Money in the Bank
January 27, 2016
There aren’t any good jobs in L.A., and I’m sick of work anyway. I don’t even want to sell drugs anymore. I’ve got a better plan. Two friends and I are going to knock off a bank in Bakersfield. It would be too tough in L.A. In Bakersfield we’re dealing with hicks. I figure we can get a hundred grand, at least, and jump back on Highway 99 and escape through this dirty farmland.
“Okay, put on your sweat shirts, but remember, don’t put on the ski masks until I park in front,” I tell Ray and Steve, who’s in back. “And make sure your guns are loaded.”
“We already checked ten times, Boyd,” says Ray.
I’ve picked a bank not far from the freeway. Don’t want to get hemmed in on surface streets. Pulling up I see it’s an ugly bank, like most.
“Okay,” I say. “Do it.”
These damn masks feel tighter and hotter now than when we tested them in L.A. Doesn’t matter.
“Hurry,” I say.
Each of us carrying a rifle, a cloth sack, and a pistol in a sweat shirt pocket, we get out and charge into the bank, and I shout, “All right, no one touches the alarm. Keep your fuckin’ mouths shut and give us your money. Then lie face down on the floor.”
I guard the entrance while Ray grabs wallets. Steve runs around the counter, cursing tellers he pushes and punches. Those who don’t move fast enough get rifle butts to the stomach or head. I keep everyone covered.
“Put your money into the sacks,” Ray says, moving from customer to customer in a long line.
“Please don’t hurt us,” a man says.
I step up and kick him in the groin. “Shut up.”
A couple of ladies cry. “I said, ‘Shut the fuck up.’”
Steve cleans out the cash drawers, and says, “Where’s the manager? Open the vault.”
“It’s locked on a time-controlled system,” says a nerd in glasses.
“Lyin’ motherfucker,” Steve says, and sticks his rifle under the guy’s chin. “Don’t die to save some rich man’s money.”
I hear sirens and say, “Who set off the fuckin’ alarm? Was it you?”
Steve shoots the manager in the shoulder.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We dash out and I open the trunk where we throw in two rifles and all three sacks, and hurry into my car and I burn rubber backing out and again as we roar toward the parking lot exit. A cop down the street’s coming fast. Ray and Steve fire rifles from the front and back seats. They either miss or the pigs have a bullet proof windshield. I head the opposite way, toward the freeway. The cop’s right behind us. There’s another behind him. I run a red light, making cars screech and spin, then run another light, and jerk left flooring it up the ramp and onto the freeway. It’s a long way to L.A. I’m driving ninety, a hundred, one-ten, and so are the cops, at least four cars chasing us now. It’s hell inside the car. I can’t go any faster and I can’t go fast enough. Shit, a helicopter moves in like a nightmare. I keep the accelerator on the floor. For what? There’s a roadblock ahead. My windshield shatters and I brake and skid into the middle of three cars. Ray gets a bullet in the head. I can feel he’s gone. I dive in front of his slumped body and play dead on the passenger floor. I hear Steve get out and fire. I hear a thousand shots.
“Get the fuck out of the car,” a cops shouts.
“My shoulder’s hit,” I say.
“Lucky you aren’t dead.”
Some pig with weightlifter arms jerks me out, slaps my face, and shoves me face down on freeway pavement.
“Don’t shoot,” I say.
I don’t move until they cuff me and pull me up so I can see Steve on the pavement.