Tempted by Trouble (30 page)

Cora was going inside. Her contact was going to disable the cameras and open the door for her. She was going to be dressed in a wool pantsuit, like a new age churchwoman who’d stepped off the cover of
Vogue,
dressed the way she used to dress on Sunday mornings when we used to go to church, only she would have a Bible in her hand and a loaded gun inside her purse. Jackie was going inside too. That had been the plan all along, before Sammy and Rick had died, before Jackie had bedded me. Two beautiful women in church clothing, wearing church hats and heavy coats, walking inside with PTL smiles and displaying all of the stereotypical vulnerabilities and distractions a woman had to offer. Any guard or deacon they saw along the way would relax, and if needed, those same men would open doors to let the Bible-carrying women inside the annex. That was what men did. That was the vulnerability of man, his desire to protect and nurture and love what and whom he hoped would love him in return.

Bishop and Eddie Coyle would march in behind the women and take over.

I was responsible for two getaway cars, stage one and stage two.

I reminisced about my days as a white-collar worker. I thought about the days I had worked on the line. I remembered my life before Cora. I remembered Henrick and Zibba and water came to my eyes. Then I forced myself to focus and think of Eddie Coyle and his friends.

On a dark Sunday, I would go to church and end my Great Recession. And I would pull the plug on my marriage at the same time. It had been on life support and now it was time to kill the power. Everything must change. Hallelujah, and may we all hold hands and burn in hell.

Two minutes had gone
by.

During those elongated minutes I hadn’t taken a breath. The engine of the van was running and the windows were fogging over. As a blanket of gray clouds blocked the sun, I’d parked in the rear of the Six Flags over Jesus. There was nothing back there except five other inactive annexes and a steep hill that led to the Marriott Courtyard on Roosevelt Road. We couldn’t be seen from the hilltop or the streets. I checked the time and looked toward the metal door with blooming impatience.

Snow was falling and there was ice on the roads, and I hoped the flow of traffic remained favorable on Highway 11. Less than three minutes ago when we had pulled into the parking lot, there had been a long line of cars heading both back toward Chalkville Road and in the opposite direction that led toward the interstates 59 and 459.

They had entered the building as planned. They would have taken care of any extra problems, any extraneous people they encountered, left them all wearing plastic-tie handcuffs with balaclavas pulled over their heads. That completed, Eddie Coyle and his brother would have rushed down the concrete stairs into the basement and stormed inside the secret room that held the vault. As they stood over a table filled with money and checks, the treasury team would have been thrown off guard. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Seeing guns and men and women in hoods would’ve said it all. While Eddie Coyle and Bishop held their guns, Jackie and Cora would have taken whoever was working to opposite sides of the room, then put plastic ties on their wrists and ankles before covering their heads with material that plunged them into darkness. Instructions would have been given to stay silent. Then Eddie Coyle and Cora, the masterminds of this job, maybe they would’ve stood side by side with Jackie and collected the money. Bishop would’ve stayed in lookout position, his gun ready to shoot anyone who moved, the same for anyone who walked inside the basement door.

Enough time had passed. Then I remembered the vault and the details of the diagrams. My mind was on the money from the three services, but I had forgotten about the vault and whatever was stored inside. Based on what Cora’s turncoat had told her, Eddie Coyle and friends would be shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at five hundred thousand dollars. There could be more. Either way, the culmination of six months of bank robbing and planning was before them.

I adjusted my fedora and looked at my pocket watch again. No sirens pierced the Sunday morning air. We needed an extra man, someone who was posted around the corner. But this was the plan. All remained calm. All remained gray. I hoped that Eddie Coyle, Jackie, and Cora were frantically throwing money inside of bags.

I wanted my one-hundred-thousand-dollar bailout package.

I was done with Detroit. I had decided last night. I could leave there, leave this behind me and go to Aruba. I could get my life back together. I could finish up grad school in Mexico City. I’d have several job offers in a matter of months.

My eyes went to the metal door on the side of the building, where the team had entered.

A police scanner was on, one earphone inside my left ear. There were a thousand problems in Birmingham, but there was nothing going on in Trussville. The parking lot out front was busy, but only five cars were back there. The winter storm was to our advantage. If it had been a spring or summer day, the rear lots might have been crowded. No one wanted to park back there and walk three hundred yards to receive his or her blessings.

Another minute went by.

As I opened and closed Sammy’s switchblade, as I looked at the dash and stared at the bullet that had gone through Rick’s body and sent him to his death, as I felt the weight from a loaded nine-millimeter inside my suit pocket, fear didn’t have its claws in me anymore.

I wasn’t supposed to leave the car. That was my number-one rule, to stay with the car.

My eyes went to the door in search of the people I was responsible for, but no one came to the door.

There weren’t any sirens, none that I could hear.

There wasn’t anything being broadcast on the scanner. There were car accidents and stalled cars, but there was no call for police or militia to grab their guns and head to this area.

Four minutes went by.

Then five.

Then six.

This was different. It would be different if this was a bank robbery and four minutes had gone by. Four minutes inside a bank would turn the exterior of the institution into another
Dog Day Afternoon.
I left the engine in the van running and opened the door, pulled on my fedora, and stepped outside into the falling snow. Something felt wrong. I had to go find out what. I made a handful of rapid steps toward the door on the side of the annex, and then the door opened halfway. I stopped where I was, waiting to see who was going to emerge.

The metal door closed hard.

That frightened me.

I looked back at the van, then my eyes went to the five-level parking structure. Cars were moving, but none were coming this way. I faced the annex and took another step toward the closed door, the weight of the nine-millimeter weighing down the left side of my wool coat. The metal door opened again, but no one rushed from the edifice, no one came outside.

Snow dampened my fedora and clothing as the chill tried to numb my bare hands.

Seven minutes had gone by.

As the snowfall thickened, I saw Jackie, her frame tall and full. Her hair was wavy and her dress had polka dots, a dress that was meant for another era but hugged her frame in ways that made a man believe in both God and the Devil. Her church hat was blown away and her hair lost a battle with an unexpected gust of wind that slapped her mane across her eyes and temporarily blinded her. I anticipated seeing Eddie Coyle and his friends emerging behind Jackie, each of them moving at breakneck pace and carrying similar, if not equal, loads.

My heart became a hammer trying to beat itself free while I searched in vain.

Jackie was lugging a green duffel bag, one that had the emblem and name of the megachurch stitched on its side in black and gold, a bag that had the weight of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The bag slipped from her hands and its weight almost pulled Jackie to the ground, but as snow fell she gritted her teeth and with unbridled determination she gripped the straps on the bag and dragged it across the dirty and wet ground, the bag married to one hand as her other hand held her gun.

She was alone. And she was bleeding, blood dripping down her right arm, spilling over her drawn weapon, and creating pink spots in the snow. All that was missing was a jazz score from the Chico Hamilton Quartet.

When her eyes met mine, I saw four things: betrayal, lust, greed, and murder.

Jackie dragged the bag halfway, then stopped and caught her breath before she moved her hair from her face and said, “Dmytryk. I have the money. We have the money, baby.”

I put my hand inside my pocket and touched the nine-millimeter.

She came toward me wearing a stressed, pained smile that highlighted her imperfect skin. Her ruthless walk and unrestricted exotic-ness could disarm the average fool. She had disarmed Sammy. And in some way she had disarmed me. I admit that. She looked like a sufferer, a woman who had been done wrong by life and many men.

I looked at the door again, but no one came out. I didn’t see Eddie Coyle and the rest of his disciples.

I snapped, “What happened?”

“We have the money. Look at the bag. This is what we came for.”

My breath fogged as my words rushed from my mouth. “Where is Eddie Coyle?”

“Dmytryk . . . I’ve been shot. . . . I need you to get me out of here.”

“Where is Bishop?”

“Get back inside the van. Do what they pay you to do and get me out of here.”

“Where is my wife, Jackie?”

“I’m your wife. I was your wife last night. And I’ll be your wife again tonight.”

“Where is Cora?”

“I’m your wife and you’re my Sammy and we’re going to get my kid and go on our honeymoon. Stop talking and do your job and help me with this bag and get us in that van and get us out of Alabama before the cops come. Put the money in the van, baby, and let’s go.”

We could’ve left right then.

But behind Jackie, I saw them. Not Eddie Coyle or Bishop or Cora. I saw Rick and Sammy. They ran out of the same metal door Jackie had just exited, Rick firing a gun. Sammy was wounded as Rick carried him and the bags of money. Sammy’s head opened up again. And so did Rick’s chest. This time the bullet that had killed Rick kept going until it hit my chest.

I jerked but felt no pain. Half of Sammy’s head was gone. The bag of money inside Rick’s hand exploded and money flew to the skies. Suddenly the weight of the world and all the stress felt as if it hung from me like shackles doing their best to pull me to my knees.

Jackie said, “Cora left you for Eddie Coyle. She left you for this money. You can leave them all. You can beat them and send them postcards and tell them to go straight to hell.”

My wife was inside that building and I had every right to leave her, trade abandonment for abandonment. But this moment wasn’t about Cora. And it wasn’t about me. This moment was about two men who had been left for dead in Los Angeles. It was about Rick and Sammy and everything that had gone bad at Wells Fargo. I had panicked then, but today I wouldn’t repeat the same. Jackie came toward me, dressed in black and white and filled with anger.

She grimaced and dragged the bag toward me like she was an evil Santa Claus. Her blood dripped and melted into the snow, the pink-ness changing to white.

Her gun remained pointed at me as she issued her demands.

I said, “You’re right. Let’s get out of here before the police come. It’s you and me, Jackie. It’s me and you to the end.”

“And my kid.”

“Your kid will be my kid now. I’ll have the family I always wanted.”

“Damn. I can’t speak Spanish. My kid can’t speak Spanish.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“I need you, Dmytryk. I need you to help us.”

“I’ll teach both of you.”

A long moment passed between us and then Jackie lowered her gun.

I went to Jackie and helped her carry the money toward the van. She was hurting but didn’t let the money go. I opened the door to the van and pulled her close to me. We had the money. I told her that she was right, we’d leave Eddie Coyle and Cora and we’d run away together, just like she and Sammy had planned to do. I told her that I would love her as I had loved Cora.

Jackie said, “I’ll never leave you, Dmytryk.”

“I believe you.”

“I’ll never do like Cora did and leave you.”

“I know.”

“I’m loyal.”

“I love you, Jackie.”

“No you don’t.”

“But I will. In time, I will.”

I held Jackie and we kissed.

I was in pain.

She was in pain.

And we kissed the kiss of victory.

And as we kissed, a gun exploded between us. We both looked shocked. We gripped each other tight. I pulled the trigger again and my gun exploded again and ripped a second hole that led from my heavy coat into her polka-dot dress. I held Jackie. We remained cheek to cheek. I held Jackie tighter and looked in her eyes. I held her as her blood drained from her wounds and spilled down my clothing like warm urine, held her as her blood hit the frigid air and turned cold, held her as that cold blood drained to my wingtip shoes.

She said something, but to my ears her words sounded like she was gargling peanut butter. That gargling was her last breath. It was the sound of her soul leaving her body behind.

Nausea rose up inside of me.

I was the sucker. But this was the road that I was on. And, right or wrong, I was going to walk it to its end.

 

 

 

 

Gripping a warm nine-millimeter
inside my cold right hand, I moved from the gray skies and clumps of falling snow and stepped inside the annex. The metal door closed behind me and my eyes adjusted to the whiteness of my new surroundings. The silence sounded like death. The brilliance was shocking and blinded me. It felt like I was plummeting through cotton clouds toward an abyss of sunlight. I had to reach out for the wall in order to break my fall. My hand left a bloody print that smeared as I moved across the pure, white wall.