Banked

I put on my mask and entered the building.

A mid-thirties blue swan on a blank canvas. That's what I felt like. But, as Colonel Kilgore famously stated, "How I love the smell of napalm in the morning." Offensive, the mixture reeked and stuck tenaciously to targets.

That sentiment came straight from my military days. I didn't have a flamethrower, but you can bet your goat stinking ass I carried an incendiary ker-boomer in the pack I wore on my back. No more of the 9 to 5 rat race for me.

All dolled up in her ritzy pink chiffon dress, you should have seen the look of bewilderment on Marianne Morrissette's balloon-shaped face. The boo-hoo drops in the corners of her beryl-green eyes did not faze me. Upon hearing my demand the Brazilian femme fatale trembled.

Her expression brought a smile. I watched Marianne's admired sense of humor drain from her vivacious body. I always hated that pretend personality she flashed. Everyone saw right through her attention-drawing come-on act.

For six long, going nowhere years, Marianne and I had been co-workers at the Titan Bank and Trust Company. Hell, I knew all the workers there that Saturday afternoon. The clock on the wall by the front sliding glass doors would have told you it was half past one.

In lickety-split fashion, I warned Marianne, "Not a sound. I have a bomb. Place all the greenbacks in your drawer in a pouch. No dye packs. Then, in silence, like I'm not even here, hand me the parcel. Do not notify anyone else or push any alarm buttons. Perhaps if I'm feeling real generous, you might live to see your muchacho tonight. Unlike Little Mario, I have nothing to lose!"

"Why are you doing this, Tommy?" Marianne whispered.

My pistol in hand, I answered her, "Because I can. Besides, we'll never get rich slaving in this quagmire. So, I found a new motivation. Take what I want. Don't stall, I'll drop you where you stand! Just do what I told you."

Coal black, and part Cajun, from Gretna on the West Bank of New Orleans, I called Marvin Roundtree "Chocolate Thunder". His preferred name for me became "Coullion." The traded barbs nothing more than in-shop jests between friends. Many nights Marvin and I shared drinks and good times at Miller's Draft House. We counted on the affable giant to keep us protected. The only other gun in the place, Mister Rent-A-Cop became a threat to my well-being. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Marvin had to be eliminated.

I held no alternative when I heard the big man's boisterous, "Stop!"

Marvin reached for the shiny Smith and Wesson 9mm in his suede-lined Safariland holster. I wheeled in his direction and squeezed off one round. A clean shot. The bullet from my pistol entered Marvin's forehead. Blood splattered against a near wall.

I knew my ability with a weapon. I had been an Army Ranger for almost a decade. Marvin died before his head slumped on the desk where he had been seated. Six feet away, Type A Personality Extraordinaire, Tiwla Jorgenson screamed a bloody squawk that brought all the other employees to the lobby.

I should have hightailed out of the bank while I could, but I had a long-standing feud to settle with our Loan Manager, Fred Thompson. He rode me like a horse. It was my turn to even the score with the unsympathetic bald-headed woodpecker.

Thorough through and through, Fred bent down and checked Marvin's pulse. He placed two fingers on the carotid artery in Marvin's neck and the arrogant menace announced, "You killed him!"

I slipped my backpack off. The canvas draped over my left wrist. I said, "You're next Fredaroo, unless you strap this pack on your back like a good little boy. No cookies for you. Do it! Now!"

Fred balked. He told me, "Tommy, you are not going to get away with this. The police are on their way so you better get out of here."

I placed the barrel of my gun tight against the supervisor's temple. Fred took the bag out of my hand and placed the harness over the shoulders of his snow-white Oxford that still looked like he'd steam-pressed the garment that morning.

I smiled uptight in Fred's mug and remarked, "Pray I don't detonate the explosives, partner. You just stay seated right there in the middle of the room."

Large beads of sweat covered Fred's fat head. You could have swam in them. My comment left the rest of the crowd in wonder. Full of suspicion, they gawked at him. The double-cross felt good.

"Wouldn't bother me to see Monica a widow. Don't know how she's put up with you for twenty years. Even your own son, Kirk, can't stand your guts. None of us could," I continued.

I set the timer on the bomb and assured Fred, "You have thirty minutes to breath air. That is, if you don't jostle the pack. If you make that mistake, you got a real short life expectancy."

Outside, I observed a sea of cruiser lights and considered Twila for a human shield. I allowed the notion to pass, steadied my nerves, and started for the door.

"Hold your fire! He's coming out!" One uniform called to the others.

As I saw, my options were limited to three choices; suicide, death by cop, or rot in some prison cell. None of them appealed to me.

Instructed to drop my gun and put my hands high in the air, I walked on. Tucson Street and Downtown were to my left. Off the other direction laid Laramie Avenue and the expressway out of town.

"I said drop your gun and halt!" The loud voice rang out again.

I raised the barrel of my pistol and pointed the weapon at the nearest officer. A hail of gunfire erupted as several well-placed rounds penetrated my torso. I crumbled to the littered pavement and saw a crumbled Mickey D's french fry container. Ants crawled after the grease in the red holder. Many cops circled where I laid.

The last words I heard were an exchange between one of them, I assumed was the Lieutenant-in-Charge, and a newshound who'd managed to weasel his way in on the action, microphone at the ready.

"Know who he is?" Bob Murphy asked the officer.

"Tommy Newsome. Everyone in Farmingdale knows him," he was informed.

Murphy wondered, "You mean the four time State Champion star pitcher for the high school baseball team a few years back? There's never been an athlete like him in this town before. His statue's in Lions' Park."

"Yeah, he had it made," the policeman answered in disbelief. He shook his head and stated, "Thing is, his father owns this bank." Then, he scoffed, "Go figure."

Welcomed death closed my eyes.