Easy Action
Tim Curran
Tim Curran has stories in The Edge, 3-Lobed Burning
Eye, Delerium, Plots with Guns, Space and Time,
Roadworks, Black October, Blue Murder, Hardboiled,
Nefarious, Burning Sky, and Black Rose. He has
other stuff coming out in the anthologies More Fungi
from Yuggoth and Cthulhu and the Kids. He writes
mostly crime, horror, mystery and suspense at this
point. It’s what he’s most comfortable with. He lives
in Michigan, toils in a factory by day and
scribbles out this sort of stuff by night.
©Copyright 2001
What happened was, Chelini needed a car and a driver. Needed a
car that was fast and a driver that wasn’t real bright. He found both
in Brock. Brock wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was
a good driver, knew cars, and had a ’71 Buick Riviera, Boat Tail,
with a mean-ass 455 purring under the hood. But what was best
was that Brock looked just like Chelini. Same sandy blonde hair,
same hooked nose, same fire hydrant-build. And, most importantly,
same shit-ugly looks-like maybe their faces had caught fire and
some fireman had put em out with the same axe.
These things were necessary.
What Chelini had in mind was a bank job.
Nothing major, understand, just a hick bank that he knew for a
fact would have two or three hundred grand in the safe on a certain
day. Chelini knew this because he was banging this dick-hungry
redhead with an ass like an airbag. See, this redhead-Carolyn-was
also a senior loan officer at 1st Northern Security Bank. Chelini gave
her the love and when they were done, she laid there and talked
and talked. Chelini listened. That’s how he put together the score.
That’s how he also knew the security cameras were down and
would be for the next week.
Way Chelini figured it, someone-he’d make sure of it-would
see Brock’s plate number. And if, by chance, they didn’t? No
problem. Chelini had lifted Brock’s wallet a few days before. He
was going to “accidentally” drop it at the scene. They’d finger the
poor bastard and Chelini would be free and clear. Course, they’d
never find Brock because he’d be cold as beef in a deep freeze by
then.
That morning as Chelini waited for Brock to pull up in his streeteater,
the sky darkening with clouds, he went over all the details.
Carolyn wouldn’t be working today because she was sick. Chelini
had seen to that: he’d put some arsenic in her spaghetti last night
and today she was puking her stomach out. Not enough to really
hurt her, just enough to put her down for awhile. Check. Couldn’t
have her working when he took the place down. Chelini had cased
the place and they had no security guards. Check. The safe would
open at eleven. It was now 10:30. Check. Yeah, it looked good.
Chelini pulled out his .45, worked the slide, ejecting a round into
the chamber. Check.
He heard something like the low, throaty bellow of a dinosaur
with a belly full of red meat and Brock rounded the corner in the
Riviera. It was more Bondo than metal, all red putty and primer
gray, but it was a motherfucker. Chelini had been behind the wheel
more than once. You gave her the juice and that prick would put
you right in the back seat when the four-barrel carb bit.
Beautiful.
Chelini climbed in the passenger seat. “Ready?” he said.
Brock nodded. “I guess.”
“Don’t guess nothing, man. Either you’re good to go or you’re
not. Either way, tell me now. You burn me on this, I’ll bury you.”
Brock shook his head. “No, no way. I’m cool. I’m just…”
“Nervous?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“That’s okay, buddy. It’ll help you keep your edge. Nothing
wrong with it.”
As the Riviera chewed the streets, heads popping at the sound of
her balls, Chelini lit a cigarette and patted the plastic Hefty bag he
carried, knowing it would soon be filled. “You remember how this
goes?” he asked Brock. They’d been through it about three dozen
times, but when you were dealing with a man who had the I.Q. of
a box of dried-up dog turds, you had to cover your bases. “Tell
me.”
Brock cleared his throat. “I wait just up the block for you. When
you come out, I pick you up. No fancy stuff. No squealing tires, no
hot-rodding. Cool and easy. That’s what.”
“Good boy. That’s all you gotta do.”
It started raining about then, really pouring down from the gray
sky like beer piss at a frat party. Chelini figured that was okay.
Couldn’t see how it would really matter one way or another. Rain
depressed Chelini, though. Reminded him of all those rainy days
he’d spent behind bars in Atlanta, where he did a dime for
aggravated assault and bank robbery, of all things. See, that’s why it
was important to have a guy who looked like him, could easily be
traced to the scene. They jammed Chelini for robbing banks again,
he’d be doing twenty, thirty years easy.
Brock parked the Riviera and Chelini stepped out.
He wasn’t nervous at all, just focused, brain racked tight on what
had to be done. He walked right into the bank-saw the safe was
wide open, thank you-and waltzed right up to the nearest teller.
Her took the one at the end so he could watch the others. Bank
wasn’t much. Four, five tellers at the counter. Some offices off to the
side. Doors were open, Chelini could see they were empty. But he
knew they would be-board meeting upstairs. Other than that, the
place was pretty quiet.
Christ, it was just asking for it.
The teller was busy pouring a bag of coin into a counter, when
she turned back around, Chelini was back there with her. “Get
down on the floor, on your knees,” he told her in a low, hard voice,
the .45 in his hand. “Do it right now if you want to live.”
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she said, body heaving with sobs, tits
bouncing and all.
“Shut the fuck up.”
She did.
Suddenly, all the tellers were looking at him. Good. “THIS IS A
FUCKING STICK-UP! STEP AWAY FROM THE COUNTER, ALL OF
YOU! ANYBODY TRIES TO TRIGGER AN ALARM AND I KILL YOU
ALL!”
There was some whispering and moaning and general fear, but
they did as they were told. Chelini herded them into a little group.
He had them all kneel down back by the file cabinets. Nice, safe
place for em. All those broads on their knees (and some of them
pretty fine) got him to thinking that maybe he should make one of
em suck him off or something. But, no, Chelini was a thief and a
bandit and a bank robber, but he wasn’t no pervert. Besides Carolyn
had been putting his pecker through a real work out lately. That
woman. Like a slot machine, you had to put something into her to
get something out.
So far, so good.
At gunpoint, Chelini ordered the tellers into the safe.
When they were in there, he had two of em-the best-looking
ones-fill his Hefty bag and made the rest lay face-down on the
floor. It was going so good, so very good, that maybe Chelini got a
little too confident. And when you heist banks for a living, getting
confident is like dangling your balls in a blender and hoping to
Christ nobody pushes the PUREE button.
So Chelini was standing there, .45 in hand, clocking it all on his
watch, thinking how smooth it was going down-and staring at the
cleavage of a teller named Beverly-when he felt, rather than heard,
someone come up behind him. He spun around and there was this
confused-looking suit, frog eyes bulging behind spectacles. He had
a file folder tucked in the crook of his arm. Looked like a banker,
all right: thinning hair greased back, cheeks ruddy from good living,
mustache so thin must’ve been drawn with a pencil. Yeah, Mr.
Fucking Mooney in the flesh.
And that’s when shit hit the fan.
Chelini wasn’t sure what got into the guy’s head. Guns usually
have a way of making people obey. But not this stupid prick. He let
out a little gasp like a squeal from a whoopee cushion and made
for the first teller’s station he saw. Wanted to press that little button
and summon the heat in a bad way.
“Not today,” Chelini said, bringing his gun up.
Pop, pop, pop. Bullets ripped through Mr. Banker like drill bits
through cheese. Guy spun around, glasses going one way, file
folder vomiting papers going the other, the whole time blood
spurting out of him like he was a human sprinkler. It went
everywhere, painted the walls red and drippy. Bleeding abstract
murals. All that was missing was some rich fag to bid on em, talk
about some artist’s tortured soul.
Anyway, Mr. Mooney was dead, splatted-out on the floor in a
bloody X like a parachutist who forgot to pack a chute. But that’s
how heroes die, Chelini knew, faster than Peter Rabbit fucked.
The women were screaming.
At least until Chelini swung his piece back in their direction and
then they were in church, silent prayers tumbling from their lips in
whispers. Better. The bag was full and why the other suits from
upstairs hadn’t come running down yet, what with all the racket of
caps busting, Chelini really didn’t know.
“Keep you heads down,” he told the tellers. “Anyone sticks their
nose up to take a look and I blow faces off. Got it?”
They got it.
Chelini made his break then. On his way out, he dropped Brock’s
wallet and then, grinning, he stepped out into the rain. He made
right for the Riviera and hopped in.
Brock just looked at him. “Okay?”
“Drive,” Chelini said. “Slow and easy.”
Brock did. The Riviera clawed its way through the streets until
they were on the other side of town. A desolate stretch of
crumbling warehouses and boarded-up factories. All reminders that
this town had once had some blood flowing in its veins.
“In that alley,” Chelini said. “Between those buildings.”
Brock did as was told, brought his baby to a stop.
Chelini grabbed the bag of loot. Jesus, twenty-five gallon size at
that. How much jack was that? About a third less after it was
laundered by some Jewish hoods he knew, but still quite a green
and growing pile. “Pop the trunk,” he told Brock. “We’ll stash the
money in there.”
Brock got out and did just that.
Chelini got out and the rain was still pissing down. Three seconds
into it and he was sloppy and wet. Brock was pulling back the
carpet to reveal the little hidey-hole he had in there. Chelini brought
up the .45 and put two in the back of his head. Brock fell face-first
into the trunk, dead as King Tut’s pecker. Chelini pocketed the gun
and hoisted him in the rest of the way, then slammed the lid shut.
And seized up solid then and there.
Because as the trunk hatch went careening down, he’d seen
something silver and shiny in Brock’s left hand. The keys. Chelini
tried in vain to pull the trunk open, but no good. This was bad.
This was more than bad. This stunk like a bag of shit in a high
wind. What in the name of Christ’s balls had he been thinking? But
he knew. He just assumed that the Riviera had a trunk release latch
up front like modern cars. And that’s how Brock had opened it.
But the Riviera was thirty-odd years old.
Okay, okay. Easy now.
He started from the alley at a brisk pace, splashing through
puddles, rain pounding into his face so that he couldn’t see but
fifteen, twenty feet in front of him. A block away he was starting to
feel better. Yeah, he’d get out of this, all right. He had it all worked
out already. He’d stash the money somewhere. He’d get home and
borrow a “slap-hammer” from a car thief friend of his. With it, he
could pop the ignition on the Riviera and hot wire it. Then he’d go
see the Jew. The Jew would crush the car at his auto salvage
yard…for an additional cut, of course. Brock would be history.
It would look like he’d just ran.
Yeah, sounded good.
Would’ve worked too if that patrol car hadn’t gone by, saw
Chelini with that big garbage bag, skidded to a stop. Carrying a bag
like that was okay if you were out in your alley by the trash cans,
but when you were hurrying down the sidewalk with one, and
particularly when there’d just been a bank robbery with a Hefty bag
M.O., well, like a bum, it just didn’t wash.
The squad car skidded to a halt, actually going sideways and
slamming into the curb, the streets were so slick and wet. But those
cops? They came out fast. Came out and started shooting and
Chelini returned fire, busting caps until his .45 clicked on empty
chambers and two 9mm slugs chewed through his belly. He’d
dropped one of the cops, but the other one had a shot gun and he
was screaming something that Chelini just couldn’t hear in that
damn hammering rain.
Then he turned and saw the truck not six feet away. A big, greasy
city garbage truck, doing an easy thirty miles per hour. The driver
didn’t see Chelini in the rain. The front end of that garbage-eater
slammed into Chelini and tossed him through the air, bloody and
raw like so much hamburger, right on top of the cop.
Chelini realized then, his body mangled and pissing away its life
into the gutters, that maybe the cop had been screaming, “Look out!”
Not that it mattered now. Because the cop was on his feet now, the
barrel of the shotgun in Chelini’s face.
He was screaming something again, but it wasn’t “look out” this
time.
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