Plan C
By Jordan Harper

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Five people, plus me, here in the lobby. I’ve ushered the tellers from behind their stalls. One hot number in a green dress, one cow-eyed woman with a cat on her coffee mug. So that’s two. Three is this wrinkled old fart in a sweat-stank uniform. Four is the lone customer, some kid wearing a leather jacket black like mine. Number five is Mister Suit, Mister Push the Button, Mister Brains All over the Fucking Floor. I told him: in and out in two minutes and no one gets hurt.

I told him. Maybe he was a little hard of hearing. Don’t push the button; he pushes the button. Well I swabbed out his fucking earwax: Q-Tip of the Gods. If he’d listened there wouldn’t be the five cop cars outside and I wouldn’t be playing eenie-meeny-miney-hostage. He pushed me to Plan B.

The two teller women sob, the young guy looks like he wants to bad, and the old man sits with a look on his face like I got up every day of my life for this?

I don’t want to die the teller in green, the pretty one, says. She says it again.

Anybody here who does want to die? A show of hands. No one? Okay, we’ll just consider that a given from now on, so there’s no use saying it any more. Behave and we all go home tonight.

The cop cars all face us, the doors open like wings and the cops crouching behind like baby birds. Baby birds with guns. And one’s got a bullhorn and he says something but the alarm is still ringing and there are glass doors between us so whatever he says comes out wah-wah-woh-wah like Charlie Brown’s teacher. It’s okay; I know what they’re saying: come out with your hands up and forget about that bag of money and we’ll overlook that capital murder charge puking blood on the floor behind you.

Wah-woh-wah is right.

All right, eenie, meeny miney to the green-dress teller.

The cow-faced one looks relieved, like finally, not having a man look twice at her is paying off. Like every stay-at-home Saturday and second of loneliness that she thought was hell was worth it. Because now she gets to have more of them.

I admit it: I’ll look better on the evening news with this redhead next to me. A gun to her head and a bag of cash in hand, holding her tight to me. Fucking rock and roll album cover, right?

Let’s go, sweetheart, I say, taking her by the hand. Now, everyone else just sit tight, right, and don’t even think running? Because I’m getting out of here and you’re on the evening news, so just sit tight and try and think up your soundbite, okay?

I walk the redhead into the sunshine and insanity. So many guns cock it sounds like maracas. Helicopter white noise: live teevee with the overhead view, more cameras across the street. And me with blood on my face. I hope someone is taping this, McGuire or someone else at the Dew Drop saying oh, shit, that’s Jackie, putting it on Tivo.

Wah-wah-woh-wah the cop with the bullhorn says, and I could understand him if I tried. But we aren’t bargaining here. I’ve got four hostages, I’ve got time, they’ve got nothing I care about. I want a car, I want no one following me and Red here. They’ll send helicopters after me, sure, and if they didn’t the teevee guys would. But Plan B is worked out for that. Wait and see.

So I yell what I want. Twice. Three times.

Drop the guns I yell, or I’ll do her and she flinches away from the promise of her death and knocks me off balance a bit, and then where her head used to be, where mine was a second ago: pink mist. I never even hear the shot, just the pop of her head and I drop her; she falls like a sack.

Sniper.

I pull the trigger copwards, firing behind my back as I make for the door. Little gusts of hard wind puff past me; chunks of concrete dance at my feet. I get in the door somehow, the three hostages on their feet, ready to run but frozen.

Whoa whoa whoa I say, we’re all back to square one, so let’s have a seat and think over our options. Three hostages. Someone over at the precinct is going to get a talking-to tonight about that pretty little headshot thing in the green dress; Oh, yes, someone is going to convene a panel, maybe even a committee, over than young woman bleeding out next to that bag of cash.

The bag of cash on the sidewalk.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I dropped it when I dropped her. Maybe twenty grand if I’m lucky. I didn’t have time to count it. I was going to count it later, hiding in the storm drain off I-70, waiting for McGuire or whoever to come pick me up and put me in the trunk of their car.

I need that money back in here with me, and then I can start looking for another way out. The roof maybe, or an air duct or something. Plan B just needs a little break to still work.

I point the pistol at the young dude and tell him, hey, guess what, get out there and grab my cash. And if you run, I kill one of these nice people here, understand, and he shakes his head at me idiot-style so I break his nose with the gun barrel. I have three people’s blood on me and it’s not even noon.

Now you get out there, grab the bag, and back in. Do it in five seconds and you’ll be the first one I let walk. Promise.

So he goes out the door and he doesn’t get two seconds before he’s doing the jitterbug.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

And the cops kill their second hostage of the day. They saw a leather jacket, looks like mine, and a bloody face and someone gave the greenlight and down the dude goes.

I blast a few shots out the window. The charging cops thought I was dead; they freeze and retreat. None drop. Man, if I’m in this thick, I think, I’d like to tag a cop. Just might yet.

On your feet, old man, I say, and his face hasn’t moved yet, like he got bad Botox: get the paralysis, keep the wrinkles.

I need that bag. You walk out slow, they’ll see you for who you are, you walk back in. You gaff it and I pull the trigger on her, point the gun: cue the teller’s squeal, and then I shoot you in the back. Understand?

Maybe your adrenaline dries up when you’re old or maybe this bastard has huge old balls because he doesn’t flinch or frown or even blink: just nods. And stands. And walks.

Out the door, check. No shots fired, check. Picks up the bag, check. And starts walking towards the cops.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I keep my word and pop the girl goes down. I turn the gun to the old man’s back, bang bang both wide, then click click click. Dry. The old man makes it to the cops. My money goes with him.

No cash. No hostages. Maybe minutes before the cops do the math and figure what that adds up to.
I pull my spare clip from my pocket. Plan C. I had to work out Plan B; Plan C comes readymade. It’s there on every job I’ve ever pulled. I slide in the clip. Wild Bunch time, Butch Cassidy time. Hope a few cops splatter before that last freeze frame.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.