Matt and John sat at John’s kitchen table,
it was 5’clock in the morning,
there was plenty of time
but there was none to waste.
John was glad that Linda and his daughter
were still upstairs asleep.
He was glad too that Matt was driving;
no one knew the streets and alleys better.
John thought that Matt was a bag of hammers,
but he was loyal as hell, kept quiet most of the time,
was brave to the point of stupidity, and drove like a bat.
John got up from his chair;
poured another coffee.
Matt nursed a beer.
Everything they needed was in the mini-van;
an innocuous thing lifted rather smartly from
a long-term parking lot near the airport.
Pistols not shotguns, John had insisted.
Matt’s argument was simply that shotguns
were scarier.
John lit a cigarette and sipped some
coffee.
First National would fall.
John was sure of it.
He and Matt would leave
that bank’s lobby with about
3 million dollars strapped to their backs;
they’d lose the bulls, skate by the house,
pick up the girls, and be California-bound
by the time the fast food joints
stopped serving breakfast.
On the other side of town,
the police barracks was alive
with activity.
Two old-school throwbacks
Det. Luke Richardson and his partner,
Det. Mark Gonzalez, had gotten
a tip.
A greasy little stool-pigeon
named Hector had said
the word was that Johnny Dunn
and his raw-wired cousin, Matt,
were planning to take down First National Bank
on Friday, the first of the month,
payroll day.
They’d been leaning
on Hector for a couple
of months,
finally offering
him a knockback
on a B & E pinch
that they’d held
over his head like
an anvil.
Hector squawked
for immunity on that one
as well as
state’s evidence
regarding chatter
he’d heard about
the bank job.
Their gear was set,
vests cinched tight,
shotguns in the car.
Their service pistols cleaned,
oiled, and loaded,
with one in the chamber.
Holdout pieces strapped
to their ankles.
It was about 6:45 am,
First National’s drive-thru
opened at 7:30.
The lobby would open by 9,
but staff would be in the building
by 7;
tellers making sure their cash-drawers
were customer-ready.
The two detectives left
the briefing room,
strode the short distance
to the motor pool,
started the car…
the radio crackled
to life…
static
All units this is Control
static
We have a silent alarm triggered
for a 211 in progress
at 14th and Carver Avenue
static
First National Bank
static
Mark was behind the wheel,
Luke flipped on the siren,
it blipped then began to wail.
The Gospel was being written.
All units, saints and sinners,
were on the move.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications
A crime-fiction poem:
With a nod and a tip of the hat to Craig Johnson