Terminal

ELEVEN

At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I’d slipped and called him by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.

“I don’t know, man. Somebody’s shooting outside.”

“Five-oh?”

“Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain’t sticking my head out to see.”

Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time. John shrieked.

“Don’t shoot! D-don’t shoot, you guys! It’s m-me—John!”

He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers—

dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He’d been gutshot, and I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.

“Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot—it’s burning up. It’s on fire. Hurts! F-fucking shot me…”

Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don’t know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.

“C-can’t believe he fucking s-shot me…”

“Shhh,” I soothed. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be all right, John.”

His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn’t look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.

“Oh, it h-hurts! I’m gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It’s hot and it f-feels like somebody p-punched me. I’m dying!”

“You’re not gonna die, John. You hear me? You’re not going to fucking die!”

“I’m scared, T-tommy. I don’t w-want to d-die. I don’t want to g-go to hell. I’m afraid of hell. Don’t l-let me die. Don’t let me go to hell!”

He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.

“There’s no such thing as hell, John. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”

“I-I don’t w-want to die. Don’t want to d-die. Please… S-scared of hell…”

“Stop it, John!”

“Can’t catch m-my breath. Can’t c-catch… He shot me, man…” His voice was weak now, barely a whisper. “My stomach is g-getting cold now. Maybe I-I ate something b-bad.”

“Who, John? Who did this to you, man?”

“Kelvin… H-he was st-strung out…” Even as he struggled for breath, John was hyperventilating like a fish out of the water.

Kelvin. I knew the name from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it. Before I could ask him more, Sherm interrupted.

“Get the fuck over there with the rest of them, lie down, and keep quiet!” Sherm shoved Keith toward the group, who did as he was told. Keith had a black eye now to go along with his split lip—something Sherm must have given him while they were inside the vault. Sherm crossed the lobby in four quick strides and knelt beside us. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him.

“John, look at me. Kelvin did this?”

Gasping for breath, John nodded.

“Hey, S-sherm! Where you been? C-cold—I’m cold. My stomach is c-cold. I can’t feel my legs. J-just let me lie here for a little b-bit. N-need to c-catch my b-breath…”

I looked up at Sherm.

“Kelvin? That’s the guy that was with Wallace when we bought the guns?”

“Gotta be. The one that John called ‘nigga.’ ”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I stripped off my jacket, balled it up, and slid it behind John’s back. Then I yanked off my ski mask and placed it over the hole in his front. John screamed, thrashing in my arms as I pressed down on both.

“Hang on, John. Hang on, man. We’ve got to stop the bleeding.” I ran my hand across my face, realizing too late that it was covered in John’s blood.

“J-just gonna lie here for a b-bit…”

“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?” Sherm yelled. “Put your mask back on.”

“Screw that! We’ve got two dead bodies, Sherm. Two people have died. Two!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And John probably isn’t that far off. We need to get the hell out of here, yo.”

“What do you mean two? I only shot the one guy.”

“The old guy,” I pointed, “is having a heart attack. He’s probably dead by now.”

“He’s okay, mister.”

Our heads snapped around at the same time. It was the kid, Benjy. He smiled at us, lying calmly next to his mother again. I looked at the old man and he was okay. In fact, he looked better than okay, better than he had from the moment we’d entered the bank. As if to verify this, he swallowed hard, adjusted his glasses, and spoke.

“I’m fine. Must have just been my angina acting up. If you boys leave now, why, I don’t think any of us saw anything. Right folks?”

“Shut up and lie back down.” Sherm warned.

I was too stunned to reply. I’d seen the guy with my own eyes and I knew it wasn’t angina. He’d been dying. His heart had quit on him. But now he looked fine. He was back to normal—

healthy.

Before I could mention this to Sherm, the glass in the front door exploded. A split second later, I heard the shot.

“Drop!” Sherm pulled me down with him.

“That’s your ass, motherfucker.” Kelvin strolled up to the door and calmly raised his pistol. The smile on his face was terrifying. It vanished when he saw us.

Sherm hollered, “Kelvin, what the fuck?”

Kelvin paused, staring in confusion at the figure in the black ski mask that somehow knew his name. He was jittery and sweating, and I could tell that he was tweaking. He’d been using whatever drug he was dealing that day, and he was now higher than a kite. Probably crack or crystal meth—whatever it was, he was jacked to an insane level from it.

“Sherm? That you, dog?”

“Hell yeah it’s me, man. Put that shit down, yo.”

“Sherm, you crazy goddamned Mick. Check you out, pulling a bank job and shit.” He laughed, shaking his head in stoned disbelief.

“I-I d-don’t w-want t-to d-die…” John moaned. “D-don’t l-let h-him…”

“What the hell are you doing, Kelvin? What are you on, man?”

“Careful,” I whispered, “looks like he’s mad fucking juiced. Stoned as shit.”

“I can see that,” Sherm hissed back. “Just watch your ass.”

We were clustered together around John, and Kelvin sighted on each of us, moving his pistol back and forth. I thought about pulling mine out, but if I did, I’d have to let up the pressure on John’s wound. Already the blood had soaked through the ski mask and it was quickly becoming a sticky mess in my hands.

“Check this shit out,” Kelvin continued, as if we were having a friendly talk in a bar. “I was finishing a transaction and shit in the alley behind the Chinese place. Two kilos and cash, a sweet fucking deal. Did me a little celebrating right before I got here—just enough to get me buzzed. Must have done a little more than I thought, know what I’m saying? And then—the cherry on top of the fucking ice cream. Finished up the deal, then I saw your boy there, sitting in his car like he was waiting for something. Motherfucker looked nervous and he should have. Told him what the fuck would happen if I saw him on the streets. Little punk ass bitch got served. That’s all.”

“For Christ’s sake, Kelvin. Wallace told you to drop that shit. John didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Fuck Wallace! That nigga don’t know everything. But you do, Sherm. You know how it is. Business is—”

Sherm fired, rolled, and fired again. The first shot missed, but it was enough to stun Kelvin. He staggered backward in stoned surprise, desperately looking for cover. The second shot caught him right between the legs. Shrieking, Kelvin squeezed off his entire magazine, emptying it into the sidewalk. The bullets slammed into the pavement and ricocheted around us, gouging wood and punching into brick. Blood poured from Kelvin’s ruined groin as he slipped into shock. Still moving, Sherm leapt to his feet, ran toward him, and shot him in the throat. Kelvin’s fluttering hands went from his dick to his neck. A look of surprise registered on his face as he collapsed, twitched, then lay still. Sherm stood over him, placed the barrel against his forehead, and squeezed the trigger one more time. I tore my eyes away at the last second. The customers were by then in a complete state of panic, screaming and crying and praying and clawing at the carpet. But I’ve got to give Sherm credit. He’d been right. Despite the gun battle going on in their midst, they listened to what he’d told them to do. They didn’t run, didn’t even get up. As planned, we’d come in hard-core, established who was in charge, and they obeyed. Then, over their screams and the ringing in our ears, we heard another sound. Sirens. Police sirens. Coming closer.

“G-getting colder…” John moaned. His eyes were shut. “H-help m-me, Tommy. I d-don’t want t-to die and g-go… t-to hell. I’m so s-s-scared, man… P-please d-don’t let m-m-me d-die!”

Sherm looked out across the parking lot.

“Shit! Get him up, Tommy. We got to bail. Let’s go, man!”

He picked up Kelvin’s pistol, released the magazine, saw that it was empty, and threw it down. The shattered remains of the door swung shut behind him, with Kelvin’s body wedged between it and the frame.

I rose, struggling to lift John to his feet. He groaned in agony, shuddered, then passed out. I was thankful for that. His face had grown chalky, and his entire midsection was soaked with blood.

“Sherm, we’ve got to get him to a hospital. He’s fucking dying…”

“Fuck that. If he can’t travel, then we’ve got to leave him behind, man. We’ve got to jet.”

“Bullshit!”

“Not bullshit. You want to wait around and get caught, that’s fine by me. I’m getting out. May be hard for you to hear, but that’s the way it is, dog. That’s just the way it’s got to be. He’d agree with me if he was conscious.”

At that moment, I hated him. He was one of my two best friends, but I hated him all the same. Sherm fished through John’s pockets for the keys, swore, then checked them again. He gave up finally and slapped his head in frustration.

“Fuck fuck fuck! I don’t believe this shit.”

“What?”

The sirens were drawing closer, accompanied by the squeal of tires.

“We’re fucked, that’s what. We’re fucked in the ass.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s wrong, man?”

“Carpet Dick left the keys in the fucking car.”

“Oh shit…”

Sherm had told John to keep it running. John had listened, even while shot in the stomach and with Kelvin chasing after him.

Panting, Sherm ran for the door. Suddenly, he slid to a stop and ran back toward me. The blaring sirens were on top of us. Brakes squealed. Tires slid to a stop on the pavement. Car doors swung open and slammed shut.

“Shit,” he grunted. “No way we can make it to the car now.”

A radio squawked. Voices called out to one another. Official-sounding voices. Voices that were clearly not fucking around.

“Boys,” the old man muttered, “I think you just ran out of time.”

There was something in Sherm’s eyes that reminded me of a cornered wild animal, ready to bite. He jumped to his feet.

“Everybody into the vault. Now!” He fired his last bullet into the ceiling to emphasize his point. Still crying, they did as they were told, stumbling forward. Sherm was their shepherd and he herded them like a flock of frightened, bleating sheep.

All except for Benjy. He crawled toward John and me over broken glass, his eyes shining and bright—sympathetic.

“Your friend is hurt, mister. He’s hurt bad.”

“Don’t be scared,” I smiled, trying to reassure him. “He’ll be okay.”

“No he won’t. He’s dying. He has blood coming out of his stomach. If we don’t fix him soon, he’ll go to see Jesus or maybe the monster people, and then he can’t come back. Not ever.”

“Let’s go, Tommy.” Sherm roared.

Outside, I heard the unmistakable electronic squawk of another radio.

“I can fix him like I fixed Sandy,” Benjy told me.

“What? Who’s Sandy? What are you talking about, kid?”

“Benjy, come here—now!” His mother froze, caught between the other hostages and her son.

“Lady, if you don’t get your fucking ass in here, you’re next. Tommy, if you’re coming, then you better come now. Grab that fucking kid or John or shoot them both or whatever, but let’s go.”

Footsteps outside. Right outside the door, just out of sight. Cautious and stealthy, but hurried as well. And more sirens on the way. Lots more, by the sound of it.

“Your name is Benjy?” I asked him.

He nodded, his big round eyes frightened and confused, but excited at the same time.

“Benjy, I’m going to do something that might be a little scary. I need you to cover your ears, okay?”

“Okay, mister.”

He placed his small hands over his ears and in that instant, he reminded me so much of T.J. that I almost started crying. Instead, I pulled the pistol, pointed it at the shattered glass on the front door, and fired a warning shot. The gun kicked in my hand, snapping my wrist upward, and the blast was deafening. I could actually feel it push against my eardrum. The remaining glass in the door crashed to the ground, covering Kelvin’s sprawled corpse with jagged shards. Immediately, my shot was answered by surprised shouts of “Down! Down!” and “Call for back up!” followed by scrambling, retreating footsteps. I took a deep breath.

“All right, listen up out there! If we see one fucking cop stick his fucking head through that fucking door, we’ll kill him and everybody else inside this goddamned bank. You got that, you motherfuckers?”

There was no answer, but I was pretty sure that they understood the message. I grinned. Hard-core, original gangsta shit. The ringing in my ear was as loud as the gunshot. It felt like it was plugged with a ball of wax.

Reaching down to ruffle the kid’s hair, I saw the blood on my hands and thought better of it. Instead, I winked at him. He winked back and smiled. I began dragging John’s unconscious body toward the vault, and Benjy tagged along beside me.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him.

“I know. I’m not scared too much anymore.”

“Well, that’s good.”

As we talked, I noticed my eardrum vibrating. I had to strain just to hear him and each time I spoke, it vibrated some more.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“My name?”

I paused, readjusting John’s weight. Blood flowed from the wound, leaving a trail behind us.

“My name is Tommy. Come on, we have to hurry up and lay my friend down again.”

“How did you know my name was Benjy, Mr. Tommy?”

“I heard your mother call you that.”

“Oh.” He considered this and looked back up at me.

“Mr. Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“I can help your friend. I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up. I’m going to fix people so they’re better.”

“All right,” I humored him, “let’s go back here with the others, then we’ll help him.”

“You’re sick too, Mr. Tommy. You know that, right?”

I almost dropped John. It felt like Kelvin had shot me in the stomach too.

“W-what did you say?”

“You’re sick too. Not your ear. That will go away in a little bit. But you’ve got bad things growing inside you, like spiderwebs. Black things. It’s okay, Mr. Tommy. I’ll make you feel better.”

He lowered his voice.

“Your other friend is sick too, but it’s different. He has the darkness inside his head, and it’s getting ready to bubble out. It’s going to be soon. The monster people are whispering.”

Having forced the others into the vault at gunpoint, Sherm poked his head back into the lobby, gave me a warning glance, and began reloading his .357, pulling the bullets from his pocket.

“Where did you get those?”

His voice sounded like the buzz of a bee.

“At the sporting goods store. Why?”

“I thought when we bought the guns from Wallace that we said we only needed six in the chamber. That we didn’t need more bullets. You said there wasn’t going to be any shooting, Sherm.”

He walked toward me.

“Figured it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” He cocked a thumb at Kelvin’s body. “And aren’t you glad that I did?”

He bent down over the body of his first victim, the guy in the leather jacket who had pulled a pistol. His head was still dribbling blood. Sherm picked up the man’s weapon, checked the chamber, and pocketed it with a smile.

“Thirty-eight special. Loaded too. Not bad. Might come in handy before this shit is over.”

My ear seemed to be clearing up a bit, just as Benjy had promised. The sounds were rushing back, and I could hear the commotion outside again.

Sherm began rummaging through the dead man’s pockets. He found a silver cigarette lighter and kept that too. Then he rolled the body over and pulled a wallet from the corpse’s back pocket. He flipped it open and looked at the driver’s license. A second later, he snorted with laughter.

“What?” My headache had apparently decided to come back with my hearing. Outside, the cops were starting to move closer again.

“It says here that the guy’s name was Mac Davis.”

“You mean like that singer back in the seventies?”

“Yeah. Too frigging cool, dog—I shot Mac Davis!”

He said it casually, but there was a hint of something else beneath the words. Sherm was starting to lose it. Hell, I don’t know. Looking back on it now, I think maybe he’d lost it long before we ever walked into that bank. Sherm may have been my friend, but I never trusted him one hundred percent. Neither had John. Our conversation from the night we drove to York looking for guns echoed in my mind.

“Sometimes Sherm scares me,” John had whispered. “Sometimes I think he’s crazy.”

“Me too,” I’d replied.

“Me too.”

Sherm looked up. “You say something?”

“Nothing. Yo, we got to get moving, Sherm. The cops are creeping up again. Give me a hand with John, okay? He feels like a sack of potatoes.”

“What’s that on the floor, mister?” Benjy asked Sherm, pointing at his feet. Something bright and shiny had fallen from Mac Davis’s jacket.

A badge.

“Oh fuck me running.”

Sherm closed his eyes, removed his ski mask, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. The guy in the leather jacket, a.k.a. Mr. Mac Davis, recently deceased, hadn’t been a singer like his namesake. He’d been a police officer. I would find out later that he’d been off duty, coming home from the night shift.

“Sherm,” I choked, “you shot a fucking cop…”

Then I threw up all over my shoes.

We left Kelvin and Mac Davis lying where they were, and finished cramming the hostages into the vault. The group was obedient and followed our orders—sitting on the floor quietly with their backs against the steel walls. Benjy returned to his mother, and when I caught her eye, I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She glared back at me and looked away. The old woman caressed her cross, stroking it lovingly, and muttered an occasional “Oh my” and the fat guy in the Hellboy shirt was panting like a dog. Both of the tellers sniffled, their tears slowly drying up as the reality of the situation hit them and shock set in. The bearded guy in the chambray shirt continued to soothe the older teller, assuring her that it would all be okay. He looked at her the way I looked at Michelle sometimes, and it was so easy to see—written all over his face. I wondered just how long he’d been using this bank. How long had he been in love with her? Did she even know about it?

Sherm rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He grinned, and the sweat on his forehead glistened beneath his dirty hair.

“Okay,” he announced. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We don’t want to kill any more of you—”

“Why stop now?” Keith sneered. “You’re on a roll. Do you get points for each one you kill or something?”

Sherm slapped him hard across one cheek, then the other. Then he clutched Keith’s left earlobe between his index finger and thumb and gave it a savage, jerking twist. Keith howled in pain, glaring back at him with hatred burning in his eyes.

“Say one more word, asshole. I fucking dare you.”

Keith opened his mouth, glanced at the frightened looks of his employees and customers, who shook their heads in silence to urge him to keep quiet, and shut it again.

“Now,” Sherm continued, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. I’m gonna duct tape your hands behind your backs. If you all promise to behave, I won’t tape your feet or your mouths shut—well, except for you, Keith. While I am doing this, my associate, Tommy, is going to make sure that none of you move. If you do, he is going to shoot you in the fucking face. Fair enough?”

He directed the question to them but looked at me as he asked it. I nodded in understanding along with the rest of them.

“Good.”

I wondered why he had brought a roll of duct tape along with him when the plan had originally been to get away, but I didn’t ask.

“Mommy,” Benjy whispered, “I have to go pee.”

“Do it in your pants,” Sherm said, jerking his thumb toward the comic book fan. “It was good enough for fat boy over there.”

He knelt by the old woman. Trembling, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Oh…”

“What’s your name?” Sherm asked her.

“Martha.”

“Martha, so help me God, if you say ‘Oh my’ one more time, I’m going to cut your head off and stump fuck your neck. Do you know what a stump fuck is?”

“N-n-no…”

“A stump fuck is when I insert my penis into the orifice provided by the wound and I fuck it.”

He thrust his hips back and forth.

“O—”

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare fucking say it.”

Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

“Too bad. I could have used a good nut.”

Despite his threats, Sherm allowed Martha to keep her hands in her lap. I guess he figured she wasn’t a threat. He taped her wrists together, and moved on to the elderly bald man.

“Give me your cane. You ain’t going to be needing it anytime soon. We’re not going anywhere.”

The old man did as he was told. Sherm slid it across the floor toward me and wrapped his hands together too.

“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” the old man observed.

“No shit?” Sherm scoffed. “Thanks for letting us know, Pops. I hadn’t figured that out yet. Anything else you want to let us in on?”

“Why make it worse by taking hostages? Why not just let us go?”

“I’m sorry, your name is?”

“Roy. Roy Kirby.”

“Well, Roy, the reason I’m not letting you go is so if the cops bust in here with tear gas and pepper grenades and laser sights and body armor and all that shit, I can use you as a human shield. I figure that’s why you survived your heart attack—for me to use as cannon fodder. Sound good?”

“Then keep me,” Roy offered, “and let the others go. At least let the boy have a chance.”

“Sorry. No.”

“But he’s just a little boy.”

“And you’re just an old man. But both of you will make excellent cannon fodder. You know what I’m saying?”

“I’ll pray for you,” Roy said.

“You do that, Pops. But I think Martha over there has that covered already.”

He kicked the cane closer to me, pushed Roy back against the wall, and moved on to the next hostage—the comic book geek, whose real name turned out to be Oscar. After Oscar came Dugan, the bearded guy with the crush on the older teller.

“Dugan? That your first name or your last?”

He eyed Sherm like he was a squashed bug. “None of your business.”

While Sherm taped Dugan’s wrists, I checked John’s pulse. It took me a moment to find it, but it was there—weak and slow—but still there. He moaned, beginning to regain consciousness. I could only imagine the agony he’d be in when he woke up. My own pain was coming back as well, now that the adrenaline rush had left my body. My head hurt so bad that my vision blurred. I tried not to let on and stood back up, using my foot to keep the pressure on his makeshift tourniquet.

“How is he?” Sherm asked.

“Not good. Not good at all. He’s going to die, Sherm. You know that, right? Kelvin shot him in the stomach. He’s going to fucking die.”

“Nothing we can do about that now, Tommy.”

“He’s our friend, man. Of course we can do something about it. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Benjy stirred in excitement.

“I can help him, Mr. Tommy. I really can.”

“Sit down, kid,” Sherm warned him, finishing up with Dugan’s hands.

“Benjy!” His mother looked anxious again.

“It’s okay,” I told her, and turned to Benjy. “Sit down for me, buddy. Okay?”

Pouting, he let out a frustrated sigh but did as he was told. I thought of T.J., doing the exact same thing when Michelle told him to turn off Justice League Adventures and get ready for church.

“What’s your name?” I asked his mother.

“Sheila.”

“Okay. Just try to keep him still, all right?”

She nodded.

“That man is going to go see Jesus soon if we don’t help him. Or maybe the monster people. Tell them, Mommy. Make them believe me.”

She pulled him close and whispered something in his ear. Benjy leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

Meanwhile, Sherm had moved on to the older teller, Sharon. She grimaced in pain as he pressed her wrists together.

“Does that hurt?” he grinned.

She nodded, and Sherm pressed down harder, leering.

“Leave her alone,” Dugan growled, “or so help me I’ll—”

Sherm wheeled on him, shoving the barrel of the .357 under his nose. Dugan didn’t even flinch. He had some big brass balls, I’ll give him that.

“You’ll what? Kick my ass? Kill me? Motherfucker, you are in no position to threaten me. I’m in charge. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“I don’t care what you do to me, but if you hurt Sharon, I’ll come back from the grave just to watch you fry.”

The light went on in Sherm’s eyes. He stood up, grinned at me, and looked back down at them.

“Ohhhhh, I get it. I see now. You’re slipping her the old salami. Goddamn, why didn’t you just say so, Dugan? It’s cool, man. You’re popping the old Viagra and Sharon here is your piece of ass, and you don’t want anybody else sticking their dick in her. Shit, I can respect that. Here’s to you, player.”

Dugan sputtered, his face turning scarlet.

“You foul-mouthed little white trash punk. Take this damn tape off of my hands and we’ll see how tough you are.”

Sherm’s grin vanished, his voice growing serious again.

“Relax. She’s all yours, Dugan. And Tommy there can have Sheila. Old women and milfs don’t do it for me.”

“What’s a milf?” Roy whispered.

“Mom I’d Like To Fuck,” Oscar mouthed back.

Roy closed his eyes and shook his head.

Sherm ignored them and turned his attention to the young, blond teller.

“Now you on the other hand…” He ripped off another piece of duct tape and crouched down beside her. “What’s your name, girl?”

“K-k-kim.”

“Kim.” He rolled it around on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name. Yo, Kim, check this shit out. I’m gonna be a rich man, soon as I get out of here. Maybe you can come with me. We’ll go live in the Bahamas and shit, run around naked all day and get high.”

He leaned forward to kiss her and she shut her eyes, cringing against the wall. Sherm finished binding her hands, then grabbed her face with one hand and drew her toward him.

“C’mon, baby, what do you say? Dude like me and a fine girl like you? You don’t have to be a star to be in my show. Give me those seven digits so I can give you a call when this is over.”

“F-fuck off, you piece of shit.” The curses sounded strange coming out of her mouth, as if she wasn’t used to saying them.

Sherm’s eyes grew wide, but his response was cut off as Keith burst into laughter. Tears streamed down the manager’s face, leaking from his swollen eye. His busted lip pulled back in a sneer as he chuckled.

“Good for you, Kim.”

Sherm finished with Kim and stood up, turning his full attention to Keith.

“I saved the best for last.”

Sherm stepped toward him and Keith stopped laughing. Suddenly, he looked very small and very afraid.

“Tommy, make sure they stay quiet. Keith and I are gonna go have a nice, private talk.”

“But what about the cops?”

“Five-oh won’t be bothering us for a while. They’re still trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“How do you know that?”

“These cops weren’t responding to the robbery. I’m sure of that. When a silent alarm gets triggered, the police dispatcher puts it out to the cars immediately. They get this strong-ass warning tone on their radios—they can hear it even if their radio is turned down. It’s kind of like the Emergency Broadcast System. In a town like Hanover, they’re required to have a minimum of two units respond. One unit takes the rear and the other takes the front, so each cop is diagonal from the other. But here’s the thing, dog. When they do this, there are no lights and no sirens. Five-oh doesn’t want to alert the bank robber that they’re on the way.”

“But we heard sirens.”

“Damn straight we did. We heard a shitload of sirens, which tells me they were responding to the shots fired in the back alley, when Kelvin shot John, then followed him around to the front. If they’d known it was a bank robbery they were rolling up on, they’d have done this whole thing differently. They were looking for Kelvin. They found us instead.”

“You’re pretty smart for a white trash hood,” Keith observed. Sherm ignored the comment, but I saw him flinch. Worse, he was starting to twitch again, and that was never a good sign when you were dealing with Sherm. When Sherm began to twitch, bad things happened.

“So what about us?” I asked. “What’s next?”

My mind raced. All I could think of was Michelle and T.J. She was at work, ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets and maybe thinking of me too. He’d be at day care, maybe having a snack or drawing a picture of the three of us as stick figures.

“Well, you bought us some time, shooting out the door like that and talking smack to the cops. You surprised me, dog. That was some smart thinking, man. They don’t know what the fuck is going on now, except that they’ve got an unknown number of hostages and gunmen up in here. They’ll pull back, set up shop, and let their dispatcher know what’s going on. Pretty soon, dispatch will call here for the bank contact and have them walk outside with a predesignated signal that everything is cool and it was a false alarm, or that the bad guys are gone.”

He turned to Keith.

“Who’s the bank contact?”

“I am.”

“There ya go.” Sherm grinned at me. “Easy enough to find that out, right?”

“So we’re sending him out when they call?” I asked.

“Oh hell no. Even if he gave them the all clear, there’s no way we could get out of here now. They’d have to come in and double-check. So when Keith here doesn’t respond, they’ll hunker down outside, try to contain us. They’ve probably already got us surrounded, so stay the fuck away from the windows. Hanover doesn’t have a SWAT unit, so they’ll call for York County’s Quick Response Team. Those guys will take at least an hour to respond—maybe more. They’ll want to bring their armored vehicles and their helicopter and shit. Make sure the taxpayers know that their money is being used.

“Meanwhile, they’ll have every available officer here, except for one poor schmuck who’ll be responding to other calls—and I’m betting that even he will creep close to the scene. It’s the day shift, so we’re probably talking five to seven cars, four detectives, a platoon supervisor, probably a captain, and definitely the chief. He’ll want to have his picture on the front page of The Evening Sun tonight. Sooner or later, a police negotiator will try to contact us. When Quick Response shows up, they’ll have a second negotiator trying to deal with us too, if needed. I’ll handle all of that. They might try to break windows or shoot in tear gas and pepper spray grenades, or maybe send in that little surveillance robot, but that should be hours from now.”

“Fuck! What the hell do we do if they fire tear gas?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we need to, we’ll seal the vault with us inside. I don’t think the gas can get in here. Until then, we chill. We’ve got plenty of time to figure shit out.”

“So we just sit tight? That’s your plan?”

“For now, yeah.”

“But—”

“Once we get the negotiator to play ball with us, we’ll get a ride out of here, a car or maybe a Humvee or something. Take a few of the hostages with us as insurance and let the others go as a good faith gesture.”

“And they’ll give us that?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know, Sherm. Why not just make a break for it now? We could go out the back.”

“That’s no good, yo. They’ve got us surrounded already. Even if we could make it to John’s car, they’d bum rush it as soon as we were inside. You’re just gonna have to trust me on this, Tommy.”

He turned to Keith.

“Your office is across the hall, right?”

“Yes. But there’s no money in there.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the money anymore. What I do give a fuck about is if your office has windows. Are there any windows in it? Don’t lie to me, Keith, because if we get in there and I see a cop peering through the glass at me, I’m gonna cap him, then I’m gonna rape your ass with the barrel of this pistol and cap you too.”

“No,” Keith swallowed, “there aren’t any windows.”

“Good. Okay, this is how it’s gonna be. Keith and I are going to have a chat and wait for the cops’ phone call. You stay here with them, Tommy. And keep that fucking kid under control.”

“What about John, Sherm? What do we do about him?”

He didn’t answer. I don’t know if he didn’t hear or if he was just ignoring me. Instead, he yanked Keith up by his hair and shoved him out the vault door. Then he turned back to me.

“Keep your shit together, Tommy. We’ll get out of here and get John some help and you’ll see Michelle and T.J. again.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

He flashed that grin of his.

“Trust me.”