Bank Robbers (20 page)

She could see the guard's back and his gun holster as she approached the doors. She stood shaking like a leaf, at the side of the door, breathing deeply. She'd gotten here too early. It was only twenty of. And for some reason she refused to walk inside until exactly ten of three.

Arthur stood staring at her from behind the small planted garden in the triangle where West Fourth and Washington Place split. There she was, standing back in front of that bank.

There was something about that bank.

He darted across the street and up to the corner. He quickly made it across, to the side the bank was on, glancing at her as he ducked around the corner. She was pulling the veil over her face. He stared at the door on the other side of the bank.

He felt his legs propel him inside.

She knew if she stood still one second longer she would begin to panic and then she would lose her nerve, and once she lost her nerve she would never get it back. No, she had to do it now. Today. She thought back on the magazine article and suddenly echoing in her brain was Arthur's voice explaining how you grab a gun from a guard.

She'd fallen asleep listening to his blow-by-blow instructions the night before.

She took a deep breath. She set her jaw tightly and slammed open the glass door. Dottie was standing directly behind the guard. It was five minutes to three. There were five people on line and two tellers, and one visible customer service person. Two construction workers walked down the steps, waved to the guard, and left, apparently for the day. There were no lights on inside, just the temporary ones, meaning that the computers were down as well. The people on line were impatient now, as the tellers were doling out cash by hand.

A woman stared at her, she swallowed and looked at the floor.

Dottie stood frozen, not quite being able to move. The hand on the clock moved. It was four minutes before three now. Dottie began to feel the floor go out from under her. She was sweating and she kept trying to move, to do anything.

Arthur stood at one of the deposit-slip tables and kept his eyes glued to her. She was just standing there in that silly funereal hat with the veil over it. He wished he could see her face through it.

He glanced away for a moment and that was when it happened.

Two women, one with a newborn in a Snugli, walked in, knocking Dottie into the guard.

“What the—” she heard the guard's voice as he began to turn around.

Automatically, with the sound of Arthur's voice on that television show talking her through it, Dottie reached over to the guard's right hip.

Snap.

In a second, her hand was around the gun handle and she had slid it out of its holster with the smoothness and ease of a professional.

She stepped back holding the gun, and as if being led through it by Arthur's voice she cocked it, just the way he'd shown her in the store two nights ago.

“Step back against the wall, sir. I am robbing this bank.”

Behind her she heard a woman gasp, “Oh, my
God!
”

The fat man who'd followed her all the day before looked up and his mouth dropped open. And for a second he looked familiar.

Nobody moved.

“AGAINST THE WALL, NOW!” Dottie screamed out.

The guard's hands were up in the air and he had taken a couple of steps backward. She looked over at the customer service desk and saw a woman pick up the phone.

“Put it down. What's the matter with you? I have a gun,” Dottie screamed. “Everyone over in the corner and get over by the tellers' windows!” she ordered.

No one moved.

The woman continued to dial the phone. And Dottie was left with no other alternative. She pointed the gun to the ceiling, closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Bang.

The bullet hit the surveillance camera above the door, knocking it off its stand, and ricocheted with a thunderous
ping.

All of a sudden the guard was on the floor holding his arm.

“Oh, my God. She shot him!” someone yelled.

The guard began screaming and there was a small pool of blood beginning to collect under his arm.

All five people stared at Dottie, who was openmouthed. She suddenly snapped to. “Anybody else? Against the wall,
NOW
. You, come out from behind the desk; tellers, out of there or I swear to God I'll shoot somebody else!” she yelled, and in a flash people ran to the corner.

A man in a very expensive suit ducked his head out from behind a big door behind the Customer Service desk, and Dottie pointed the gun at him.

“You too. Anybody else back there?”

He went pale, shook his head and joined the small group now huddled halfway between the customer service desk and the tellers' cages.

And Arthur MacGregor was still leaning against the deposit desk in utter shock at what he was witnessing.

She wasn't planning to commit suicide.

She'd been planning to rob this bank.

What a jerk he was. He'd even watched her case it the day before.

There was no clear line of thought about what he could do about
this
turn of events. And then it hit; there was nothing
to
do.

She was armed.

She was robbing a bank.

And Arthur, like the other customers and the employees, was going along for the ride. After all these years to be on the receiving end of a bank job, he couldn't help but appreciate the symmetry in that.

Dottie stared over at the fat man who was just standing there, gaping, and she pointed the gun at him with a certain satisfaction.

“You too!” she said harshly and waved the gun toward where the other people were huddled.

So Arthur took out his cane, hobbled over to where all the other victims were and joined the circus watching two women try and bandage the guard's arm.

Dottie took a deep breath and walked over to the small Indian woman who'd closed her account the day before.

“Open the door,” she ordered and she watched the teller's eyes slide over to the man in the suit, who nodded, pale. The teller opened the large door to the tellers' area and Dottie stepped inside.

Meanwhile, the two women who had pushed Dottie into the guard were kneeling over the poor man.

“Meg, diaper bag!” one woman ordered. “It's okay, let me look at it,” she said, leaning over the guard, who was now shaking and beginning to go into shock. She gently pulled his hand away from his forearm. He'd been grazed, the bullet had gone through cleanly.

“Diaper,” she said, holding her hand out, and immediately the second woman placed a Pamper in it.

“What are you going to do?” the second woman asked.

“Wrap it,” the first woman said, unfolding the diaper. She gently slid it under the man's arm. He gave a howl.

“Okay, okay,” she hushed him.

Arthur's eyes darted over to Dottie. She was pulling this off like clockwork, he thought, and an odd tinge of pride went through him. She'd disarmed the guard spectacularly well and these two women were now creating the diversion as if they were her partners.

She was just doing dandily, he thought proudly, assessing the situation.

The bank employees and customers were busy watching the two women work on the guard as Dottie was busy behind the tellers' area.

The area consisted of a long counter behind the glass, with high stools. Money was laid out carefully in denominations from singles to thousands in rectangular gray steel boxes which were inset in the white counter.

She pointed the gun at the bank teller. The woman was maybe twenty-five, and was definitely a first-generation immigrant from India. Arthur's voice from the night before prompted her to read the name on her teller badge. Her eyes then looked her in the face. She looked as if she was going to be sick. Dottie quickly handed her the laminated tote bag.

“Money, in the bag, please, Ms. Varishnu.” And she watched the woman look puzzled at hearing her name said so politely, and for some reason, she seemed to relax. She blinked and nodded, and Dottie and she began working their way from one end of the counter to the other.

And Dottie could not believe the police hadn't gotten there yet.

Arthur, meanwhile, was smiling from ear to ear.

He was quite enjoying this. She'd even remembered to address the woman politely by name. Ah, Dottie O'Malley, you must have kept quite a close eye on me all these years, he thought. His eyes dropped back down to the guard.

“Tape,” the first woman demanded and felt a bottle in her hand. She paused and looked at it.

“Bactine?”

“It's an antiseptic,” the second woman retorted.

“It's for
minor
cuts and abrasions.”

“So?”

“You call a gunshot wound a minor cut or abrasion?”

“It'll help sterilize it.”

“Is anyone here a nurse or doctor?” the first woman asked.

“My cousin's a dentist,” a man offered and everyone glared at him. There was always one of those during every job, Arthur thought. The kind of jerk all the employees secretly wished would get caught in the crossfire.

Everyone else shook their heads.

The woman looked down at the man. “What do you think?”

“I, I,” he gurgled and drooled.

The first woman shrugged, opened the bottle and poured some onto the wound. Arthur winced deeply, and felt the seven people huddled around him all shudder at the same time.

The guard turned a bright shade of green, whispered “Oh no” and promptly passed out. The poor bastard probably was better off, Arthur thought.

“Tape,” the first woman ordered, and the second one peeled off the masking tape and handed the piece to her.

At this point Dottie had filled the bag and ordered the teller out from behind the counter. She joined the others, and Dottie walked toward the door to Seventh Avenue.

It was three minutes after three.

She stepped over the guard and looked down.

“I'm sorry,” she said to him, and then looked at all the people huddled in the corner.

She stood there and for what seemed like an eternity everyone was quiet inside the building. All of a sudden the lights flicked on, and the whir from the computers began.

And Dottie waited.

And she waited.

And Arthur felt like screaming out to her, “What are you waiting for? Get the hell away!” But he contained himself.

And there was not a sound. No sirens, no screaming police barging in the door, and everybody looked very puzzled.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Dottie said finally.

She dropped the guard's gun into the tote bag and walked out the door. On the corner, maybe two feet in front of her, was a cab about to cross Seventh Avenue. In a second, her hand lifted. The cab screeched his brakes, stopped, and she got inside.

“Where to?” a voice said.

“Sullivan Street.” she mumbled.

The cab lurched forward and turned down onto Seventh Avenue, and Dottie stared out the window, stunned.

She'd done it.

She'd gotten away with it—so far. Her eyes went up to the rearview, looking for police. There was nothing but buses and taxis, and cars on their way to the Lincoln Tunnel.

She couldn't figure it out for the life of her. She'd made every mistake in the book, she'd actually stood there waiting, and no one had shown up. And worse, she'd shot that poor man. She still couldn't believe it. She'd aimed right at the ceiling, she'd had no intention of hurting someone. It was an accident.

Her mind tripped through the last day and that television show came into her head and she suddenly felt oddly admiring of Arthur's prowess as a bank robber.

Thirty years and
he'd
never shot anyone.

Dottie felt this odd wave go through her. It began as nausea, and then became the oddest sensation.

It was almost a tingle, like … she felt like giggling.

Dottie felt light-headed. It was too absurd.

The cab came to a stop in front of her building. She dug into the shopping bag and mindlessly put a bill in the fare box of the divider. She slid out and realized her legs felt wobbly. She walked to the front door of the building, and heard the driver behind her.

“Lady, you gave me a hundred.”

“Keep the change.” Dottie's voice floated back to him and she let herself inside. She climbed the stairs and opened the door to the apartment. It was odd. It was as if she were someplace else and had been for the last hour, and she had simply been watching her body go through the motions, while her mind had hovered above it somewhere.

She put the shopping bag down on the table and mindlessly turned on the television.

Now what was she going to do?

*   *   *

“W
HAT HAPPENED
to the alarm system, goddammit!” the man in the good suit screamed at the teller, who began shaking.

“I pressed the button, Mr. Branington! I pressed it! Maybe the construction men disconnected it again. Nothing happened. There was no electricity again,” the woman was shrieking back.

“You moron! You helped her!”

“She had a gun. She shot him!” one of the customers yelled.

Arthur stared at the man, who he figured was a bank executive. The man was berating everyone in sight for not getting between this “stupid old woman” and his money.

And you, he thought, staring at the man in the expensive suit, are the reason I got away with this for so long. Just to see jerks like you sweat.

They watched the branch president run out the door and onto West Fourth Street. And slowly, Arthur walked to the other door and slipped out of the building and onto Seventh Avenue. He looked around.

She was gone.

Silently, he walked across Sheridan Square and over and down three steps to a bar.

There were five men at the bar watching the play-offs. Arthur sat down and stared, almost as if in a trance, at the dark wood.