The Hundredth Robbery

cw: death, mentions of abuse and violence, domestic violence, alcohol abuse

“I’m sorry, I really am.” The gun in Robin’s hands feels comfortable now. Like a second hand, or maybe like someone is giving her a permanent handshake. Ha. Like someone is holding my hand. “You know how it is. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for the house prices — you wouldn’t be doing this if say, like, you could afford to be a painter. Painting sounds fun, actually.” Robin clicks the safety and leans back against a rack of cans. “Relaxing.”

The lady shudders. “Okay, okay, I got it. I’m opening the register now.” She reaches down, slowly, pulls the drawer. Yes.

(“Why’d you point the gun at her, Robin?”

“Because who the hell carries around bows and arrows these days?”)

Robin nods her head at her, gesturing for her to go ahead. She glares at her, and for a second—just a second—she almost contemplates releasing the trigger—almost—but then she remembers that she is just here for the money. Just the goddamn twinkies this money is supposed to get me, she thinks as she shuffles her fingers in her pocket, and not anything else this woman possesses. 

(“I just like twinkies. That’s it. There’s no ulterior—a collection? I don’t collect them, I eat them, like everyone else.”)

She throws several wads of tens and twenties at Robin, one of her cheap fake nails flying off in the process, smacking Robin in the cheek; the bills slide across and off the counter; the nail is stark blue, asylum wall blue. Robin blinks, hard. Smiles slowly. “Thank you lots.” Robin opens the brown bag, sweeps the bills in, turns, grabbing and dumping in a stack of twinkies on her way out, “for interest.” She clicks the safety back on, tightens the fox brown mask over her ears, and pulls the red beanie lower.

(“Do you like twinkies, officer? What’s the big deal about the twinkies, you keep mentioning the twinkies—the robbery, sir, we’re here about the robbery, the robbery on Elm Street.”

“You realize the twinkies are considered stolen property too?”)

Robin hears the sirens in the distance and sighs. “Always so late.” Tsking, she turns right, pulling the disguise off as she goes, voice modulator and all, down the hidden alleyway. Pulls the green tweed coat into the bag—the bag is now more Dead Poets Society satchel and less Santa Claus present bag. Something slips and falls out of her pocket.

Soon they will put out the same BOLO they have been putting out for the past three years: green beanie, brown mask, green, mid calf length coat, white, female, 5’ 10”. She pulls off the 2-inch, knee-length boots, dumps them in the vent. 5’10”? To be that tall was Robin’s dream, to stand higher and greater than everyone else. 

(“You like it too, don’t you? The tweed jacket. It’s stylish.”

“Why the tweed, Robin?”

“I thought you guys didn’t care about the why. It’s the how that matters. How did I manage to escape you for three years? How did I pull that one off in October last year, or the one in April back in ‘07? Ask me how.”)

Robin walks into the tour trolley that runs on weekdays at the end of the alley, black, wool socks doing nothing to mask the feel of the cold concrete beneath her. She twists her hair tie off, letting tendrils fall in waves around her shoulders as the doors shut behind her.

(“I guess I’m just curious. How’d you disappear so fast, why’d you do it, why were your belongings in that trolley, why go from no guns to guns, from robberies to lifetime sentences?”

“Can I have a lawyer? I want a lawyer. And the fifth. I’m pleading the fifth.”)

Today Pop wears her Converse, and Robin notices she’s drawn yet another turtle, this time near the heel, in purple, on the once canvas white. She throws a hoodie at me once I sit in the back, same time she hits the gas. “How do you wear shorts year round? It’s frickin’ freezing right now.”

(“Why? Scared your pop will get caught in this mess?”

“My pop?”

“Yes, your accomplice.”

“My… ha. My pop. I guess she is my Pop. Pop… Pop is not an accomplice.”

“She…?”

“Officer, I said he, and I said I’d like to exercise my fifth and sixth amendment rights. Free country and all, am I right?”)

“Robbery and disguise stops for no one. Can’t see my shorts with a coat, but pants? If I ever get chased, they’re gonna know exactly what pants I was wearing.”

“By a long shot they’ll catch you that way.”

“You never know. Justice stops for no one.”

(“‘Pop’ said you called it justice.”

“…”

“Why do you think it was justice, Robin? Was there anybody else? Anybody else you ‘served’ justice to?”

“Pop didn’t tell you that.”

“Oh, but she did. Only one tour trolley’s off-hours aligned with every single one of your robberies, Robin.”

“You’ve only been gone thirty minutes; Pop didn’t tell you that.”

“But do you think it was justice, Robin?”

“A deal, you cut Pop a deal. To lessen her sentence.”

“Robin, this will all be easier if you just—“

“I. Want. A. Lawyer.”)

“I wish you’d stop calling it that. It’s a crime, breaking and entering, possession of an illegal firearm, robbery, so many things.” Yet she takes a left instead of a right when she hears the sirens dopplering towards them, and Robin smiles. She sees that smile in the rear view mirror. “I don’t wanna hear it. What you’re doing is wrong. To an extent.”

(“Okay, fine. The robberies. Tell me about them.”

“Finally. The robberies — I did exactly a hundred. I said I’d do a hundred, that first day.”)

Robin leans back into the familiar seat, the same one, two rows back, the one opposite from the one behind Pop. Days, one after another, in that seat. “We’re going to the Peters today.”

Pop salutes, takes a sharp right. “So what was with today? You’re usually quieter, usually… grander.”

“This was grand. The whole shop’s a cover up, she goes underground at night. You know that Young Sheldon episode? Meemaw runs a gambling den under her laundromat, racks in the big bucks? This lady’s the same. ‘cept it’s not gambling that’s the addiction. It’s the drugs.”

(“And was the Elm Street robbery at 3 p.m. your hundredth?”

“No. No, later that night, was my hundredth. That place is… haunting. It’s wrong, in many ways. So, I’ve got something for you, too. A deal.”

“We can get to that later, Robin. Nothings going to make up for this and all 100 robberies. So, what was the plan? Was this your plan all along, finish the 100 with a bang?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. It wasn’t a plan, this wasn’t the plan.”)

They pull into the Peters’, the rundown shack off the freeway that’s got barely any heating and feels like the Sahara in the summer and Captain America’s ice cube in the winter. Robin pulls out the bag, hands Pop a twenty. She backs away, hands up, like she always does. 

“You know I do this so I know that you’re okay. Not for that. Never for that.” 

Robin shrugs, and she notices that the bag doesn’t feel any heavier than the first day, that it really did get easier. “I could’ve given you more. There’s over 2000 dollars in here.”

Pop’s jaw drops. “You didn’t get 2000 dollars from a small-time robbery.”

Robin grins. “‘Course not. Dropped in night before, disabled her silent alarm. I called the cops today, for the drug bust. Got all this money for the Peters, first, though.”  

Pop stares at her. “Don’t you ever get scared—no, don’t you ever feel sorry?” They walk up the steps, the third one creaks, so they both hop over it, synchronized, together.

“I don’t feel sorry for the rich, Pops.” Robin cocks her head. “I feel sorry for scaring them, though. For the gun. For the fear in that moment. For the feeling in the morning, that feeling that what you had was gone.”

That’s when they hear the shatter of glass. It’s followed by screams, guttural, terrified screams that touch Robin somewhere old. “He’s not supposed to be here right now,” she grits out, and they shove open the door together, cracking the new hinges, rushing in. 

“Where is all this coming money from? Tell me!” 

Pop grabs Mrs. Peter and Robin stands in front of Mr. Peter. “Mr. Peter, please come outside,” she says, voice wobbling. “Why don’t we go outside?”

(“It says your father was arrested three years ago, here, Robin. For domestic violence. The day you turned eighteen.”

“…”

“Do you see why I have to ask why, Robin? Because you’re suspicious, you’re prime suspect, but we lack evidence.”

“No, because I’m excellent at what I do, officer.”

“I can believe that, but I can also believe you have no control over this one. Nothing you say is consistent, lining up. Your facade is cracking, Robin. Are you over-confident or just scared?”)

Robin manages to knock him out with a few sleeping pills, assuring him it’ll make him feel better, he’s right, Mrs. Peter shouldn’t have done that, how could she have done that, he’s her husband, she’ll tell him next time, he’s having a rough day, she knows you weren’t gonna hurt her, you were just asking, you should rest, after all, you must be tired, very tired. 

“Mrs. Peter,” she says after, closing the money in her palms. “You don’t have to keep doing this. You can tell someone.” Robin glances at Pop. “We can tell someone.” 

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers. Nervously chuckles, darts her eyes around, slips her hands from Robin’s grasp. “He’s good to me when he’s sober. He’s not like that, girls. It’s nothing to worry about—he just had a little too much, today, that’s all.”

(“How are the cases related, officer?”

“Mrs. Peter has never reported anything herself. Neighbors have, though. Heard glass breaking, loud shouts, screams. We’ve done wellness checks. She always says something… it was the TV. He just dropped it. You’ve got it wrong.”

“‘He’s not always like that,’ ‘It was an accident,’ ‘He didn’t mean to.’ Mum said that too. She loved him, somehow, even with the affair.”

“And you, Robin? You’re the one who reported him, eventually. Why wait? What was your reason?”)

Pop and Robin nod together, like they get it. And they do, to an extent. But they’re the daughters, not the spouses. It’s a different kind of love. “Okay, Mrs. Peter,” Pop finally says. “We won’t force you. See you again, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Pop turns to Robin, as they walk out the door. It’s winter, it’s the holidays. It’s the worst and the best time of the year; you realize and see everything that you could have and have, and everything you know you can’t have, no matter how close it is. That air, the holiday air, sometimes feels homey, cozy. But Robin’s never really used that word before, homey. So it just feels bitter, this air. It’s never felt any different. “So. That was 99th. What’s your last?”

“You’ll see.”

—

“Why are we here again?” Pop’s trolley rolls to a stop in front of Betty’s Gums and Drops in the dead of night, right in front of the yellow tape, just as a leaf drifts in through the window and into Robin’s lap. “Twice in a row, really?”

“It’s steal from the rich and give to the poor. No other stipulations; who says we can’t go twice?”

(“So. You wear green tweed, a red hat, carry a gun instead of a bow and arrow. You call yourself Robin Hood, why?”

“Easy. Steal from the rich and give to the poor. That’s as Robin Hood as you get.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because. Because I would’ve really loved to have a Robin Hood. When I was little. Someone who cared enough to risk their lives, and give to me, give, instead of take.”

“So you decided to become the local Robin Hood and break several laws on a weekly basis?”

“Don’t downplay what I did. Other people were rich with love, why couldn’t I be? Why can’t everyone be?”)

Pop stares at her. “You don’t just do things randomly. You’re meticulous. It’s not how you—we—function.”

Robin sighs. “Fine. There’s a hidden compartment the cops 100% missed. I bet there’s cash in there, and I have to find it before they do.”

“Then why didn’t you get it yesterday? And if you couldn’t, why’d you end up calling the cops already?”

Robin looks out the window. “I ran out of time. She came to check on the shop. I called the cops because the robbery had to be today, so I had to call the cops today in case she got scared and decided to move all the drugs. This way, she’s in custody and I can peacefully get my cash.”

“Why did it have to be today?”

“Just had to be.” Robin straightens up, unbuckles her seatbelt. It’s still bitterly cold, but now it’s dark. Her peak hours. 

“Hey, wait, this is obstruction of evidence or something like that. You can’t.”

“I’ve done worse, c’mon, why do you even know all these words?”

Pop scoffs. “I’m a pre-law student, ‘c’mon,’ it’s the least I should know. In fact, that’s what makes all this so terrible for me.”

“It’s actually great, if you think about it. You can defend me when I get caught.”

Pop laughs. “You’re never getting caught.” Pop watches Robin’s face as she got out, pulled the beanie on. “Sis?”

“It’s my hundredth, Poppy.” Robin turned back to look at her little sister, pulling her mask up to cover her mouth and nose. “I’m turning myself in after this one.”

(“This picture. We found it on Elm Street after the initial robbery, didn’t think much of it. Guess you didn’t want to be separated, huh?”

“She’s my little sister. Would you leave your only love behind?”)

—

“Gotcha.” Robin said this as she pulled the money into her bag, and she felt a special kind of relieved. It was as if she was retiring, at the old age of 21. 

But that’s when she heard the shouts. From the back of the store. Familiar shouts. The Peters.

Robin burst through the back door, the black of the night upon her. Mrs. Peter was on the ground, why the hell are they out here, and Mr. Peter had a broken bottle in his hand, just like he had this afternoon, just like he had had on her 18th birthday. It was raised above his head, and Mrs. Peter was on the ground, but no, it wasn’t Mrs. Peter, it was Robin’s mom, hands held above her head, balance compromised, unsteady on his feet, and yet more powerful than the woman beneath him. 

And then the bottle was swinging down, down, down, and Robin heard another scream, except this time it was a different type of visceral, it might’ve came from her, that could’ve been her.

She doesn’t know where she got the stick, not really, she doesn’t even really know how she struck his heart, doesn’t remember making the motions, doesn’t remember falling down, feet behind him.

But that’s where they found her, feet behind him, silent as a mouse, unblinking. 

Mrs. Peter is sobbing over her husband’s corpse.

Hands are cuffing her own. “You’re under arrest, Najia Bashar. You have the right to remain silent. Anything—“

“Pop. Don’t tell Pop,” she mumbled. “And Robin… my name is…”

“What?”

“Please call me Robin and I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you.”

(“So, Robin. Can we stick to our promise?”

“Perhaps.”)