Nervous as hell, Stanley did the job he had to do. He strode into First Savings & Loan at 11:05 AM and held up the bank. He steeled himself against the reactions of panic and fright, as much from patrons and employees as himself, repeating the mantras “I deserve a piece of the pie,” even if he had to “rip it from the hands of greedy capitalists.” How else would he feed his hungry boy Roderick? How else would he pay the sanatorium fees for his sick wife Helen? The country was staggering under the worst economic times since the civil war, with bread lines stretching for blocks and Hoover camps on the outskirts of every city.

He ran out the bank and hopped in the back seat of the getaway car, a plain black Ford V-8 Sedan, diving under the gray wool blanket that awaited him. The sedan accelerated, then settled into a steady, throaty hum. When it seemed five minutes had passed, and the speed was constant, he popped his head up.

That’s when he saw the driver of the getaway car was not Tiny. It was Tiny's wife.

“Hey, what’s up with Tiny?”

She frowned into the windshield. “I’m sick of you guys getting Tiny in trouble,” she grumbled. “I don’t want him in the hoosegow while I’m trying to raise a family.”

Stanley still felt tingly in his hands from the blast of action at the S&L. The world shimmered with relief now that the worst part was over, terrorizing innocent people into obedience. “Did Tiny agree to this?” he asked from the backseat.

“Tiny came down with a case of the heebie-jeebies,” she said.

The Tribune had published gory photos of a botched robbery last week, and in-fighting the week before. Gangs got lazy, or sloppy, or they ceased to be loyal. And the news outlets had a field day. Stanley deliberately shunned the papers, but maybe Tiny hadn’t.

It hit a guy now and then, that this was no way for a gentleman to make a living.

Tiny’s wife kept her eyes on the road ahead, except for a glance into the rearview and side mirrors every minute.

“I see.” Stanley rubbed his jaw. “Boss Man okay with this?”

Via the rear-view, she looked deeply, directly at Stanley. “We didn’t have time to clear it.” She had amber-colored eyes that seemed to beg a favor, and Stanley felt a little zing before she broke the gaze. “I didn’t wanna leave you in the lurch,” she said softly.

She was driving through the back streets of town in a careful manner, and when she slowed down to turn, with no other cars were around, he climbed into the passenger’s side of the front seat, leaving the stuffed leather satchel in the back seat under the blanket. Although he was small and agile, it was still awkward. Especially with a dame sitting in the driver's seat.

Usually, the getaway car would be veering and braking by now. Stanley had completed only six bank jobs so far, and had been bag man a few times before that, but it seemed the excitement of the hold-up electrified the whole gang, making them wilder and more alive, more reckless. Not only the robber but the driver and the taker, the guy who ended up with the bag and had to hide it, and ultimately the fencer. But this dame—she was cool.

The buildings were getting taller and the streets wider. Wasn’t she driving in the direction of the local police department, Stanley wondered. “You better be telling the truth, Wifey.” He pulled out his hold-up gun, a 38 Smith & Wesson Special, moving nice and slow, keeping it below the dashboard, so as not to startle her or be noticed by someone outside the car. The gun metal was still warm from the warning bullet he’d fired at the ceiling when he’d entered the bank.

That was his preferred M.O.—banging open the door, firing a warning shot, then yelling at everyone to hit the floor. “No talking. No touching. Or I’ll shoot.” People were surprisingly co-operative and he was thankful he hadn’t had to shoot any customer to death.

“Oh, put that away,” she said. “I figgered you’d do that. But it would be a dumb move. You won’t escape attention if you’re shooting your getaway driver, causing an accident.” Tiny’s wife reprimanded him like Mother used to, God rest her soul. He often found it amusing, how dames behaved like they had the upper hand.

He challenged her. “Not if you were stopped at a red light.”

Her amber eyes held a look of utter disdain. “Yeah, I’m stopped, but if you shot me right now, I wouldn’t get going again, would I? the other cars would start honking and cussing—and then what? You’d hop out of the car with your great big bag of money—ever’body watching—” She was unable to continue, laughing so hard. He slid the gun back inside his coat, feeling like a snail pulling his slimy foot back in the shell.

“Okay, you got a point,” he said. “Besides, I wouldn’t wanna shoot a babe like you.” He rubbed his jaw, the patch of stubble he’d missed. This dame had some nerve, talking so coolly about her own self getting shot. Most girls couldn’t do that—not without getting teary-eyed. Tiny must have trained her—how to stay cool even if you were talking about your own demise.

She continued a random path through the streets and Stanley took another eyeful: light olive skin, only a couple of pimples. Bottle blonde hair with jet-black roots. Plucked eyebrows just like Helen had. Why did dames do that to themselves? It used to be that only Boss Man’s girlfriend did stuff to her hair and brow, but now they all did, like they’d caught the same fever. They all cared about looking good. And that pleased him. Or it would please him, if he weren’t so jangled. He wondered when Helen would get out.

She turned and smiled at him. “What, you’re rememb’rin’ New Year’s?” Her look lingered in a way that said she certainly did.

It had been a big party: sulfurous firecracker smell, everyone guzzling bootleg hooch, and Bessie Smith singing Put a Little Sugar in My Bowl. “Sure, I remember it.” In truth, he remembered the evening only vaguely, with a lot of holding women’s bodies in slinky dresses, supposedly slow dancing, but missing Helen, who had gone to the San just two months before.

Tiny’s wife smiled to herself as she drove a few more blocks, glanced in the rearview, and rolled down her window. “Things is very quiet on the street. I wonder if we can stop.” She pulled near the curb but kept the motor running.

He rolled down his window, too. A distant siren wailed and he immediately tensed. “Uh-oh. Looks like we jinxed it.”

They listened intently but after a minute the siren wasn’t coming any closer.

“Nope… Appendectomy!” she sang out and hooted.

“What the heck?” he stared hard at her.

“You know, appendicitis? Appendectomy?” She shrugged. “Back home, I drove ambulance for the family business. Pop learned ambulance driving in the Great War.”

He sat back and did a second take. “Huh, that explains it—I been noticing you’re cool as a cucumber driving this getaway car. Best driver, ever.”

“Nah, not me.” She was blushing. “You should see Pops—he could set a broken arm without having to slow down.”

Stanley stroked his jaw. The dame was a helluva lot more entertaining than Tiny. Maybe Boss Man could bring her on as driver.

The siren’s wail faded in the distance. Maybe they should head toward the safe house now. But no. A familiar anxiety fell upon him like a shadow, as he considered the last sixty minutes of his life. Never mind the heinous deed itself, scaring the wits out of old ladies and whiskered men. He had come running out of a bank carrying a bulging satchel. He had jumped into the back of a car. And the car did have a license plate on it—any civic-minded bystander could have reported it. “Jeez!” he shouted suddenly. “I nearly forgot the tape!”

She clapped a hand to her chest. “Ya gave me a heart attack! What tape?”

“The tape on the plate. I need to take it off. When it’s safe, can you pull over again?”

She found a shady alley that was lined with blank walls and few windows. Stanley jumped out and went around to the back. He knelt at the back bumper and for a fleeting moment he remembered making a cart for little Roddy in the soap-box derby a few years back. Maybe soon he could bring his boy back home and teach him stuff about cars.

Stanley shook his head—this was no time for daydreams—and pulled pieces of black tape off the state-issued license, so the P became an F and the G became a C. He got back in his seat and slammed the door, just as another car turned down the alley.

“Good timing,” she said, shifting into first gear then second.

“Jeepers, I’m glad I remembered that.” Stanley rubbed his jaw. “Boss Man keeps coming up with new ideas and I’m s’posed to try them out right away.”

“It’s a clever idea.” She merged back into traffic. “Who would ever think of changing the car’s identity that way?”

“Boss Man’s girlfriend dreamed that one up. She’s the kind that does those word-cross puzzles.” He relaxed against the seat, and fished around in his pockets. A ration card, a couple of matches, a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up, wondering what to say next. Wondering why he cared about what to say next.

“Hey.” Frowning, but eyes still on the road, she held up two fingers in a scissoring motion.

“Oops, pardon me.” He used his cigarette to light a second cigarette and passed it over to her, admiring how she didn’t lose a beat. Not many dames as steady as this one. His eyes traveled over her form, from shoulder to foot on the gas. She wore a floral print dress, the kind Helen favored, that showed off the waist. But she was Tiny’s wife, he reminded himself. He sighed, louder than he meant to.

She glanced at the rearview, then at him. “I would say we’ve pretty much lost anyone who might be following us, yeah?”

“Why don’t I take the wheel for a bit?” he said.

“Tiny wouldn’t like that,” she said. “Him and his V-8 engine. Spends hours in the garage, tickling the insides.”

Stanley pulled a face. “Tiny ain’t here. Just the two of us, babe, and a big bag o’ money in the back seat.” He said it like Groucho Marx, teasingly… with a small dash of hope.

“A big bag o’ marked bills,” she said in great seriousness. “As far as we know, anyway. You heard how it ended with the McCafferty gang, right? They ignored the safe plan.”

“What safe plan?”

She gave him a surely-you’re-joking look. “You know. Same’s you guys have been doing in every town. Do a job, get out fast and clean like we done today, bring the money to the safe house and stash it. Put a couple bills into circulation—in the hands of others, like big gamblers—and see if it’s safe to spend.”

He stared at her. This dame knew the whole game plan. She was a walking liability—if she ever turned sour on Tiny, she could go running to that new squad, the FBI or whatever the heck they called it, and testify against Boss Man’s operation. He shivered.

She should not know this much. But what could he do? Tell Tiny to stop blabbing to the little woman?

“Yoohoo,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “You seem a little… tired. Dazed. Wanna have a nap? The back seat is free. We gotta get the bag to the safe house. But first I’m heading home to do the switcheroo with Tiny. Because, like I said, we didn’t get time to clear it with Boss Man so we should make it look like Tiny was your driver all along—got that?”

“Makes sense. But I sure the heck don’t like it. I have a devil of a time lying to the Boss Man.” He rubbed his jaw, the lump that had healed over from three years ago, when Boss Man taught him a lesson.

She drove them to her and Tiny’s house in a roundabout way and stopped the car. A head appeared in an upper window.

“Well, bye for now,” she said, her amber eyes resting on Stanley, who kept his face still and composed. “Hey, see you at the next New Year’s Eve.”

“I really think you two ought to come clean,” Stanley blurted. “Boss Man needs to know Tiny’s got the jitters—just temporary. I’ll back you up, and tell Boss Man you are the steadiest ambulance driver since the Great War—and will be a huge benefit to our team. Even though you’re a dame.”

“But what’s he gonna do with Tiny?” she said plaintively. The question hung in the air between them.

“We’ll argue his case,” Stanley reasoned. “Some guys just need a, whaddya-callit, a vacation.” He tried to sound upbeat but in his heart of hearts, he suspected she was right. If Tiny had lost his nerve—Tiny, too, became a liability. Stanley felt sick.

“Please, please, please,” she said. “You don’t even have to say a falsehood. Just don’t mention the getaway at all.”

Late afternoon sunlight poured through the dusty, bug-spotted windshield of the Ford V8 Sedan as they sat outside Tiny’s house. A tear glistened on her eyelashes.

Stanley imagined shooting Tiny—a mess, and she would make a fuss. Forget about any action on New Year’s Eve after that.

He imagined shooting her—what a shame—and having Tiny looking to get even. Either way, a shooting within this gang could be the crack in the case the cops were hoping for.

On the other hand, if he just kept pretending for now, he could figure out a way to deep-six Tiny in a kinder, gentler way—maybe take him fishing, the guy loved to fish, and the boat could capsize. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Mum’s the word.”

She closed her eyes and leaned toward him as if sealing the pact with a kiss. “Boss Man’s loyalty test,” she murmured. “You flunk.” She pressed the gun against him and before he could even register what that cool metal touch was, she pulled the trigger.

The end