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Joe Surkiewicz
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Communication Breakdown

 

Joe Surkiewicz

 

 

          Roland ripped the wrapper off the Payday and gnawed.

Monday morning, the drug store parking lot on the edge of town nearly empty at just after nine.

          Ten minutes late. Roland was cold. It was January, 1969.

The putt-putt of a 50cc moped. Tiny pulled up, grinning like an idiot behind the helmet’s visor. “Let’s do this thing!” he said, or something close to that, muffled by the helmet.

          The candy bar was like sawdust. Roland spat it out and turned to Tiny, standing next to his scooter, helmet under his arm.

          Be calm. Keep it under control. Be a leader.

          “The first rule is that we all pull together in unison,” Roland said, trying to make eye contact.

          Tiny nodded. Eager to please.

          “That includes showing up at the appointed hour.”

          “Traffic on Route One was a bitch,” Tiny said. “All these tractor trailers lined up to turn left on Cherry Lane. Took forever.”

          “Meanwhile, the world turns,” Roland said, arms raised, expansive. “But we’re not a part of it. Just me standing at the ass-end of this parking lot scratching my balls.”

          “I brought the piece.”

Tiny lifted his shirt to reveal the .32-caliber revolver stuck in his waistband. “Dad’ll never miss it.”

          Roland brushed away the tendril of brown hair that dangled from his Mohawk, hitched his jeans over the considerable bulk of his stomach, and stuck his hand out.

          “Gimme.”

          He hefted the gun in his hand and spun the cylinder.

“Two rounds?”

          Tiny shrugged. “I forgot to check. But we’re not really going to use it, right?”

          Of course, you moron, the plan isn’t to use it,” Roland said. “It’s the threat. In its capacity as the threat, the weapon needs to be fully armed, locked and loaded.”

          “Nobody else knows it’s only got two bullets.”

          We know,” Roland said.

          A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse, Roland decided, and moved on to the matter at hand. He pushed back the sleeve of his oversized leather motorcycle jacket and checked his watch.

          “She should be emerging any minute,” he said, more to himself than Tiny, now playing miniature hockey with his foot and a pebble.

          Darla Jean Maples, part-time bookkeeper at the Sassafras, Maryland Drug Fair, dependably flounced out the front door every weekday morning at 9:30, the previous night’s receipts in a zipped and locked cloth pouch clutched under her arm.

          “Let’s go over it again.”

          “When she’s half-way across the lot to her car, I pull up next to her,” Tiny recited from memory.

          “And then?”

          “Yeah, got it,” Tiny said, reaching inside his jacket. “Led Zeppelin, hot off the press.”

          During Tiny’s brief tenure as the assistant dishwasher and busboy at Drug Fair’s lunch counter, he and Darla Jean had hit it off over a shared passion for hard rock.

It was with Darla Jean in mind that Roland had made the trip to D.C. and stood in line for four hours to snag a copy of what would become 1969’s biggest hit album.

           “What do you do with it?” Roland said. Like to a three-year-old.

          “I show her the album, but don’t let her touch it,” Tiny said. “Play a little cat-and-mouse. The goal being to distract her…”

          “…while I come up on my bike and relieve her of the deposit money,” Roland said.

He shot a glance over his shoulder to make sure that his machine, a 650cc Triumph, was secure on its stand at the back of the lot.

          “Tell me again,” Tiny said, squinting with the pain of thinking, “why you don’t just ride up and take the money?”

          Roland sighed.

“She knows you. She’s a sucker for Led Zeppelin. You’re the distraction.”

          Darla Jean emerged through the big automatic doors at the front of the store.

          “Hit it!”

          Tiny jumped on his machine and fumbled with his helmet. Darla Jean started toward her car in the employee parking area at the back of the lot.

Roland yanked the helmet out of Tiny’s hands.

          Tiny jumped on the kick starter. It didn’t catch.

And again.

“Shit, it won’t start!”

          Roland pulled out the piece and shot Tiny between the eyes. He pitched over, the album falling to the pavement next to him.

          Darla Jean had her keys out, only a few steps from her car. Roland jumped on the moped, gave it a kick, vroom vroom, and made a beeline.

          As Darla Jean was about to insert the key, Roland pulled up on the sputtering moped.

“Tiny from the lunch counter says hi,” he said and fired the last round into her third eye. He grabbed the deposit bag as Darla Jean crumbled to the pavement.

          Roland circled back to his parked bike, dismounted the moped and pushed it off into the tall weeds beyond the edge of the parking lot.

          The Triumph caught on the first kick. He circled back to Tiny and scooped up the album on his way out.

          Four fucking hours. Roland had to hear this album.



The Italian Job

 

Joe Surkiewicz

 

          “Roland? Give me Roland. I’ll hold.”

          “Roland? It’s Arthur. Art. I got it.”

          “Haven’t counted it yet. I’m still fucking out of breath.”

          “It went—good. It went good. Mostly.”

          “I don’t think so. Everyone was wearing a mask, just like you said. That part was smooth.”

          “Not as smooth. I had to write a note. I mean, another note.”

          “It’s kind of—I mean, unplanned. I had to write the teller another note.”

          “It’s awkward. I’m standing there, trying not to look like a bank robber while she’s stuffing bills—”

          “She who? The fucking teller, that’s she who. I’m trying to look like another schmuck customer while she’s stuffing—”

          “Yes, I gave her the note. ‘No exploding dye pack.’ She was emptying her tray into the bag. I’m watching, when—”

          “No, she was good. No alarm. Everyone else was business as usual. But then—”

          “I’m trying to tell you. Christ, will you shut the fuck up? The teller’s stuffing wads of cash into the bag. Then I got, I got this urge—”

          “No, you weren’t there. Will you let me? Will you let me tell you? I had to piss—bad.”

          “Well, I couldn’t stand there and pull it out, could I? What was I gonna do? Take a leak right there on the carpet? I wrote her a note.”

          “Yeah, yeah, big block letters. ‘I NEED TO USE THE RESTROOM.’ Then it got weird.”

          “No, not weird weird. Just weird. She leaned forward so’s no one else can hear and says, Customers can’t use the restroom.”

          “How would you feel, got to piss real bad, I mean, urgent? But I’m not losing my cool. Real polite like, I say, I’m not a customer. And that’s all. What I wanted to say was, I’m not a customer, I’m a bank robber. But I didn’t. I didn’t.”

          “Next? She pointed to a closed door two tellers down and said, I’ll buzz you in. Coulda kissed her.”

          “I’m not a complete moron, Roland. I took the bag with me. I can’t tell you how bad—”

          “What was I gonna do? I’ll tell you this. I’ll tell you. No more cappuccino before a job. I had three cappuccinos—”

          “Oh, excuse me. Cappuccini. You know, I do the job, I take the risk. I get the cash and then you’re, like, correcting my fucking Italian? Now I know why no one can stand you, you supercilious prick.”

          “What’d’ya mean, how’d it go? You want the details? I open the door of the rest—”

          “The restroom is right there behind the tellers. No one was looking at me. Business as usual. I open the door and thank god no one else is in there. I got my fly down before—”

          “You said you wanted all the details. I’m giving you all the details. I’ll tell you one thing, goddam it, I was never so happy to see a urinal.”

          “How’d it go? Seriously? You’ve never had to take a piss so bad—?”

          “Oh, after. It gets better. I zip up, walk out, the place isn’t swarming with cops, tellers are helping customers, everything’s normal. And there it is.”

          “I’m about to tell you. Will you please shut up? There’s a back door. The fucking bank has a back door. Who knew? So I walked out.”

          “No, it wasn’t locked. I mean, not from the inside, anyway. I’m pretty goddam sure it’s locked from the—”

          “Goddam right it meant no shootout in the lobby. Woulda been an awfully one-sided shootout, would nit? And we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

          “Say that again. I can’t believe my ears. Did I leave the bag—the bag with the fucking money—in the bathroom? What did I say not two minutes ago? What did I say? I got it.”

          “Well, thank you. I’m pleased to hear you say that. I had my doubts. I was a little dubious about the split, what with me, a near-geriatric with a trigger-happy bladder—”

          “I understand. I understand your situation. Your weight. Your asthma. I had doubts. But I get it. Division of labor. The masks—”

          “I agree. I totally agree. That was all you. You said it. Why no one else—”

          “Everybody’s still wearing a mask. It’s stick-up heaven. Why no one else—”

          “Really think so? Regular bank robbers are scared of the virus? Risk a gunfight with security but afraid of the flu? I mean, you’re right. When you’re right you’re right.”

          “Next? Fairly obvious. Count the—”

          “Oh, next next. Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

          “Really? No shit? Roland, I’m—”

          “No one else has done it? It’s inspired. Fucking inspired. Marijuana retail. Fuckin’ A, I’m in. Cash and weed.”

          “Yes, Roland, I’ll keep it to one cappuccino.”

 

FINIS



Joe Surkiewicz is a reporter and writer living in Northern
Vermont. His fiction has appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, in Shotgun
Honey (in September 2020), and in Yellow Mama (in December 2020). He is the author of several Unofficial Guide travel books and has written for the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, Outside Online, and many university alumni magazines.





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