Help, I Am Being Held Prisoner

40

EDDIE TROYN OPENED the door to us. He’d taken off his overcoat, revealing his guard uniform, and I had to admit he looked perfect in the part. “Everything’s fine,” he assured us, and it took me a second to realize he’d said that exactly the way a bank guard would. He was calm, quiet, a bit hushed.

There was just something about Eddie and a uniform. Whenever he put one on, he assumed the personality that went with it.

I’ll think of something, I told myself, and the four of us stepped into the bank, and Eddie closed and locked the door behind us. And over to the right Joe Maslocki had put down the typewriter and had taken out a gun-one of the automatics Eddie and I had stolen from Camp Quattatunk-and was holding it aimed at the real guard, who was standing without moving.

It’s too late, I thought. I couldn’t believe it. We’re robbing the bank, I thought.