Poole once said that fear was something you could see in another person’s eyes, but Kirby wasn’t sure he believed that. Poole said a lot of things, usually whatever was necessary to get you to believe him and do what he wanted. The only thing in the guard’s eyes was surprise. Everything happened so fast; there wasn’t time to sort through the looks passing between them before Kirby squeezed the trigger on his Glock.
Just an empty expression.
A face unable to fully comprehend what was happening at first. Then shock when he finally figured it out.
There was nothing that looked like fear.
Kirby thought about that as he leaned against the counter, taking a final drag on his Marlboro, staring at the floor in the Jersey National Bank. Sweat beaded on his forehead, inching down his face. He swept the long hair from his eyes. His breathing was ragged and his hands trembled slightly. The mask he had worn when he and Poole burst through the bank’s doors laid discarded on the floor. It was a cold, snowy January morning in downtown Princeton; bleak and gray outside. Inside the bank eight people, five customers and three employees, were huddled together in a tight circle near the vault door. Their wrists were bound together with long cloth strips Kirby had ripped from the New Jersey State flag displayed just inside the lobby doors. Bits and pieces were left from the flag but none big enough to stuff in anyone’s mouth in case they tried talking. There was an American flag on the other side of the doors, but Kirby drew the line at cutting up that one just to make gags.
Besides, nobody had made a sound since he shot the guard.
The guard had been pushing sixty-five, maybe older; probably a part-timer earning a couple of bucks to fill in the gaps Social Security checks didn’t cover. Nobody expected the guy to pull his gun, and neither one of them figured he would get off a couple of shots – at least not Poole. He had been busy shoving twenties, fifties, and hundreds into an old knapsack when the first bullets caught him in the back, spinning him around as Kirby fumbled for his own gun. Poole was already dead by the time Kirby returned fire, quickly cutting down the guard.
The guard’s body was still slumped a few feet away, blood coagulating in thick red streams around him. His thirty-eight was on the floor by Kirby, a few bullets still left in the revolver, next to a phone pulled from the customer service desk and the knapsack stuffed with the bills taken from the tellers’ drawers. Not far away Poole’s body was face down, tangled in the felt ropes used to create customer service lanes. He had been too far away for Kirby to see what had been in his eyes when he was shot.
Kirby flicked his cigarette to the floor, wondering what he was supposed to do next. He never intended to become a killer but that’s who he was now.
“One-two-three. We’re in and out quick,” Poole had said. “Do it right and maybe we got time to get breakfast afterwards.”
Even Kirby knew that was bullshit. Poole told him it would be a simple job but none of this went the way they planned, especially not the part where Poole got killed. Nobody was supposed to get hurt and now everything had turned to shit.
The sharp ring of the phone caught him by surprise.
“Thinking maybe this didn’t turn out the way you expected, huh?”
It was the kind of thing Poole would have said, but Kirby heard the sharpness in the voice and the edge in each word, and knew it was the cop again. “This ain’t looking good for you right now. You know that, right?”
“Don’t know anything for sure,” Kirby said.
“Maybe you didn’t intend for anybody to get hurt,” the cop said. “You can make this easier for yourself, is all I’m saying.”
Kirby shrugged. He kept staring out the window, trying to look for the cop behind the police cars angled at the curb.
“Just find me a car. Nothing else to discuss except that.”
“How far you think you’re gonna get?”
Kirby rubbed his finger along the edge of the Glock, tracing the line of the gun. Through the front window facing Nassau Street he could see the snow intensify, falling heavily in large, thick flakes. It had been hours since everything turned and he wondered how bad the roads were now. It wouldn’t be easy to drive, but snow might make it harder to follow, and he thought about demanding an SUV instead. That might be the smart play.
He let the silence build for a minute before the cop broke the quiet.
“You still there?”
“Nowhere else to go,” Kirby said.
“You still got options,” the cop said. “Things you can do before this gets any worse for you. Might want to think about that.”
Kirby squeezed his eyes shut. He felt something throbbing in the back of his head, ready to explode.
“I don’t get what I want, the only option left for me is to starting shooting,” Kirby snarled.
“That’s not an option.”
“One at a time, every ten minutes until somebody realizes I’m serious.”
There was tension in the cop’s voice. Like the conversation wasn’t going in the direction he intended, and he was just now realizing the extent of that miscalculation. “Listen, you got to know that if we hear shots, it changes everything. Makes this little problem you got a whole lot worse.”
“So maybe you need to show some urgency about doing what I asked,” Kirby said.
“Things take time.”
“Time ain’t my problem.”
“It’s just the way it is,” the cop said. “Can’t be helped.”
Kirby shook his head. “Get me the car. Now.”
“No way anybody agrees to give you a car,” the cop said. “Not like this. You got to show us some good faith.”
“You got to show me something,” Kirby yelled. “I don’t got to show you shit!”
“It’s not going to turn out the way you think it will,” the cop tried.
Kirby slammed down the phone, took a deep breath, then yanked it from the wall, hurling it across the floor. He caught the stares from the hostages, brief and fleeting, and wondered how Poole would have handled the cop. Poole would’ve known what to say. Poole was cool in everything he said and did.
Kirby wished he could be like Poole.
But Poole was dead and Kirby was left trying to figure out what to do next. Wasn’t sure of his next steps or where they would lead. He knew Poole would show the cop he wasn’t playing around by taking charge of the situation and doing what he threatened to do.
Kirby pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to ignore the pain. He looked again at the hostages, each of them tired and afraid of where the day would go, and tried reading what he saw in their eyes. A few kept their gazes glued to the floor while others looked at him for a moment before turning away; only the red head from behind the counter returned his stare. Tall, mid-thirties, with sharp, pretty features, she looked calm and poised. Not at all like the others. Like someone who mattered.
He motioned her away from them with his gun.
The others waited, unsure of what to expect as she struggled to her feet.
Kirby wondered if he would see fear in her eyes, then slowly released the safety on the Glock.
Bio
Michael Downing is a writer originally from New Jersey, now living in a small college town in Georgia. Over the past fifteen years he has written some plays, published a few books, and his short stories have been featured in various publications and anthologies (some that have even been nominated for Pushcart Prizes). He is still everything New Jersey: attitude, edginess, and Bruce Springsteen songs….but not Bon Jovi.
Social media links:
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Instagram: @KMWriter01
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Photo by Etienne Martin on Unsplash
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