Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

IT’S A SPECIAL day. We’re gathered in the cramped little office that Moriarty peddles cut-rate car insurance out of to review his plans for our final job. Moriarty, because he’s the mastermind of our crew. Under his direction, we’ve pulled off twenty-seven successful bank robberies in three years — more than Jesse James — and in all that time we’ve never been caught, never had the cops on our trail, never even fired our weapons.

It must be a thousand degrees outside. Even with two fans whirring and all the windows open, the air just lies there, hot and thick as bacon grease. One story below, down on Hollywood, an old Armenian woman is crying. She sits on a bus bench, rocking back and forth, a black scarf wrapped around her head. Her sobs distract me from Moriarty’s presentation. He asks a question, and I don’t even hear him.

“Hey, man,” he scolds. “Come on. Really.”

“I’m with you, I’m with you.” I get up off the windowsill and go to the Coke machine he keeps stocked with beer. The can I extract is nice and cold, and I press it to the back of my neck and motion for him to continue.

It’s the same scenario as the last job and the one before. There’s not much finesse at our level. We’re not blowing vaults or breaching high-tech security systems. Basically it’s hit-and-run stuff. We grab as much cash as we can before someone activates an alarm, then run like hell to our stolen getaway car. Moriarty has always wanted us to look like amateurs. He has a theory that the cops will pay less attention to us that way. We’ve taken other precautions as well. No two jobs are ever less than twenty miles apart, and we vary our disguises: ski masks, nylons, wigs and fake beards. We wore alien heads once, and once we went in turbans and shoe polish, trying to have a little fun with it.

Moriarty has me trace our route in and out with my finger, then crumples the map and burns it in an ashtray. I admire his thoroughness. It makes me proud to be his partner. And the control he exerts over himself — my God! He has mastered the messy business of life. Every day he eats a banana for breakfast and a tuna sandwich for lunch. Every day! And his whole week is similarly cast in stone. Thursday nights: pool at the Smog Cutter from nine to eleven and two beers — no more, no less. Saturdays, a movie, target practice, an hour of meditation, and the evening spent studying history. Sundays he’s up at six to read the New York and L.A. Times from cover to cover. I believe him when he says that living this way gives him time to think. It makes perfect sense: He’s a speeding train, and his routine is the track; all he has to concentrate on is moving forward. That doesn’t mean he’s perfect — he still lives with his mother, gets a little too spitty when he talks about guns, and seriously believes Waco was just a taste of things to come. But that will of his!

“So everybody’s clear?” he asks. “No muss, no fuss?”

“Clear, mon commandant .” This from Belushi, the third member of our crew, who’s lying on the couch, smoking another cigarette.

Moriarty steps out from behind his desk and opens the office refrigerator. He tosses a Popsicle to Belushi and one to me, and we sit sucking them in silence. The Armenian woman is still crying downstairs, and it starts to get to all of us. Belushi snaps first, growling, “For fuck’s sake, put on some music or something.” Moriarty slips a CD into the boom box, and “Whole Lotta Rosie” blasts out of the speakers.

“Maybe we should go down and see what’s wrong,” I suggest.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Belushi says, a chuckle rattling the phlegm coating his throat. “It’s too hot, the air’s for shit, and the world is run by evil old men. You could rip your eyeballs out, and the tears would keep right on coming.”

He’s one of those hard-core doomsayers, Belushi, and a junkie, too — hence the nickname — but he also understands money like nobody I’ve ever met before. Rumor has it he comes from a rich family, so maybe it’s in his blood. He’s been the driver on all our jobs, and our accountant. Our goal when we started this thing was a quarter million each — serious fuck-you money — and today the balance of my Swiss bank account stands at $248,320. You’d never guess it, seeing him sprawled out like he is now, grinning that yellow, broken-toothed grin, but Belushi has taken all of our booty and, through some serious offshore hanky-panky, more than tripled it. That’s why this is our last gig. It’ll be little more than a formality, but we have to stick to the plan, because sticking to the plan is what brought us this far.

Moriarty plugs in his vintage Ms. Pac-Man machine, and it comes to life with a barrage of beeps and whines. A sticky drop from his rapidly melting Popsicle falls onto the screen, and he wipes it away with his thumb.

“So how’s your love life?” he asks Belushi. Here they go again.

“None of your business.”

“There’s nothing wrong with paying for it, you know. It’s a victimless crime.”

“Not according to the women who end up with you.”

“Is your mom bad-mouthing me again?”

Belushi fakes a belly laugh and draws his long, thin arms and legs in to push himself up off the couch. The hottest day of the year, and he’s dressed all in black. “I’ll see you bastards Thursday,” he says.

When the door closes behind him, Moriarty shakes his head.

“My man’s a trip, ain’t he?” he says.

“He’s something,” I reply.

A sheet of paper with the current scores for our never-ending tournament is taped to the side of the Ms. Pac-Man machine. Moriarty checks it, then starts his game. I move back to the windowsill to drink my beer and try to catch a breeze. From there, I watch Belushi exit the building and approach the Armenian woman, who’s still crying, even though I can’t hear her over the music. I can’t hear what Belushi says to her either, but Whatever it is stops her frenzied rocking. He reaches into his pocket for some money and gives it to her. She takes his hand in both of hers and kisses it, and he pats her on the back before scuttling down the street.

Yes, my man is definitely a trip.

Belushi and Moriarty call me John Q because I’m the normal one, which means I’ve got the wife and kid, and I hit the floor running every morning, looking for some way to scrape together the cash it takes to keep my family afloat. When we reach our goal after this last job and finally, by mutual consent, get access to our money, Belushi is splitting for Amsterdam, where he’s going to register as an addict so he can receive free government-issue heroin, and Moriarty’s finally moving out on his own, to Idaho, the last free place in America, or something like that. Me, I just want a Subway franchise somewhere quiet with good schools. A three-bedroom Kaufman and Broad and a decent car. Bank robbery is a hell of a way to get a little boost up the ladder, I know, but aren’t they always saying to go where the money is? You can make anything mean anything if you try.

WHEN I GET home Maria’s peeling potatoes in the kitchen for her famous french fries, to go with the burgers I’ll throw on the barbecue. I told her I was going out to bid on a painting job. She asks me how it went.

“Looks good,” I say. “It’s a big place. Might keep me busy for a month or so.”

“Hooray for our team, huh?”

“We’ll see, we’ll see.”

She picks up a knife and slices the potatoes into long, thin strips, which she places in a bowl of water.

“Someone broke in next door and stole their television,” she says.

“You’re kidding.”

“They were asleep when it happened. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“Man oh man.”