man’s idea.”
“Here, here we go. Pull behind that pickup
truck and wait for me. I’m going into this bank and look around.”
Mendel shouldered the door open before Lucerne stopped. The door
dragged and scraped along the curb.
“Why you get him mad like that, he just gets
pissed off?” Lucerne asked, looking in the rearview mirror at
Elvis.
“I’m worried for all of us, ain’t afraid, if
that’s what you’re thinking, but to break into a gun store, man, it
ain’t that easy. Our luck ain’t been the greatest lately, ya know.
I mean there’s folks with guns in gun stores, get it? I just don’t
think it’s gonna be the cakewalk Mendel says, is all.”
“I think he’ll see that it ain’t that easy
and he’ll forget about the AKs. Maybe forget about this damn bank,
and we can go back to knocking off liquor stores and folk’s homes
like the good Lord intended.”
* * *
It hadn’t been the longest line but it was
the slowest. Figures, Otto thought. All he wanted to do was get a
feel for this party-girl teller he saw yesterday morning coming out
of DiMento’s, so he had stepped into her line and hadn’t moved
since.
“Hi,” he said in response to the stare from a
guy in the line next to him.
“God damned Cardy, that boy’s history. That
takes some brass ones,” the man nodded at Otto’s jersey.
Otto waited for what seemed like an eternity,
cursing the two women ahead of him, eventually he stepped to the
window.
“Hi Cindy,” reading the teller’s name badge
as the hint of a leer crept through the zinc oxide smeared across
his face.
Only Porky would wear a Viking’s jersey
today, she thought.
“How are you today, sir?”
“Fine, just fine,” Otto leaned in close to
the glass, fogged it slightly as he spoke.
“You keep some late hours,” he said, with an
all knowing wink.
Oh, you absolute creep, she groaned to
herself, counting his cash, piling it into stacks.
“Yes sir, open until 6:00.” she said.
“Just wondered if you started early like that
every day?” he half whispered, then snickered at his own crazy
sense of humor.
“Mmm-mmm,” she said, counting twenty, forty,
sixty, eighty, anxious to get him away from her window.
“Go there often and, and do that sort of
thing?” he asked.
Forty, sixty, eighty, hundred, four thousand
six hundred she counted, checking the amount on his deposit slip,
crediting the cash. She shoved the grease stained bag and the
deposit slip back under the glass. Making sure the deposit slip was
at all times between her fingertips and the bag that had touched
his sweaty body.
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?” She
smiled, thinking gross!
He wiped the sweat running down the side of
his face with the back of his hand. He felt a tingle from the tip
of his jungle boots to the top of his head when she spoke to him.
He seized on her double meaning, anything else?
“Well, now that you mention it,” he said
posing, putting his forearm in front of the window, wanting her to
see his Donald Duck tattoo, U.S.M.C. boldly scripted just below
Donald’s ass. He moved his head back and forth, trying to buy time.
He could feel his face blushing and he began to sweat. He waited
for her to ask about Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick.
It didn’t happen.
She repeated the refrain in her head, gross,
gross, gross. Then heard her voice ask sweetly,
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“I guess not, at least not here,” he laughed,
winked, shrugged, waited for a moment before giving her a little
two-fingered salute and ambled out the door.
The woman waiting behind him approached the
counter shaking her head.
“Just a minute please,” Cindy said, then
sprayed a can of Lysol over the window area and wiped it clean with
a paper towel.
“Lord, I don’t blame you one damn bit. And
those dreadful Vikings!”
* * *
As Mendel opened the door to the bank, he was
cut off by the same character he had labeled Porky Pig the other
day. Bastard
“Here, here we go. Pull behind that pickup
truck and wait for me. I’m going into this bank and look around.”
Mendel shouldered the door open before Lucerne stopped. The door
dragged and scraped along the curb.
“Why you get him mad like that, he just gets
pissed off?” Lucerne asked, looking in the rearview mirror at
Elvis.
“I’m worried for all of us, ain’t afraid, if
that’s what you’re thinking, but to break into a gun store, man, it
ain’t that easy. Our luck ain’t been the greatest lately, ya know.
I mean there’s folks with guns in gun stores, get it? I just don’t
think it’s gonna be the cakewalk Mendel says, is all.”
“I think he’ll see that it ain’t that easy
and he’ll forget about the AKs. Maybe forget about this damn bank,
and we can go back to knocking off liquor stores and folk’s homes
like the good Lord intended.”
* * *
It hadn’t been the longest line but it was
the slowest. Figures, Otto thought. All he wanted to do was get a
feel for this party-girl teller he saw yesterday morning coming out
of DiMento’s, so he had stepped into her line and hadn’t moved
since.
“Hi,” he said in response to the stare from a
guy in the line next to him.
“God damned Cardy, that boy’s history. That
takes some brass ones,” the man nodded at Otto’s jersey.
Otto waited for what seemed like an eternity,
cursing the two women ahead of him, eventually he stepped to the
window.
“Hi Cindy,” reading the teller’s name badge
as the hint of a leer crept through the zinc oxide smeared across
his face.
Only Porky would wear a Viking’s jersey
today, she thought.
“How are you today, sir?”
“Fine, just fine,” Otto leaned in close to
the glass, fogged it slightly as he spoke.
“You keep some late hours,” he said, with an
all knowing wink.
Oh, you absolute creep, she groaned to
herself, counting his cash, piling it into stacks.
“Yes sir, open until 6:00.” she said.
“Just wondered if you started early like that
every day?” he half whispered, then snickered at his own crazy
sense of humor.
“Mmm-mmm,” she said, counting twenty, forty,
sixty, eighty, anxious to get him away from her window.
“Go there often and, and do that sort of
thing?” he asked.
Forty, sixty, eighty, hundred, four thousand
six hundred she counted, checking the amount on his deposit slip,
crediting the cash. She shoved the grease stained bag and the
deposit slip back under the glass. Making sure the deposit slip was
at all times between her fingertips and the bag that had touched
his sweaty body.
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?” She
smiled, thinking gross!
He wiped the sweat running down the side of
his face with the back of his hand. He felt a tingle from the tip
of his jungle boots to the top of his head when she spoke to him.
He seized on her double meaning, anything else?
“Well, now that you mention it,” he said
posing, putting his forearm in front of the window, wanting her to
see his Donald Duck tattoo, U.S.M.C. boldly scripted just below
Donald’s ass. He moved his head back and forth, trying to buy time.
He could feel his face blushing and he began to sweat. He waited
for her to ask about Deep-Fat-Fried-Bacon-on-a-Stick.
It didn’t happen.
She repeated the refrain in her head, gross,
gross, gross. Then heard her voice ask sweetly,
“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“I guess not, at least not here,” he laughed,
winked, shrugged, waited for a moment before giving her a little
two-fingered salute and ambled out the door.
The woman waiting behind him approached the
counter shaking her head.
“Just a minute please,” Cindy said, then
sprayed a can of Lysol over the window area and wiped it clean with
a paper towel.
“Lord, I don’t blame you one damn bit. And
those dreadful Vikings!”
* * *
As Mendel opened the door to the bank, he was
cut off by the same character he had labeled Porky Pig the other
day. Bastard
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