The Ten Ten

By A.F. Knott

Merle jerked the Impala door open and swung the canvas bag into the back. He peeled up his purple ski mask and as soon as it cleared his mouth, he started to chatter.

“OK, I’m ready. The guard was being all Hero-Sheegie, so I had to bust him.”

Francine wrung the steering wheel. She’d dyed her hair pink the night before and looked like a match stick. Francine stopped trying to explain her art pictures to Merle because he never took what she said seriously and ended up spouting off some shit that wasn’t even funny like the Hiroshige reference; it wasn’t anything.

“Is that our pizza pan you’re sitting on?”

Francine dragged it out from under her seat while he’d been in the bank. Merle was going to say something more but his door hadn’t shut. He turned and pulled it in harder; it bounced out again so he had to lean over the top and jerk. He’d been doing that the last couple of weeks and had made a mental note to fix the latch before the bank but forgot. The 85 Impala’s engine ran smooth, but the locks and rusty frame were ready for the nursing home. Merle wasn’t sure if he heard the lock click. The door was staying shut so he looked down at his watch.

“See that?”

He pushed his wrist under Francine’s nose. She moved her head away. He brought it back down to his lap and focussed: 10:07. He left the bank at 10:06 and 30 seconds.

“To the fucking minute.”

Merle leaned over again and squinted at the dash board. The car was in Park. They should have been at the end of the block and half way down Elmford.

“We need to fucking go.”

Francine half turned. Merle recognized the posture, what he called her box of Corn Flakes and she was giving him the full unopened version, on top of that, tapping the steering wheel. Merle’s head jerked to one side as if she’d stuck a fork in one of his ears. He knew how much time it took to unravel one of her moods; like waiting for a pizza delivery on a Friday night. He looked into the side view. The bank doors were still closed. The guard had been sprawled on the floor after he hit him with the coin bag but began moving a little right before Merle left. He had turned to make sure everybody was still lying down with hands over their heads like he told them and that’s when he saw the guard, looking like a sleepy dog rubbing a paw over one ear.

Merle kicked the glove compartment.

“So it seems like I’m getting it from both sides. On one side Hero Sheegie, on the other side, you. You might as well be a guard too, a goddamn prison guard accusing me of something I didn’t do. You know I can’t stand that. And I know you have no clue what I just went through in there.”

Merle realized at that moment he’d better reel himself in or they weren’t going anywhere. He looked at his watch and couldn’t see the numbers. His hand was shaking. Merle started speaking fast, like a squirrel.

“I got more than we planned for. I got bills, I got a bag of coins and six wallets. We need to talk but we need to do that talking in the goddamn trailer!”

He couldn’t stop himself from bellowing and looked into the side view a second time. The doors were still closed. He took a deep breath.

“The guard tried to be Yul Brynner so I yelled at him, ‘Stay down, Yul!’ You would have liked that one.” Francine gripped the wheel tighter: She knew Merle was going to start spouting what he thought was intellectual. It wasn’t; it was garbage. “The truth was, that guard couldn’t be King of Siam in that uniform. I could tell right away he didn’t know me. He could never know anything about me or my philosophies. He didn’t know the whys and was judging me for things I never did.”

Merle parroted a lot of what Francine had told him as if they were his own thoughts.

“The guard wasn’t going to get my whys and there are always whys. He’s not going to get them because he’s a guard in a bank, not living the hand-crafted life of his choosing. He’s not a free man like me.”

When he swung the bag of coins, the guard’s head cracked against the edge of the manager’s desk and sounded more like a cantaloupe than a watermelon to Merle.

Merle tried looking at his watch again, but the shaking still hadn’t stopped. All he knew, they should have been around the corner and down two blocks already turned onto Commercial heading toward the left turn three lights up that would lead them past the railroad crossing. He told Francine the night before they needed to be on Commercial by 10:08 and 30 seconds. He told her three times as it was that important. The train came through at 10:10 on the dot every Wednesday morning.

“OK. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You’ve been talking to her.”

Merle turned beet red: He knew the “her” she was talking about.

“Now that’s one of those things .  .  .”

Merle couldn’t speak for a moment and kicked the glove compartment. The little door swung open and he kept coming down on it with his heel until it snapped off.

“. . . being accused of something I didn’t do. This is one of those times I’m being accused of something I didn’t do, and this isn’t a good time to be accused of that, I’m telling you right now.”

“When would be a good time then, Merle?”

She was using her calm voice and Merle felt like he was suffocating inside the same old paper bag, trying to punch his way out. He knew right off what had happened: She’d seen the torn picture. He laid it out on top of the TV then had to go in the kitchen and forgot all about it. When he remembered he hadn’t put it back in his box of saved shit, he almost crapped himself. She asked him to throw it out months ago, but he never did. Two days before the robbery he’d been looking for his watch with the second hand and found the picture sandwiched between some receipts and old lottery tickets. He’d been surprised to see her face – the woman had fucked him evil, real evil, while they lay on all of Francine’s shit. She even held him down by his throat. The woman scared Merle more than Francine did but last he heard, she’d been bitched at Mable Bassett in Oklahoma.

“I haven’t talked to her.”

“I know how you get.”

Merle heard Francine’s tone drift down a notch and wasn’t sure which way it was all going. He knew why he hadn’t thrown the picture away and knew Francine knew as well. Merle looked at his watch again. This time he could see the face: 10:08.

“The train crosses at 10:10. I told you that. This whole thing is . . . “ 

Merle told Francine over and over it was all about the freight train what he called his thing of beauty. The ten-ten pulled one hundred seventy cars, was more than a mile and a half long, and took ten sometimes fifteen minutes to pass by that particular crossing gate. Merle had timed it. Francine cut him off:

“I don’t care about your train.”

Merle looked in the sideview for the third time, took a hard swallow and could barely speak.

“I got ten thousand in bills, three hundred in coins and at least six wallets.”

“We didn’t discuss the route. I’m the one driving and you didn’t ask me about the route.”

Merle knew this was “that” discussion: Merle didn’t listen and couples discussed things. Merle started bellowing.

“OK. Look at me.  I don’t fucking listen. I admit that. I should have asked you about the route. And the other thing was I hate that fucking cunt worse than I hate you. I fucking hate you but I would cut off her head off and stick it on a post in the middle of the street. Or stick it on a flag pole and wave it through the air, have Lady Liberty carry her head on top of her flag pole. But I wouldn’t stick your head on a flagpole. I wouldn’t do that to you but would to her.”

Merle had been looking over her shoulder at the Delacroix painting the night before after Francine had come out of the bathroom with her haired dyed pink. She told Merle she did it because she was wanting a change.  Merle hadn’t even asked her what kind of change and shrugged. While they sat there, Francine pointed out Gavroche, the kid running beside Lady Liberty. She said Gavroche looked like her brother when he was that age. Her brother lived over in Fresno.

Francine yanked the gear stick into reverse, stamped down on the gas and said,

“You really need to start editing yourself, Merle.”

Merle’s head jerked, smacking against the dashboard. He pointed and chirped, “We should be going that way. . . “

“No, we shouldn’t.”

Francine dragged the right side of the steering wheel down, swerving the Impala backwards into the alley beside the bank, throwing Merle against the door which swung all the way open. He had to reach out and grab for the handle, pulling it in right before the car careened into the narrow lane and she mashed down on the gas again. The Impala swerved and swiveled from side to side like a steel ball moving through a pin ball machine, garbage cans slamming into the bumper one after another. Merle reached for his seat belt. It jerked up short. He tried tugging it a little softer, but it jerked again, and he slammed the buckle against the door. The buckle ricocheted and cracked Merle in the temple, right about where he had smacked the guard with the coin sack. After that, he gripped the handle above the passenger window and turned to look out the back window at road getting bigger in the rectangle at the end of the alley. Sun was shining on a sliver of sidewalk. Francine was doing fifty in reverse.

“Sidewalk, sidewalk, sidewalk,” he spoke through his clenched teeth, shoulders rising and practically touching his ears.

The Impala hit the concrete lip at the end of the alley and launched three inches over the pavement and into the road, missing a dump truck passing within a hair of the rear bumper. She yanked the left side of the wheel, spun the Impala again and Merle heard the train whistle as well as the sirens. They’d ended up on Sutpin, not Commercial, jammed the accelerator and ran the next intersection. Merle giraffe-necked and saw the train behind them. He tried to hold up his watch but couldn’t focus. She shot across the next intersection, the car becoming airborne again. His head bounced against the roof when they landed, and his door creaked open a little, swinging back and forth.

When Merle heard the “ding ding ding,” he understood her shortcut. The Impala was headed straight for the train crossing with about four seconds to spare. Francine floored it as the conductor saw the car and laid on his air horn. Merle started whooping and yelling at the top of his lungs, knowing they were going to make it. The Impala hit the little incline of asphalt at seventy just as the crossing gates were coming down. Francine swiveled on the pizza pan, like the BMX mid-air bike trick she watched her brother do, brought both knees up to her chest, and mule kicked Merle out the door and onto the tracks. She swiveled back, both hands still on the wheel. The Impala’s shocks crunched as the car came down, the muffler scraping and sparking against the concrete.

Francine reached up and twisted the rear view, so she could watch the train cars passing, one after another, all filled with coal or gravel. The conductor sat on his horn, the air brakes squealing like a hundred pigs were being slaughtered at the same time. She knew twenty cars would pass before the train came to a stop. Merle had been right about his thing of beauty: The ten-ten was the best cover they could have asked for.

In twenty minutes, she turned onto the farm road, puffing her e-cig and knew she’d be at the barn in another five to swap cars. They wouldn’t have even gotten around to looking under the train by then and she’d be in Fresno by the time they started putting Merle into bags.

by A. F. Knott

Their decorations were cheap but worked: Wooden cross beams, hanging fiasco baskets and a faded copy of the Mona Lisa propped against a back wall between two trellis panels, the restaurant tacked on the end of a sooty two-up two-down row house one block short of the traffic circle. Maître d' extended his arm, even gave us a little bow but creepy as fuck with dark clouds around his eyes and not from lack of sleep. We followed him over to a table by a frosted window which was fine, as who would want to see outside anyway. He turned away and grimaced as if taking a shit for the first time in a week and snapped his fingers at a blond standing by the bar looking like she was waiting for a firing squad to take aim.

Before either of us could say a word, our waitress mashed her finger down into my menu: Salmone puttanesco. I said fine and she copied the order slowly, sticking her tongue out. We both see her two tattoos, one on the wrist, the other above her left elbow, both crooked crosses encased in thorns and we’re looking at each other because there’s this second waitress, two tables away, a chisel-faced brunette, staring at the blond, the peregrine falcon looking at a field mouse. Chisel-face moved around the room more comfortably than our blond but never smiled and brought us our drinks without making eye contact. After finishing the order, the blond looked back over her shoulder toward the kitchen, looked back at us, was on the verge of saying something but didn’t.

The suggestion was a good one, turned out. At first, the sauce looked too rich, tomatoes, garlic, capers, olives but it wasn’t. I could taste the fish. Same with their calamari fritti: Not chewy, and they used just enough batter.

The blond clears our plates and hurries away before we could order coffee and across the able Angela is biting a fingernail.

“They’re all off,” she says. “Off as fuck.”

I tried to make a joke. “The blond’s been sold into white slavery, the brunette just crawled out of a pod and the maître d', he’s been. . .” I didn’t get to finish. The portions were so big, we asked them to wrap up the carrots and salad and that was when chisel face brought all of that out. We had already decided to go through the drive-through at Costa for coffee and maybe split a slice of lemon cake.

“I would come back but won’t order bread or calamari, just a main course.” Angela said and put the container into her purse. I agreed and we waited another few minutes, our waitress still not back with the check. Something clattered in the kitchen. Then something else clattered. We got up and went over to the cash register on the bar. We heard a loud groan and I looked at Angela. An older woman behind the bar, hair bone white but probably no more than fifty, stared at the kitchen door. We stared too and heard a grunt, not a good one.

I wanted to pay and said, “You have a good cook.” The woman jerked her head and looked at me like I have two prawns sticking out of my nose.

“Chef. He’s a chef. And he’s the boss.”

The woman tossed a hand up and down as if to suggest the boss was tough, then almost smiled but didn’t, or couldn’t. She half-turned toward the door again, holding my money, and we listened to what sounded like a seven hundred pound big bull frog croak. Bone white pursed her lips at the maître d' and tossed her head toward the kitchen.

“He did the salmon well,” I said.

“He’s the boss,” bone white repeated, handed me the change and froze, hand outstretched. A plate shattered. Something metal scooted against the floor then there’s another croak. I felt sorry for our waitress, so I put five pounds on the bar and pushed it forward. The woman glanced at the money, mumbled, “grazie,” and turned to stare, this time at the wall, listening.

As the maître d' slipped through the kitchen door, he opened it wide enough for us both to see a man in a white apron, a big man, down on his knees, meat cleaver laying in blood on the floor beside him, his hand stuck inside our blond waitress’s mouth. She’s holding his wrist and thrashing her head back and forth like a shark. Blood was pouring over her chin, the big man’s blood.

I looked at Angela.

The door closed. Angela was already pulling me in the direction of the front entrance. Metal pans clattered in the kitchen while we waited for a family of ten to get through the little front alcove. Grandma stood in the doorway and held her walker, tut-tutting a toddler in front of her.

The rear parking lot was full. Popular place, I found out later. As soon as we got in the car, a black BMW screeched to a stop behind us and in the rear view, I watched the man our waitress had eaten stumble out the back door, apron looking like it’d been dipped in marinara. He’s was holding the meat cleaver in his good hand and pressed the chewed one against his belly. The maître d' followed him outside with a dish towel.

“You getting this?”

“Fucking hell.” Angela is watching through her side view.

A red-haired man got out of the BMW and “the boss” shoved him back toward the car, swinging the cleaver over his head like he’s starting Le Mans. The boss moved into the BMW’s headlights, held out his hand. Three fingers were gone, the important ones. The maître d' started to wrap the towel around the boss’s hand but the boss pushed him back toward the kitchen. The red-haired man was back in the BMW, reversing, tires screaming.

“They didn’t call the police but they called Red,” I said and started the car.

“Don’t look down,” Angela said. I looked down.

Our waitress lay on the floor of the back seat. She’d covered herself with our extra-large shopping bag from the sports place. Sticking out of her mouth were the three fingers. The boss watched as I’m backing up and I give him a thumbs up. He stared, almost taking a step forward then turned and kicked the door of the kitchen in. I didn’t say anything until we were out on the road.

“We still going to Costa?”

“Ask her. I wouldn’t mind,” Angela said.

I pulled over, reached across the seat and poked the waitress. She’s still laying there covered in the shopping bag.

“Good choice, salmone puttanesco. I left you a tip. Tip?”

The waitress stared at both of us.

“We’re going to Costa. COSTA? You want coffee, something to wash the fingers down with? Double expresso?”

“For fuck’s sake, the fingers are still in her mouth, you cunt. She’s probably in shock.”

The waitress sat up, craned her head to see where we were, supported herself on one hand and let the fingers fall into the shopping bag. She wiped her mouth with the back of one arm but still looked like she was five and had gotten into her mother’s lipstick.

“Sì. Un caffé.”

“Fucking hell,” Angela says.

I pull out into traffic.