Brian Keene - Terminal

“Well then the same thing goes for York or Gettysburg,” I countered. “This county is small enough that everybody knows everyone else sooner or later.”

“Six degrees of Tommy O’Brien and shit.”

“What’s that mean?” John asked.

“It’s a game,” Sherm told him, “like with the actor, Kevin Bacon.”

“That’s the guy in Flatliners, right? I don’t remember him ever robbing a bank.”

I frowned and Sherm blew smoke in his face.

“So you’ve gotta go with a ski mask,” he continued. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Couldn’t I just disguise myself some other way?”

“Yeah, but how the fuck you gonna do that?”

“I don’t know. Pull my hat down low. Get a fake beard or mustache. Maybe use a bottle of bleach and dye my hair; so I look like Eminem.”

“You already look like Eminem. It’s no good. People would still recognize you; surveillance camera footage would make the ten o’clock news. Somebody would drop dime on you.”

I thought about it and realized that he was right.

“What about a clown?” John asked. “I saw that in a movie once. Bill Murray robbed a bank dressed like a clown. That movie was funny as shit!”

I arched an eyebrow. “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea at all. If the cop asks ‘What did he look like, ma’am?’ ‘Well, Officer, he had a big red nose, curly red hair, and big floppy shoes.’

What do you think, Sherm?”

“It’s no good. Been done too many times. You go around dressed like a clown, especially in a small town like this, and you’re going to grab attention before you even get to the bank. They’ll see you getting out of the car—‘Look, Mommy! A clown!’—shit like that. You’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Yeah, I see your point. Makes sense.” I wondered if Sherm had considered this same thing before. He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.

“What about hitting an armored car instead of a bank?” John asked. “You see them all the time, making stops at grocery stores and places like that.”

“No good. Forget about armored cars. You ever see all those little holes in the side? That’s where the shotgun sticks out. You’d need a small army and a lot of prep time to knock over one of those. And people would get killed, sure as shit. Let’s say you ambushed them while they were unloading at an ATM or something. The standard procedure is for the driver to floor it and get the fuck out of there when somebody tries to jack them. While he’s taking off, there’s another dude inside the truck shooting at your ass, plus the ones outside the truck—usually one or two guys.”

He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, took a sip of coffee, lit up another smoke, and continued.

“So an armored car is out. It has to be a bank. Now you’ve got to decide if you want this to be a note job or a takeover.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Note job is simple—you hand the teller a stickup note and a bag to put the money in, she empties her drawer into the bag, and you walk. With a takeover, you’ve got to bum rush the place. With a note job, you’re probably only gonna get three grand at the most, and probably not even that unless it’s a payday or welfare day. Takeover, you’ll get a lot more.”

“Three thousand bucks.” I thumped the dashboard in frustration. “That’s not going to pay for shit. We owe that much just on the credit card.”

“If you’re serious about this, then I say go for the takeover. You try pulling a note job and walk into that bank with a ski mask on, they’ll freak out before you even reach the teller. That measly three grand ain’t worth all that. Banks, especially the ones around here, don’t keep much in the drawers. If you want big cash, you’ve got to do a takeover and hit all their drawers and their vault. Small-town banks like ours, you could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand. Probably even more if you hit Baltimore or Philly instead.”

“Yo, how do you know all this?” John asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“Simple, Carpet Dick. I watch a lot of Court TV.”

“Sherm, I wish you wouldn’t call me Carpet Dick.”

I mulled over the takeover approach.

“So what—I just walk in with a ski mask on and demand money? Won’t they recognize my voice?”

“Fuck yeah, if you use your regular bank. Here’s my suggestion. If it was me, I’d hit that bank inside the little strip mall on the edge of town.”

“You mean the one that sits between McSherrystown and Hanover?”

“Exactly. It’s on Route 116, so within minutes you’ve got access to all those back roads and woods and shit. More importantly, you’re within a few minutes of Route 30 and the Maryland border, and not far from Interstate 83. There are all kinds of ways to get out of there and vanish with a fucking quickness. Plus, the bank is small, and right now, it’s forty-four shades of fucked up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Check this shit out.” He grinned, and the sharp outline of his face almost looked like a skull in the glow of his cigarette. “They just got bought out by a bigger bank, right? So they’re in the process of switching everything over. They don’t have bandit barriers or bulletproof glass or anything like that. Just the same old cameras and alarm system they had before. The tellers aren’t real alert because they’re burned out—explaining the new bank’s regulations to their old customers who aren’t exactly happy with the change. It’s fucking perfect, dog! That strip mall doesn’t get much traffic. Ain’t no Wal-Mart or Target there. All they’ve got is the dry cleaners and that Chinese place. Quick in, quick out, and you’re gone before five-oh even arrives.”

“Sweet.” I had to admit, I was warming to the idea. Sherm made a lot of sense, and he was bringing up lots of stuff that I hadn’t thought about.

“So you go in there like a motherfucking O. G. and scare the shit out of them. Holler and curse and start a ruckus. Get yourself a backpack or something to hold the cash. Hit the drawers, the vault, then get the fuck out.”

“Make sure they don’t give you any dye packs either,” John piped up, apparently becoming an instant expert as well. “I saw it on the tube. Once you go outside, you’ve got about ten seconds till those little fuckers explode. Then you’re dyed bright red, making you pretty easy to find, and the money is useless, because it all burns up.”

“Actually, and I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this, John is right,” Sherm nodded. “But you ain’t gotta worry about that shit. This branch doesn’t allow their tellers to slip dye packs into the money anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They got sued a few years back. A teller up in Buffalo slipped a dye pack into a robber’s take. The robber ran out the door, the dye pack went off, and the explosion injured a little old lady who was coming in to cash her social security check. She sued the bank and never had to worry about social security again. One thing they do have though is a tracking device—a little piece of plastic, thin enough to be hidden in between the bills. Works just like a Lo-Jack does on cars, and the cops can trace you with it. So make sure they don’t slip you one. And to be extra fucking careful, check your shit after you’re down the road.”

I stared out the passenger window, watching the night flash by. Sherm had given me a lot to think about, and the more I thought, the crazier the whole thing seemed. I wasn’t a bank robber. I wasn’t like the idiots on America’s Most Wanted. I was just a poor white trash schmuck, trying to feed his wife and kid, give them what they deserved rather than what they had.

But I was dying.