Trouble in Paradise

Thirty-Six

Macklin sat drinking coffee with Crow in Macklin’s car parked outside the Stiles Island branch of the Paradise Savings Bank. An armored car pulled away from the bank.

“Lot of cash in that bank,” Macklin said.

“You think?”

“Second armored car delivery of the day,” Macklin said. “They are not bringing office supplies.”

Crow nodded. He was slouched in the front seat, one foot propped on the dashboard. Even relaxed, Crow carried with him an aura of force barely contained and waiting to explode.

“Another thing to notice,” Macklin said, “you going to be a successful bank robber, is how many ATM’s they got. ”

“They got four,” Crow said.

“Nice eye, kemo sabe. And if you look up and down the street here, what do you see?”

“Lotta WASP pussy,” Crow said.

“Besides that,” Macklin said.

“Places for the WASP pussy to shop.”

“Bank robber’s tip number two. Find a bank near a lotta retail shops.”

“Because?”

“Lotta cash required.”

“Ah,” Crow said. “How about safe deposit boxes?”

“They got ’em,” Macklin said. “I checked.”

“Lotta trouble getting into safe deposit vaults.”

“Is if you got to bust them. Not so hard if the owners open them up for you.”

“Don’t you need a bank key too?”

“Sure.”

Crow sipped some coffee. He watched a woman in spandex tights get out of a silver Volvo station wagon and walk away from them toward a food shop called the Island Gourmet.

“Jimmy,” Crow said thoughtfully, “just how much time you plan spending during the commission of this crime?”

“Coupla days ought to do it.”

“And you don’t think the cops or nobody might, ah, intervene?”

“Not if they don’t know nothing about it,” Macklin said.

“And you think you can keep them from knowing?”

“I do.”

“For how long?”

“Coupla days, maybe.”

“And if they find out sooner?”

“They still got to get out here and stop us.”

“You going to blow the bridge?”

“If I need to.”

“No way we’re going to make this omelette, Jimmy, without breaking a few eggs,” Crow said.

“You care?”

“No.”

“What the hell do you care about, Crow?”

“Nothing you’d understand, Jimmy.”

“Apache stuff?”

Crow shrugged and sipped some more coffee.

“Sure,” he said.

“Well we get-um much wampum,” Macklin said. “Apaches care about wampum, don’t they?”

“Apaches don’t know nothing about wampum, that’s East Coast Indian shit.”

“So what do Apaches care about?”

“Cash,” Crow said.