In the middle of the heist the Boss lost interest, sat down, started playing jacks. He bounced the India rubber ball once, picked up a jack. He was starting slow.
Big Tony said, “What the fuck you doin, Boss?”
“I’m not interested anymore,” Boss said. “I just lost interest.”
Big Tony’s eyes bulged. “But we been planning this gig for weeks!” He was a hired hand, but in his mind he had already spent the dough.
Boss dropped the ball, swiped two jacks. Not bad. He was warming up. “I’m just not interested anymore,” he said.
“Like that?”
“Like that.”
“Fuck, man. We gotta get this shit goin.” Big Tony turned to the other guys in the unit, then back to Boss. “Look,” he said. “I’m taking over. We’re doin this job fore the cops show.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Fuck you.”
Boss dropped the ball and picked up three jacks. “Nice.”
Down the street, sirens screamed. Someone had slapped the alarm. There was no one in sight.
Big Tony vaulted the counter. Paper and receipts were scattered on the floor. The tellers were scarce. The vault was open. All they had to do was grab the loot.
“Calvino,” Big Tony said, “watch the door. Carmine, with me.”
They hustled.
Boss scooped up the jacks, scattered them again. He knew the boys were counting on him, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Years and years, they added up. He was tired of the hustle. He was tired of the whole damned thing.
Big Tony and Carmine were making a hell of a racket. He knew they would. Putting together the unit, he knew they would be trouble. It wasn’t like the old days. Sure, the money was good. But the thrill. The timing. When you looked at it, it was an art form. Nothing you’d hang on a wall. But it had a kind of beauty.
The sirens were getting closer.
“Calvino,” Big Tony called from inside the vault. “Done! Now get the shit from the teller boxes and let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Boss could help them. He still had the skills. Two minutes, they’d be out. The way the sirens were wailing now, they had about three minutes. Any longer, there’d be a stand off. Big Tony wouldn’t make it easy for them. He’d come out, guns blazing. It had a sort of belligerent charm, but Boss was tired. It wasn’t his style anymore.
Big Tony brushed Boss with one of the canvas bags as he cleared the third teller box.
“Don’t fuck with me, Tony,” Boss said.
“Fuck you, Boss.” Big Tony puffed himself up. The bastard really thought he was something.
“Just cause I don’t give a damn anymore, Tony, don’t mean I couldn’t fuck you up. Don’t make me do it, Tony. Don’t make me get up.”
“Fuck you, old man. You lost it. Keep your ass down and outta our way.”
Boss dropped the ball, scooped up five jacks. He caught the ball again, no problem. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead. He felt his temper rising.
He wanted to be cool. Just play it cool, he told himself. Don’t let this punk kid fuck with you. You don’t care anymore. It’s fine. Nothing means nothing. Just stay right here and let them take you. It don’t matter anymore.
“Bastard was trying to start shit wit me,” Big Tony was saying.
Boss stood up. He dropped the ball. It bounced to his waist, to the floor, to his knee, to the floor. He kicked it aside. Scattered the jacks. From his blazer he pulled a piece of history. It had weight. It stung his hands.
“Tony,” Boss said quietly.
Big Tony continued plundering. No style, Boss thought. No finesse. Like watching jackals devour a carcass.
As tires screeched outside the glass doors of the Open Exchange Bank, Boss turned toward teller’s row. He lowered the fedora over his brow. It was time for a history lesson.
Mark McKee is from the American south. It’s even creepier than Faulkner said. His work has appeared in Treehouse, Eyeshot, and others. You can find him at goodreads.com/markmckeejr.
–Art by Denis Olivier