Hot-Blooded

"I'm telling you, this is the perfect time," Holiday said. "The alarms are a joke."

"We can switch the triggers from the freezers to the lobby," Wyatt agreed. "But the vault's on a different system."

"It's a lazy bank," Billy sneered. "They leave the vault open from noon to four, for the afternoon traffic. If we move fast, we can get to them before they get to it."

Annie chewed her lip. "I still think there's too many unknowns."

A heavy sigh escaped from Butch as he tried to juice the anxiety from his forehead. "Annie! It's been record-breaking heat all week. Record-breaking. We won't get another chance. We have to strike while the iron's hot."

The Eternal Trust Bank had an emphyzemic branch on the first floor of the Jefferson Building, along with half a dozen smoothie-slinging restaurants, a Pepto-Bismal colored cell phone store, and a small, leather-sheathed shop for tattoos and piercings. The restaurants were having a hell of a time with the alarms tied to their walk-in freezers, which kept tripping when the internal temperatures got too hot. Holiday knew this, because Holiday had gotten herself a job at one of them, and had been reprimanded twice for leaving a freezer door open, and endangering the organic kale and pineapple blends.

The alarm system for the freezers was the same kind of system wired to all the building exits, about as old as Michael Jackson's career, and aging just as gracefully, meaning that the interchangeable parts of those systems would be easy to switch. Wyatt knew this, because Wyatt made a living installing similar systems, with a routinely updated price.

The Eternal Trust Bank was a small-fry operation, without the bloated resources of a Wells Fargo or Bank of America, and while it had never needed to apply for a bail-out, the cameras were elderly, the protocols weren't enforced, and the security guard spent most of his time watching bank teller number three. Billy knew this, because Billy had spent multiple sessions getting a tacky half-sleeve done at the tattoo parlor, which gave him an excellent, prolonged view of the glass-front lobby, and a deep appreciation for the assets of bank teller number three.

"We dud the alarms in the morning," Butch said. "And bust in the fire exit right after noon. Billy and Holiday will control the lobby, Annie and I will clear out the vault. I'll grab the manager and make him sing about any marked bills or dye packs. Wyatt's driving. In and out, seven minutes."

"If we hit ten, it's too long," Annie said. "And keep the safety on your guns. The money is insured, but we cannot go down for murder."

"Quit worrying," Holiday chided. "We got this."

* * *

The next morning, Seph unlocked the bank door at the usual time, rolling up the cage and turning off the exterior alarm. He greeted each teller, and said good morning to the security guard as he did his first walk-through and report. It was so hot, Seph went out to get ice cream from the truck that parked in the side lot, but it looked as though it wasn't taking orders.

It tended to get busier in the afternoon, so Seph had a habit of leaving the vault door open after lunch. He liked to let it breathe, rather than opening and closing like a tease's winking eye, so he broke protocol and saved himself the sweat. He regretted this instantly when someone kicked open the emergency door, and the alarm coquettishly refused to go off.

"Get on the ground!" shouted one of the four masked figures bursting into the bank. "Hands where I can see them!"

"Do as he says!" Seph shouted quickly, earning himself a smack on the ear with the butt of a pistol.

"I give the orders!" the gunman shouted, grabbing Seph's linen jacket and shoving the gun in his face. "Are you the manager? Are you?"

Seph glanced around at the other employees, who were lying on the ground with their hands out, even the security guard, as the front door of the bank was quickly locked, and the cage dropped, trapping them. "I am the manager."

"Get up!" the gunman yanked on Seph's jacket, inadvertently sprinkling his collar with ear blood. "We're going to the vault!"

There was already an armed robber in the unsecured space, and she looked, through the mask, a bit perplexed. "What are you doing?" the gunman demanded, shoving Seph in front of him as he stepped over the threshold. "Get moving!"

"Uh..." Annie said, her gun pointed at the ground. "Butch?"

Seph side-stepped his captor and pulled the heavy door closed, sealing the vault with them inside. "Open that door!" Butch demanded, shoving his gun up against Seph's back. "Open it!"

"Butch!" Annie insisted. "Look!"

Where there should have been money, there was blood. Lining the vault, arranged on racks and shelves, were rows and rows of airtight packs, gallons and fjords and oceans of blood. "What the..." Butch marveled, staring at the Red Cross's wet dream, completely ignoring his hostage.

Seph sidled along the wall, and gave a delicate cough. "I might as well tell you: I'm not the manager," he confessed, and pointed straight up. "He is."

Following that finger, and Annie's terrified eyes, Butch saw, hanging above them, a pair of leathery, blood-red wings, that had just begun to unfurl when Seph extinguished the light.

* * *

"Psst!"

Billy heard the broken-sprinkler sound, but he didn't believe it. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the glass front, in case any bystander wondered why the cage was down and whipped out a cell phone to find out. It was still mostly lunch time, even the tumbleweeds were on break, but there was the sound again. "Psst!"

It was teller number three. She was, in Billy's opinion, a certified babe, with long, red hair and the most amazing blue laser eyes. From her position on the floor, she was target-locked on Billy, and smiling. "What?" he whispered.

Teller three ran her finger along her arm. "The sleeve," she hissed. "Came out really nice."

Despite the heat, Billy went cold. He'd covered the tattoo with a jacket that morning, but after four sticky hours in the truck, he'd taken it off. Glancing over his shoulder, Billy saw that Holiday's back was turned, her attention on the area-rug of a security guard.

"Get over here!" Billy whispered, gesturing with his gun, and teller three army-crawled behind the desk. Kneeling down next to her, Billy said, "If you--"

"Can I see it?" teller three asked. She didn't look about to tattle, with her tail in the air, and her blue eyes penetrating Billy's mask. "Up close?"

Maybe she just had a kink for ink. Billy held his arm out, shivering a little as her cool fingers touched the fresh shading, still tender from the needle. Teller three gently traced the outlines with her fingertips, then sank her pristine teeth into Billy's illustrated flesh.

Billy screamed, and if he'd left the safety off his weapon, he'd have turned the ceiling into Swiss cheese. Holiday whipped around to see what frightened rabbit was being tortured, and the security guard applied his mighty chompers to the back of her unsuspecting leg. Holiday dropped to the floor, her gun skittering away to safety as she was dragged back behind the counter, screaming and flailing, a ruby spray painting the vacated space.

Seph stepped out of the vault. He sucked the few drops of red from the fibers of his jacket until the linen was like new, and put a hand to his restored and unblemished ear. Strolling back into the lobby, he saw the security guard rolling up the cage again, teller three mopping up the floor, and the other tellers back at their posts, with a little summer color rosing their cheeks. "Sorry for the theatrics," Seph said. "Good team work, everyone."

"I love a surprise deposit," said teller three, and she gestured to the unfired guns. "Where do you want these?"

"Put them with all the others," Seph said. "Now, who wants ice cream?"

* * *

Sweating in the driver's seat, Wyatt exhaled sweet relief as the back door to the ice cream truck creaked open. "Thank god!" he breathed, turning around. "It's been eight minutes! I almost--Holiday? Billy? Where are the others? Why are you looking at me like that?"