Bank Run

"Ya fucked up Marty." 

"I know." I replied.

Like berating me would fix our situation. He stood up and paced around the living room.

"I should have known better than to  bring a rookie." 

I'd only recently begun pulling small jobs. I'd been holding up markets and liquor stores outside town, but I was new. 

Bruce was a vet of the business. He was known as a Breaker, a man that gets shit done. He'd done real time in the State Pen too, seven years for manslaughter. 

I bugged him for weeks to take me out with him. It's not like you hand off a resume, but I had good references, so he begrudgingly agreed to take me on a bank run. I was honored to be invited. 

He had made it sound so easy. A small credit union out in the burbs. Easy pickings, right? No security guard, a  simple camera. No sweat.

What I didn't understand was, why were we here, now in this dump of an apartment, in the belly of the city? We rented it as a safe place to return to after a day of work, and for a month, it had been just that.

I got up from the couch and went to the T.V. Fifty channels and it's all the same shit. I turned it off.

Bruce wasn't done.

"Marty. You were the look out. But ya didn't Look Out, did ya?"

He was right. In the bank, with the gun in my hand and a knot in my throat, I'd  felt like a child. Sure, I played it real cool, but inside I was a total wreck. 

"How was I supposed to know that  bitch had a gun?" I asked.

He waved his hand round the room.

"And now we're stuck here."

"What about you, Bruce?" I asked.

"What about me?" He replied.

I took a menthol from a pack and lit it.  I hate menthols, but that's all we have here.

"Why did you pull your piece in the first place? I thought you were gonna hand em the note and only grab the gun if necessary. That's what you said."

"That's how it's done, ya big dummy. You wave the gun around, ya scare the devil out of em, and they give ya the cash."

"Don't yell at me." I answered. 

Bruce went to the window and stared out to the vacant street.

"I can't believe the bitch shot me." 

When the woman in the fur coat leveled a pistol at Bruce, it was like they say; time slowed to a crawl.  It nearly stopped. I didn't even think. I pointed the pistol and now, I'm a killer. 

All I could think of was, what will my mom think of me? 

Bruce was pacing the room, mumbling to himself.  Suddenly he stopped and looked at me.

"This was all your fault. You brought us here."

He moved towards me.

"Now calm down Bruce. Be cool."

He didn't look like he was going to be cool. 

"You picked this dump, you rented it. How did we get here?"

I went to the dining room to put some space between us. I was not ready for a repeat performance. 

"This ain't on me."  I yelled.

"The way I figure it. You're the reason we're here." 

He picked up an old, wooden baseball bat and followed me. 

"Now, Bruce. Calm down. The sooner we can learn to get along, the better."

He snorted, 

"I can't do no more time."

He smiled as he walked towards me.

"It relieves the stress."  

And he took a swing at my head. 

"Not again." 

I bolted for the front door, grabbed the handle and turned it. I ran out as I felt the air from the swing just miss me. 

I came back in the house through the upstairs, just like last time. In the hallway, like I'd never left. 

I bounded downstairs to the kitchen as Bruce came after me. I grabbed the butcher knife from the block as he ran in the room.

"Alright. It's your turn." I  said.

I sprung at him with the knife, jabbing him in his fat belly. He returned with the baseball bat to my ribs. 

"Come on." He replied.

I lunged and he hit my arm with the bat. The knife flew away. I jumped on him and we fell to the floor. He dropped the bat and I chased after it.  When I turned around to face him he was charging. All two hundred and fifty pounds, coming at me like a bull on a clown at the rodeo. I made like Dimaggoio and swung for the cheap seats. I caught him on the chin and he went down. I kept on him till he quit moving. I threw the bat to the floor, panting and bloody.

I got up slowly and went to the bar. I poured a shot, slammed it and poured two more. I lit a smoke. God, I hate menthols.

The upstairs door opened and Bruce came downstairs. He drank the glass as I smoked in silence.

Finally I said, "It does release the stress, doesn't it?"

He nodded.

There was a knock at the door. We looked at each other, but didn't  move. The knock repeated, more insistent this time. I got up and slowly walked towards the door. Again, a third knock and the door flew open like a bomb had gone off. 

When the smoke cleared, there stood a woman dressed all in black leather 

sauntered into the room.

"Hello boys, as she glanced at Bruce's dead body on the floor, "I  see you're adjusting."

"Who are you?" I asked. 

Dryly she said, "You must be Marty." 

Bruce spoke up. "What the hell is going on?"

"Now that is a better question. But first, are you hungry?" She asked.

Some sandwiches appeared on the table alongside a bottle of bourbon. She nodded. "Go ahead."

I grabbed a sandwich and my hand passed right through it.

"Ah, Damn." 

She chuckled."It just never gets old."

Bruce grabbed the bottle, opened it and took a drink.

"My own brew. Non alcoholic, of course." 

Bruce set the bottle down.

"I know you. You're Satan, ain't ya?"

She cringed and shook her head.

"You may call me Lucy."