Smash & Grab (7 page)

I run up to
the bank's front doors and they burst open. A group of men come careening out, all dressed in matching jeans and black hoodies. Their faces are weird…burned? Wait. They're masks—five men wearing identical zombie masks.
But what are they doing?
I can't make sense of anything. At first I think maybe they're part of a flash mob or something, about to break into some weird dance in the middle of Figueroa with a whole bunch of other zombies I somehow failed to notice before now. I strain to hear the opening beats of Michael Jackson's “Thriller.” But then the one in the lead raises his hand like he's waving me out of the way, and I realize he has a gun…and I'm standing directly in his path.

My brain wants to turn and run, but my body is having a hard time doing it.
Go! Move!
I think. It's too late. Zombie Guy is right in my face, his body slamming into mine, and the gun is flying out to the side, landing a split second before we do. My head connects with the concrete and bounces. The world goes blurry, and I can't breathe. I gulp for air as my vision clears. For a moment all I can see is that mask and his dark eyes because his sunglasses slipped a bit in the fall. He blinks and we lock eyes.
What's happening?

“Sorry,” he says, breathing hard as he untangles himself from me. His voice is low, gruff, muffled by the mask. “You okay?”

I stare mutely at him, trying to focus, and then I manage a slow nod. I have this urge to reach up and take off his mask, to see his entire face, but my arms are pinned to my sides.

“Just stay down, okay?” he says, sounding concerned. “I'm not gonna hurt you…at least not again. Sorry.” He pushes the sunglasses back up, and I see my reflection in them, my head still reeling, my mind slowly putting the pieces together. He had a gun. It's next to me now. He's a bank robber! My brain buzzes with a swarm of panicked thoughts. Did he use that gun inside? Kill someone? Am I next?

He stands quickly, grabs his gun, and catches up to the other guys with duffel bags on their shoulders, now running for a minivan parked at the end of the sidewalk. He looks back once and waves at me, a little wiggle of his gloved hand before he ducks inside the van. It's such a weirdly benign gesture that, without thinking, I wave back. On the driver's side door is a square sign with script lettering:
MARY KAY CONSULTANT
. I blink a couple of times to make sure I read it right.

That guy. And the others. They just robbed the bank with my account and Quinn's. Which means I won't be able to get my money now, at least not here. The police will be coming. This is a crime scene.

The van screeches out onto the road and disappears. I stare after it and try to make sense of the last few minutes.

“Oh my god, are you okay? I'm calling the police, honey—just stay put.” A woman crouches down beside me, coffee in one hand, her cell phone in the other. “Hey, watch where that car goes! Those guys just robbed the bank!” she yells at anyone within earshot. A few guys start chasing after the van, but I'm sure it's already too far away to catch on foot. I start to get up while she dials one-handed, and then, unbelievably, she hands me her coffee to hold while she finishes up. My head's all cottony and achy. I manage to stand, but I'm off-balance. I stumble a little.

“I think I need to sit again.” I sink down onto the curb. Quinn and my mother are by my side, finally having caught up.

“Oh my god! Lexi, are you all right?” Mom asks.

How can so many bad things happen in so little time? I open my mouth to say yes, that I'm okay, even though I am most definitely not, but nothing comes out. No words. Instead, I start to cry uncontrollably, like someone's pulled the zip cord on my emotions and now they're just billowing out of me.

“That girl came out
of nowhere, right?” Benny stares at me, openmouthed. “You all right?”

I shrug, still stunned as the van careens away from Figueroa. I dropped my gun back there. Anything might've happened. My insides feel all shook up. I can't stop trembling. “She hit her head kinda hard.” I shudder, remembering the sound it made. “I didn't mean to hurt her. She was just there and I couldn't move fast enough.”

“She'll be all right,” Carlos says. “She was sittin' up when we left.”

He's right, but I wish I could go back and make sure.

“Homeboy waved at her. You see that? And she waved back!” Gabriel looks at me and cracks up. “Player still has game even when he's running for his life.”

“Nah,” I say, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed how cute she was. Even half crazy on panic and adrenaline, I couldn't
not
notice.

We ditch the van a couple of blocks down from a 7-Eleven and walk the rest of the way. Gabriel sends Carlos inside to buy us Slurpees while we get our new ride. A light blue Chevy Impala was left in the store's parking lot half an hour ago by some of Soldado's guys, with the keys tucked inside a magnetic key box behind the driver's side front tire. In the movies dudes always torch their getaway cars, but in the real world that makes zero sense. It's like sending the police a smoke signal. Literally.

If we're lucky, the van won't catch anyone's eye for hours, and no one will have any idea how it got where it is or who was driving it, because Eddie doused the interior with bleach so strong I'll be smelling it on me for at least a week. The thing's completely ruined, but that's probably okay. Judging by how much ground-up crackers and crap were crushed into the carpet, I bet the lady who drives it will be relieved it's totaled. If she has insurance. Which she does. She has to. Living in that neighborhood.
Quit worrying about it,
I tell myself.
You had to have the car. It's not your fault she left the keys inside.

Carlos trots over to the car with a cardboard drink carrier and slips into the passenger seat, unwrapping a Milky Way bar the second he's settled.

I sip at my Coke Slurpee and look out the window as Eddie drives us toward the freeway and the Madison Street house. He turns up the music and drums the steering wheel in time to the beat, rapping along. Loudly.

“Saint Jude got us through again,” Benny says, taking out his necklace so he can kiss the medal.

I shake my head, smiling, and pull open my hoodie to do the same.

Nothing.

It's not there.

Heat surges through me, and my blood roars in my ears. I check the floor of the car and the seat under me, hands dipping into the crack between the seat cushions.

“What's up?” Benny asks, his eyes following my every move, one eyebrow quirked up.

“My Saint Jude's,” I whisper, hoping that the other guys aren't listening. “It's gone.”

Benny lets this sink in. “You think you left it in the van?”

“Left what in the van?” Gabriel asks, suddenly alert.

“He lost his medal,” Benny says, outing me before I can tell him not to. It ticks me off, but I can't really say anything. They need to know. My whole body goes numb. We have to find the medal. My name's engraved on the back. It's a freaking billboard sign pointing at me with the word
guilty
lit up in neon. Where could it be? The possibilities make me want to puke.

Eddie jerks the car around in the middle of the road, tires squealing the whole time. The driver behind us honks long and loud, and Gabriel shoots him the bird.

We barrel back to the street the car's on. I get out alone, pulling my gloves back on, then dipping my hands into my pockets because who wears gloves this time of year? I move carefully to the van and open the side door. The bleach smell wrecks my lungs and makes my eyes tear up, so I put my shirt over my mouth and nose and do a quick pass of the backseats, ducking to look under them, then running my hand along the seat cracks here, too. I pull up more crackers and sticky, nasty kid mess, but no medal. I stumble out of the van, eyes weeping, coughing like mad, feeling like someone sandblasted my throat and lungs.

“Well?” Gabriel asks, turning in his seat so he can look at me as I slide into the backseat again and Eddie takes off fast.

“It's not there,” I say. My voice is as shredded as I feel.

A string of curses pours out of his mouth. “If it's in the bank…”

“I know,” I say.

“No, I don't think you do.” He runs a hand through his hair and glares at me. “If they find it…”

“I get it!” I yell, more mad at myself than at him. I'm always careful. How could I have screwed up so badly? Gabriel slaps the back of my head, just hard enough to make it sting.

“Hey, cut it out. He's sorry, okay?” Benny leans between us so Gabriel won't hit me again. My head throbs, but I don't go after Gabriel. I deserved the slap. We could get caught. For the first time since we started doing jobs, I'm really freaking scared.

“Any idea where exactly you might've lost it?” Benny asks. “Think hard, bro.”

I run through the whole job in my head—going through the door, past the lobby, to the offices.

The offices.

That lady grabbed my neck. Or it came off when I ran into the girl outside. I don't know…but the more I think about it, the more I'm sure it happened inside the bank.

“The woman I pulled out of the bank office. She grabbed my chest. She could've pulled it off,” I say, surer with every word that this is what happened. Somewhere in that office the medal could be just lying there. Would it have gone under the desk? Or would it be in plain view—one giant, ridiculously good clue that will lead the police straight to us? I need to get back to that bank. It's all I can do not to jump out of the car and run all the way there now. But that would be stupid.

“Perfect. Just perfect,” Gabriel mutters. “The police are all over that bank right now. No way we can go back for it,” he says, reading my mind.

“So what do we do, then?” Benny asks, and all of them look at me. I lost the stupid thing, so it's up to me to figure out the next step.

“I go back tomorrow. The police'll be gone and it'll be business as usual. I'll find a way to get into that lady's office and look for it. And if they have it already and they come for me…they get only me. No way I'd give any of you up. You know that. Ever.”

“Yeah, we know,” Benny says.

We keep quiet, each of us imagining the heat that could right now be headed my way. Much as they trust me to keep them safe and not rat them out, they're already putting distance between us. But that's okay. I've got bigger things to worry about right now. Once Soldado finds out, he'll have to let his carnales know….

“Look, we don't gotta say anything to Soldado about this,” Benny says out loud, like he's reading my thoughts.

Gabriel stares out the passenger side window.

“Gabriel, think about my mom and Maria. For their sakes, don't,” I say, hating how desperate and scared I sound.

“You have to find it,” Gabriel says. “Whatever you gotta do. Do it.”

When the Madison Street house comes into view, my insides start to shake. Soldado's favorite car is in front of it—a tricked-out Dodge Charger that looks like something from one of those Fast and Furious movies. Not the typical wheels for him, way too small to be comfortable for someone his size. He's over 210 if he's a pound, and at least six feet tall. The dude benches a sick amount of weight, and his arms and chest are ripped. I think if his dad hadn't been in Florencia Heights when he was coming up and inspired his son to do the same, Soldado could have been a football player with a nickname like Bulldozer.

“Let's get this over with,” Eddie says as he climbs out of the car and grabs a duffel bag. “I got plans later.”

“Yeah, with who?” Benny asks.

“None of your business.”

Benny laughs—it's a nervous sort of sound, half amused, but riding on a current of fear. “Yeah, that means he's got a booty call in with Theresa.”

“So what if I do?” Eddie shrugs, but he won't look directly at us. Theresa's a girl who lives down the street from him, and as skinny as he is, she's equally…uh…curvy. Carlos always ribs him about it, which makes no sense, given his own weight issues.

Carlos looks ready to launch into a Theresa-bashing comedy routine when the front door of the house opens and one of Soldado's guys appears in the doorway, and the moment gets serious.

We walk inside, nodding to Twitch, the dude in the doorway, nicknamed for his tic, this constant jerk of his head that happens every few minutes and makes him look perpetually nervous. He probably has Tourette's syndrome, but I would never ask him about it.

The house is hot and loud. It's the middle of the day, but there's a bunch of people hanging out, dancing, and drinking forties.

Soldado has set up camp in the master bedroom. He's got a couple of camping chairs around a card table on the concrete subfloor and is eating a foot-long Subway sandwich, his hand on another one like he's afraid it'll roll off the table before he can devour it, too.

“It go smooth?” Soldado asks right out of the gate, and I feel my balls shrink up. I don't dare look at the others or show any sign that something's up, not with him and all his boys watching.They miss nothing.

I wait for Gabriel to tell him about my medal. A month ago he wouldn't have, no matter what. We're family. That comes first. But now…after all the time he's spent with the Florencia boys and the way they seem to get tighter all the time…I'm almost sure he'll offer it up.

Benny clears his throat. “Way smooth.”

Soldado takes a bite of sandwich. Tuna salad. Ugh. I hate the stuff. The smell. It makes me want to gag. “Well, what are you waiting for? Unpack the bills.”

We unzip the duffel bags and start stacking the cash in front of him while he eats. The pile is impressive, and his eyes light up. “Oh yeah. Now, that's what I'm talkin' about.” He puts down his sandwich and thumbs through a stack of cash. “Nice.”

It takes him a while to count it and then count it again. Fifty thousand dollars. He stacks it into seven piles: one for each of us, one for him for arranging the getaway car and supplying the guns and equipment, and one for the Eme because any job done in their hood is subject to their tax, which amounts to half the take. Don't pay it and they find out? (And they always find out.) You and everyone you love gets a hit put on their heads. It's the cost of doing business. Simple as that. Still, it sucks to watch the Eme pile grow tall and see our skinny piles beside it. All that risk. All that work. And all we get is a little over four thousand dollars apiece. But I'd rather have four thousand and still be alive than more money and end up dead. Except now I have to worry about getting caught. It's not enough money to go to jail for, not by a long shot.

“You tell them about the next one?” he asks Gabriel.

“Yeah. I mentioned it.”

What is he doing? I dropped my medal back there, and now we're talking about the next job? There can't be a next job. Today cinched that. Even if by some miracle I manage to get the medal back, we need to stop. Today was a warning. The medal. The girl. It's over. Besides, what's the rush? We never do a job this close on the heels of another. Soldado knows how bad an idea that is.

“I got my guys ready to start diggin' now,” Soldado says. “You're gonna hit on Fourth of July weekend. Bank is closed. Plus, there's construction going on in the building. Makes it less likely anyone'll hear any noise or worry about vibrations from underground. Gives these guys plenty of time to make sure they can bust through the vault floor and gives you guys time to empty it, plus the deposit boxes. The only time we'll ever get the opportunity on this one. And this time you get it all. Every last cent. None of this petty smash-and-grab stuff anymore.”