.”

Peters pulled his service revolver from the swivel holster of his gun belt, freed the cylinder, checked the load, and snapped the cylinder back in place. Strange did the same. He opened his dump pouch and checked it for backup rounds as well. Both had done this before leaving the station. Their nerves told them to do it again.

They heard the siren of a car approaching from the south.

They heard the unmistakable pops of a handgun and the roar of a shotgun blast come from the far end of the shopping center. Before they could gather their thoughts, the shotgun sounded again. Light flashed through the plate glass of the bank.

Peters pulled down on the transmission arm and gave the Ford gas as Strange flip-switched the sirens and the cherries, keyed the mic, and reiterated the certainty of the 211. Peters swung into the lot of the A amp;P, braked, skidded to a stop, and slammed the trans into park.

“Take it,” said Peters.

“Take what, goddamnit?”

“Stay with the vehicle. Get out and take cover on your side of the car.”

Peters drew his sidearm as he opened the door of the squad car and moved across the lot in a crouch. He made it to the doors of the A amp;P, opened one, stood in the frame, and shouted something to a worker inside. The young man came forward and positioned himself near the entrance, his hands out in a “stop” position, warning customers who were attempting to leave to stay back. Peters put his back against the exterior wall of the supermarket and cautiously edged his way in the direction of the bank.

Strange got out on the passenger side of the squad car, drew his.38, rested his gun arm on the roof of the car, straightened it, and aimed the gun at the bank. He moved his aim to the windshield of the Nova. He shouted at the man behind the wheel, who he recognized as Dominic Martini, to get out of the vehicle and lie down on the pavement. Martini looked at him blankly and did not move.

Strange heard the cry of tires and the whoop of a siren. Behind him, Frank Vaughn’s unmarked entered the lot.

BUZZ STEWART’S PLAN was for him and Shorty to show the guns immediately, state their intent to use them, and make a lot of noise, scaring the tellers and security guard into instant submission. Because it was a simple plan, he knew it was one Hess could follow.

Hess entered first and cross-drew his.38s. Stewart pulled the shotgun from its harness before the door closed behind him, locking both hammers back.

“Eyes on me!” shouted Hess.

“This is a robbery!” shouted Stewart. “Hands up!”

Stewart put one hand around the shortened barrel, the other inside the guard, his forefinger grazing the dual triggers. He pointed the shotgun in the general direction of the tellers, their heads, shoulders, and torsos visible through the bars of their cages, their mouths open, their faces gone pale, and the two customers, a middle-aged man and a young woman, standing before them.

“Don’t nobody move or touch no buttons!” shouted Hess, pointing one.38 at the white-haired security guard and the other at the bank manager, a thin, balding man behind a desk.

All did as instructed. All put their hands up, and none moved or spoke.

“ Keep ’em up, grandpa,” said Hess, stepping to the old man in the dark blue uniform, as he holstered one of the.38s and pointed the other at the man’s face. The old man’s spotted hands, raised in the air, shook, and his mouth worked at words without sound. Hess unsnapped the old man’s holster strap and pulled his.45. Hess slipped it, butt leaned to the right, into the waistband of his jeans. He redrew the second.38. “Now lie on your belly and put your face to the floor.”