Inmate 1577

9

Walton MacNally felt the glass door behind him close, springing against his buttocks. It nudged him forward, as if it were the survival portion of his brain urging him on, telling him that if he did not complete this act, he and his son would go without food.

Could it really be that simple? Was the money in Township Community Savings there for his taking?

Yes. Sometimes society provided for those who were less fortunate. Wasn’t that in the Bible? It had to be. It made so much sense.

MacNally let his eyes roam around the bank’s interior. Women with reading glasses perched on their noses and coifed beehive hairstyles counted money, stamped slips, and chatted politely with their customers. It was a small institution, with wooden desks to his right and doors along the far wall ahead of him.

MacNally walked in slowly, glancing around, looking for security guards. Were they armed? He had no idea. He realized now that he had not thought this through very well. He had been so focused on how he would get away-and preparing Henry for driving the car-that he hadn’t devoted any time to figuring out how he would even get the money. Could he merely go up and demand it? Can it be that simple?

He walked over to a desk that stood thirty feet from the wall of tellers. The nameplate read G. Yaeger, but Mr. or Mrs. Yaeger was apparently on a break at the moment. Next to a blotter that sported messages and notes along its edges sat a flyer that read, Introducing New Rates for 1958, with the text below urging customers to place their money in a certificate of deposit. At the edge of the blotter in front of him lay a gold Cross ballpoint pen. He picked it up, turned the advertisement over, and scrawled, in nervous caps:

THIS BANK IS BEING ROBBED. I DON’T WANT TO SHOOT ANYONE BUT I WILL IF I HAVE TO. PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN A BAG. DO IT QUICKLY AND DON’T SAY A WORD.

MacNally looked around again. There-about a hundred feet away, an overweight man with graying hair wearing a uniform and octagonal cap stood near the end of the line of tellers. His head was down, reading what appeared to be a newspaper. From this angle, MacNally couldn’t tell if he had a sidearm.

He turned back to his note and reread it. The threat of shooting them was good. MacNally did not have a gun-he had never even held one-but the woman with the money didn’t know that. Still, to “sell it,” he had to convince her with the look on his face. Anger was the key. He needed to channel the pain he felt most nights as he lay awake in bed picturing his wife lying on the floor of his home, murdered. He closed his eyes and thought of the man who had killed her, who had turned his life upside down.

His heart raced. Perspiration prickled his scalp.

He really did not want to do this. He had never taken anything from anyone that didn’t belong to him. Yet so much had been taken from him, and Henry, what was a little money? Money was replaceable. Doris was not.

But they needed food and shelter, and MacNally had to take care of it. He didn’t see a choice.

He opened his eyes, tightened his lips, tensed his hands.

MacNally scooped up the note and marched over toward the other customers and took his place in line. As he stood there waiting, he realized he didn’t have anything to wrap across his face. Did that matter? He was going to leave town right away. Still… He should’ve thought of this. What if the teller described him to police?

His eyes darted around for something-a hat, a kerchief, anything that would cover all or a portion of his face. His muffler. He pulled it off his neck and tossed it over the opposing shoulder, draping it across his nose and mouth. It was cold out, so he wouldn’t look out of place, and although half his features were still visible, it was enough to provide doubt in a witness’s mind.

“Next,” called a smiling woman in her late fifties. She was ten feet away. All he had to do was hand over the note.

MacNally clenched his jaw, put his head down, and walked forward.