Jerry Bateman was angry.
Not that this was abnormal, by any stretch. Anger was a suit he wore
well, and often—one that he'd been wearing, as a matter of fact,
non-stop for about four years now. Personal tragedy had shoved him
down grief's well-known path, but he had gotten stuck on Stage 2:
Anger.
The day had gotten off to its usual glorious start. He'd
left the house in a huff, after spilling his bowl of cereal and then
tripping over the cat. He kicked out at the cat, after stumbling,
but the cat was expecting it, and deftly skated out of the way. He
tossed his cereal bowl noisily into the sink, and left the kitchen.
He fumbled around in the hallway, looking for
his briefcase, and found it by the door—a handsome aluminum
Samsonite attache, a birthday gift from his wife the year before. He
dumped today's newspaper and an apple into it, and then stormed out
the front door, giving it a good slam. His wife barely registered
the noise—all part of the morning routine, not least of which was
the sense of relief that regularly swept over her upon his morning
departure.
He moved through the workday joylessly and mechanically, another real
estate attorney trying to scrape by in the midst of the biggest real
estate downturn in decades. His phone had been awfully quiet,
lately. Except for the vendors and creditors calling him, of course.
Luckily, he had very little overhead, with a practice of one, so the
creditors didn't number that many. Also, he kept his nose clean—so
none of the creditors bore Italian surnames.
He'd long since decided that his financial demise was due, at least
in part, to a vast conspiracy—those around him were intent on
impeding his progress, on slowing him down. His clients were
avoiding him, new business was going elsewhere, his bank had frozen
his line of credit. The fuckers.
Now at the post office, on his way home after work, he extricated a
pile of letters, packages, and junk mail from his box, hoping, but
not expecting, to find a client's check, any client's check. He'd
floated three checks a couple days before, knowing full well that his
account hadn't sufficient funds, but feeling that he had no choice in
the matter. Since then, he'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop
at any moment. Dark news that he certainly didn't share with his
wife. But a couple of clients had promised him payment in the last
few days, as well—maybe one of them had finally come through.
And it wasn't the first time he'd floated a check. Tell me about
it, his father's voice piped up from the back of his mind—a
voice that seemingly had more and more to say, of late. Up to
your eyeballs in debt, the voice
went on. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest—you never
could manage to get your shit together.
His eyelids fluttered, like lights flickering on and off, as usually
happened while his father barked at him from beyond the grave. He
blinked and shook his head, muttering a fuck you, Dad under
his breath, words that had become a sort of prayer he'd found himself
offering up more and more. His dead father had so much more to say
posthumously than he did while still amongst the living, while still
pretending to be a father. None of it was very
uplifting—relentlessly pointing out all of Jerry's fuck-ups, and
mocking and criticizing him. But of course it was all bark and no
bite. The bastard was long dead and
gone.
He turned away from his mail box, and headed back toward the exit,
flipping through envelopes as he walked, absently dropping some junk
mail into a recycling bin. He paused, spotting an envelope near the
bottom of his pile that briefly threatened to lift his sour mood—what
was clearly a check, addressed to Jerry Bateman, Esq., from The
Eisner Brothers, LLC.
He didn't quite smile, but his scowl diminished slightly. A client
had come through, this
one particularly late, but one that had nonetheless arrived in the
nick of time. He greedily tore open the envelope, to confirm the
amount of the check. Sure enough, payment in full, enough to put him
over the top, stave off final reckoning (or at least significant
bleeding), at least for another accounting cycle.
He glanced at his watch, deciding that he had just enough time to hit
the bank on the way home to deposit this check, once again passing Go
and collecting $200.
His mood re-soured seconds later, however, when he saw the dog-eared,
yellow USPS form at the bottom of his pile, indicating that he had an
oversized package waiting for him. He looked up at the counter, and
was completely unsurprised to see a long, tedious line of customers,
long even by USPS standards.
“Of course,” he muttered darkly. He counted twelve people lined
up, in an intimidating queue that snaked its way out of the main
lobby area, out by the mail boxes and recycling bins. Some of those
people were sighing and scowling, passive-aggressive displays of
impatient displeasure. Others merely waited, expressionless. Still
others were entranced by their smartphones, their thumbs scrolling
and tapping and swiping.
Up at the counter, there were six stations at which friendly clerks
were supposed to be efficiently serving customers. Only one of these
stations was occupied, of course—by a gray-haired clerk in his late
50s. Jerry seethed at the look of complacency on this man's face, in
his whole demeanor, that spoke of the kind of lazy, cheerful embrace
of extreme inefficiency that could only be found at Post Offices, DMV
offices, and a few other sundry government entities hiding behind
obscure acronyms.
Still standing near the door, he was momentarily torn. Was he
expecting a package? Maybe his wife was? Did she order some kind of
crap online again without telling him? Probably. But something
tickled at the back of his mind—was it something that he had
ordered online, maybe? It was faint, merely a glimmer of a memory,
but not faint enough to completely ignore. He glanced at his watch.
Did the bank close at 5:30 or 6:00? He couldn't remember. Either
way, he decided that he could probably get through this line, collect
his package, and still get to the bank before it closed.
He took his place at the back of the line with a sigh, resigned to
this fate. He flipped through his stack of mail once more, hoping,
in vain, to find a catalog or magazine to pass the time. He settled
in, mentally, bracing himself for the merciless irritation of waiting
in a mindless, government-sponsored queue.
The man in front of him, a blue-collar type with dirty hands and
dirty clothes, suddenly decided that he had better things to do, and
he turned, scowling, headed for the door. Jerry moved wordlessly
forward, scowling as well, unwilling to acknowledge even this small
victory. He took his place behind a woman and a young boy, maybe
eight years old.
The kid had a ghost of a shit-eating grin on his face, as he leafed
intently through a Lego toy catalog, as entranced by Lego-borne
fantasies as his mom was by her cell phone. He read through product
descriptions alongside alluring images; she poked furiously at her
phone with both thumbs, no doubt working through a profound,
substantive, and intellectual text-message conversation.
He glanced up at the line again, saw no promise of forward progress,
and looked back at the boy and his catalog. It was the Star Wars
line of Legos, presumably laden with tie fighters and star destroyers
and other George Lucas inventions. A rough approximation of a smile
crossed Jerry's face; he had played with Legos when he was a kid,
once—though the toys were much less sophisticated then, and not
nearly as expensive (the era of cross-media merchandise franchising
still decades away). He wondered if his own face had ever looked
like the kid's did now—full of wide-eyed wonder, a cross between
full-fledged pre-teen fascination and good old-fashioned toddler
lust.
Jerry's eyes flicked from the boy's face to the cover of his catalog,
and back again. Almost decided to say something to him, to ask him a
Lego-savvy question, maybe about the Imperial ATAT Walker, how tall
it was, or how many Storm Troopers could fit inside. His own son
would be about that age now, he judged—just past nine years old.
His eyes briefly softened even more, and grew wistful, a look that
was foreign and out-of-place on Jerry's hard, lined, scowling face.
Leukemia had taken his only child from him four years before, at the
ripe old age of 5 years and 3 months. The ancient ache that had
never completely left him returned, gripping his heart, threatening
to open doors he had long since slammed shut, and his face hardened,
his brow darkening. His anger and resentment returned, and he popped
back into reality, with an almost audible click, thoughts moving away
from Legos and young children, leaving the boy to his catalog, and
his mom to her cell phone.
Looking up, he saw the line inch forward, as another satisfied
customer walked away from the counter. But there was still a
handful of people in front of him, and the counter clerk was still in
no particular hurry, making idle chitchat with his next customer.
“Son of a bitch,” Jerry muttered, under his breath (mostly),
glancing at his watch again. 5:00. When did that damn bank
close? He counted the people in line in front of him, and
mentally cursed the geezer behind the counter in the blue USPS
uniform. Clearly enjoying the fruits of organized labor, he
thought, an uncharitable sentiment that was one of his current
favorite themes. Probably waltzes through his whole day at this
plodding pace, completely liberated from the strictures of actually
having to create value to earn his paycheck. He
swore under his breath again. Try working for yourself,
buddy. See how your paycheck dries up when you sit on your ass.
Resignedly making his choice, he walked back to his PO box and
returned the yellow USPS form, leaving the mystery package for
another day. He turned and walked quickly back to his car, head
down, lips moving with silent curses. He was oblivious to everyone
around him, as he usually was when he worked himself up like this.
He plopped himself, his briefcase, and his pile of mail into his
Toyota Tercel, pausing only to put the Eisner Brothers' check into
his briefcase. Briefly squealing the Toyota's tires, he turned
hurriedly onto Main Street.
No more screwing around now, he thought. Just enough time
to make that time-sensitive deposit.
A “time-sensitive” deposit? mocked
the voice of his dead father. Give me a fucking break.
You floated a check, plain and simple. You wrote a check that your
ass couldn't cash. And now you're scrambling to dig yourself out of
this hole. Fine work, son.
He turned off of Main Street onto Market, ignoring the voice, and
then vaulted up the freeway on-ramp as fast as the little Tercel
could accommodate. After a minute or two, he finally registered that
the radio was spewing some 80's-era Barry Manilow crap, and he
flicked off the dial in disgust. He cracked his window a bit to get
some air, in spite of the chilly November weather, and flipped down
his sun visor as he turned West, into the sun.
Rush hour was in full swing by this time, so traffic was crawling
forward at about 20 miles per hour. Jerry was no stranger to
rush-hour commuting. Normally, he'd lapse into a comfortable
silence, whiling away the miles in the semi-conscious, mildly-annoyed
mental state common to most urban commuters. He drove on without
complaint, in spite of a tense, smothering silence that hung heavy
inside the car, but one that was familiar to Jerry. Even comforting
in a way. At least his dad was quiet.
Minutes later, however, traffic started to slow even further. He
started to suspect an accident of some sort (just my fucking
luck), but then saw a blinking DOT sign: “Construction Ahead,”
it said, and then blinked to “Expect Delays.”
Motherfucker. His eyes flicked to the clock on the dashboard,
then to the briefcase on the seat beside him, with the Eisner
Brothers envelope tucked safely inside it. He reached out,
tentatively, and stroked the briefcase's sleek aluminum exterior, an
absent look on his face, which reddened with the streaks of brake
lights that were converging and streaming in through his windshield.
Traffic continued slowing, threatening single-digit speeds. Beads of
sweat appeared on his forehead, on his temple. He wiped them off
with the sleeve of his shirt, like a tennis player, and rolled his
window down further.
His Tercel inched forward, only to bring more construction signs into
view, some of them bearing the clever poetry of construction crew
foremen: “Stay alert—don't look for Bert.” Whatever the
fuck that means.
He slowed further, more beads of sweat appearing on his forehead,
luminescent in the glow of brake lights. He strained his neck,
nearly out the window, to see ahead, to gauge how long he might be
stuck on this stretch of freeway, crawling ahead at ten miles per
hour. But it was as unpredictable as traffic normally is.
He soon came upon another sign, this one reading “Mission St exit
closed. Use alternate route.” A few of the bulbs were burned out
on this one, but he could still decipher its meaning. He glanced at
the clock again, which now read 5:16, and quickly made his decision.
Flicking on his turn signal to move back into the right lane, he
slowed, waiting for a good samaritan to recognize his turn signal and
acknowledge his intention. A couple cars went by, their drivers
oblivious in their respective zoned-out commuter bubbles, before a
pickup truck slowed to yield the lane to him. He waved his thanks
and merged into the next lane, then strained his neck again to scout
out the next off-ramp. He saw a familiar green sign with its white
letters and white arrow, though he couldn't quite read the letters.
He knew it it to be MLK Blvd, though, which would eventually get him
closer to his destination on Mission, so he crossed the solid white
line and veered onto the freeway's right-hand shoulder, making a
dangerous and rapid bee-line for the exit. He endured a honk or two
of disapproval, but slipped neatly into line at the off ramp just as
the surface-street stoplight turned green, and he rolled smoothly
onto MLK, picking up speed again.
Fucking freeway, he thought, as he brought the Tercel back up
to a solid 40 miles per hour.
Yep, barked his dad. It was the freeway's fault.
Another glance at the clock—5:23. He goosed
the gas pedal to catch a yellow light, and then goosed it again at
the next light, this time failing to pierce the plane of the
intersection before the light turned red. A red-light camera mounted
above the stoplight flashed, and then a second camera flashed from
behind him.
“Fuck you, and your ticket, too,” he said
out loud. He knew that a digital photo of his scowling face and
another of his rear license plate were currently racing across
computer networks on their way to some private contracting firm's
server farm, where a computerized ticketing system would
dispassionately convert the digital images into revenue for both the
contractor and the city.
But he drove on, making a mental note to
contest the ticket (somebody
had to volunteer to be the contentious bastard, to keep those
municipal bureaucrats on their toes). He drove through three
more intersections without incident, and finally pulled into the
bank's parking lot, panting slightly and sweating a great deal. The
clock on his dashboard read 5:32.
He climbed out of the car, snatching his briefcase and nearly
removing the neighboring car's rear-view mirror with it. It was
certainly heavy enough to take out a mirror and its plastic casing.
He stalked off toward the building's entrance, walking swiftly and
efficiently, stealing compulsive glances at his watch every few
steps.
As he approached the glass door, he could see a security guard
fumbling with a set of keys. He was an older man, lots of gray hair,
the soft lumps of age slightly pushing out his rumpled uniform. And
he was apparently getting ready to lock up for the day. Jerry rushed
forward, grabbing hold of the door and skating through. The guard
looked up, a comical look of surprise mingled with soft disapproval
on his face. Jerry stared back at him, daring him to speak up, to
object, to send him back out into the world, Eisner Brothers' check
still in hand, undeposited, and therefore useless to him.
The guard looked away, clearly not having much stomach for
confrontation. Jerry had that effect on a lot of people. He
continued on, heading toward the line at the counter, partially
disappointed by the missed opportunity for conflict, by the
unrealized promise of confrontation. But he kept moving, the check
in his briefcase slightly outweighing his need for a negativity fix.
Glancing up, he realized that he wouldn't have to wait for that fix
after all, as he finally registered the lengthy queue of customers
waiting in line, another clusterfuck, another conspiracy designed to
prevent him from completing his business.
Here, too, the signs of inefficiency jumped out at him. Ten teller
stands—two of them occupied, one of which appeared to be hosting a
lengthy, complicated transaction involving piles of bills and rolls
of coins. There was no priority line for business customers, no
means of separating queues for simple vs complex transactions, no
sense of urgency on the part of any of the employees, who probably
cared about little more than the imminent arrival of punch-out time.
He counted seven customers in line, who were corralled into formation
by one of those Disneyland-type nylon roping systems, creating a
queue of switchbacks designed to both make the line feel shorter, and
to calm the cattle while they waited. The line skated around a
waist-high island in the middle of the lobby, with pens and deposit
slips and other sorts of forms and paperwork. Jerry took his place
at the back of the line, behind a man in a puffy winter parka, who
was, in turn, standing behind a teenager with dark clothes and purple
hair.
He took a couple deep breaths, his disgust with poor process design
somewhat mitigated by the overall relief that he'd be able to deposit
that check today. His briefcase hung dutifully from his right hand,
shiny and reflective in the glare of overhead fluorescents. His
breathing slowed somewhat, and some of the sweat dried from his brow,
cooling him as it evaporated. His face no longer bore the harsh
light of urgency, as he settled into that familiar semi-conscious
state of waiting in line, well-known by virtually every American,
every Westerner even. His eyes glazed over like a commuter's in
rush-hour traffic.
He looked back at the front door, where the security guard had
finally managed to extricate the correct key (which actually looked
more like an allen wrench) and was busy locking the door. Jerry
could see from his spot in line that it was one of those heavy
commercial glass doors that locked in such a way that it could still
be opened from the inside. He glanced at his watch again, then
realized that it didn't really matter what time it was. Surely they
wouldn't ask anybody to leave without first completing their
business?
The line inched forward, as one of the customers being served walked
off, transaction presumably complete. Of course, it wasn't the
complicated transaction—the teller on the right was still counting
out rolls of quarters. Both her posture and that of her customer's
suggested that they were both settled in for an interminable,
mindless, but familiar task.
A faint feeling of resentment and indignation penetrated the
congealed, stale surface of Jerry's mind. He looked around and saw
other bank employees sitting at desks, some in glass-walled offices.
They all had that hurried, end-of-day look on their faces, eager to
get into their cars and take their place in the 10-mile-per-hour line
of ants marching toward home.
Another transaction was completed up ahead, and a voice called out,
“I can help the next customer in line,” her voice resonant with a
forced cheerfulness. I'm happy to help you but we all know that
I'm not really happy to help you—not at 5:30 in the afternoon.
The remaining customers shuffled forward, some faster than others,
some entranced by smart phones, others by nothing in particular. The
man in the parka inched ahead, and Jerry followed him, watching a
young woman with purple hair approach the teller stand and open her
purse. He watched the exchange of paperwork, the transaction
completely devoid of any actual legal tender, just computer
print-outs and other slips of paper that promised of currency in
specific quantities. Words were shared, questions asked and
answered, bottom lines were signed, and the exchange was complete.
Another satisfied customer headed toward the door. The line of ants
marched forward again.
Registering the fact that he was now almost to the front of the line,
Jerry lifted the briefcase and set it on the island's counter,
pulling a deposit slip from a stack of them, and grabbing a pen that
was joined to the counter by a plastic wire that resembled an
old-style telephone cord. He opened the briefcase a crack, pulled
out the Eisner Brothers' check, and started scrawling the details on
the deposit slip.
Behind him, the line inched forward again, as the goth teen completed
her business, and the man in the parka shuffled over to the waiting
teller. Jerry remained bent over his work, adding a dollar amount
and his signature to the deposit slip. Since he was last in line,
there was no need to hurry. He didn't give a rat's ass if any of the
bank employees had to wait for him. Give them a taste of their own
medicine.
Yes, very mature, spoke up Jerry's dad. You'll sure show
them. He ignored his dad and continued filling out the deposit
slip.
And then time slowed down.
Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath, a sound full of
surprise and fear. He turned, in slow-motion, to see the man in the
parka holding a small handgun, which was pointed at the teller. He
kept the gun low, the butt of its grip sitting on the counter's
surface. He had slid a note across the counter, but the teller, a
pretty young woman with short, business-like hair, couldn't take her
eyes off the gun.
Jerry recognized the gun as a .22LR revolver, by Smith and Wesson.
He had a couple of these at home, in fact. Stainless steel finish
with a black rubber grip, this one with an eight-round cylinder.
Eight shots. Approximately one for each human being still inside the
bank lobby. It didn't pack much of a punch, but when someone waved
it at you, you followed their instructions.
The teller's lips were moving silently, and her eyes remained fixed
on the .22. The gunman shoved the note at her again, trying to draw
her attention to it. Jerry couldn't read the note, but he was pretty
sure he could guess the gist of it. Hand over as much cash as you
can. Don't scream. Don't set off the alarm. Nobody needs to get
hurt.
“You've got to be fucking
kidding me,” muttered Jerry, in full appreciation of the
situation's irony, also fully appreciating the extent of the ongoing
conspiracy to stop him in his tracks, to fully effect his financial
undoing.
Behind him, Jerry heard some shuffling feet, as the security guard
took a couple uncertain steps forward, clearly in over his head,
having no idea what to do next. Barney-fucking-Fife,
Jerry thought.
The man in the parka gestured with the gun, pointing at the note,
trying to get the teller to focus on it. He was completely unmasked
and ungloved, Jerry noted, either too stupid to contemplate
fingerprints and security cameras, or overconfident of his chances,
convinced of his own invincibility.
Jerry picked up his briefcase and stepped forward, simultaneously
sliding his check and deposit slip into his coat pocket. His sense
of fear had long ago atrophied and withered away, a subconscious
spring cleaning, in the wake of his son's death, in an effort to make
more room for anger and resentment. He no longer understood fear,
and so he didn't recognize it on the bank teller's face—saw only
indecision, inaction, incompetence. Her lips were still moving, but
she continued ignoring the gunman's orders and his note, her eyes
frozen on the gun in front of her.
“Son of a bitch,” Jerry yelled, his anger finally bubbling over.
“Dirty fucking son of a BITCH!” At this, the gunman glanced
sideways at him, a comical look of surprise on his face, the gun not
moving. Clearly he had anticipated fear, panic, outright terror,
even. But he hadn't expected anger. Much less the degree of rage
that Jerry now directed at him.
“You stupid motherfucker,” Jerry spat at him. “Do you think I
don't know what this is? Do you think I can't see what's going on
here?”
The gunman turned a little more toward him, torn between finishing
his bank transaction and dealing with this new crisis brewing on the
side. His movements were slow and sloppy—clearly an amateur. His
face still bore the comical look of surprise and puzzlement. But
Jerry's briefcase was already in motion, pinwheeling in a tight arc.
It was big and heavy, but so was Jerry, and his aluminum Samsonite
temporarily turned into a heavy instrument of destruction. It came
down on the man's gun hand, snapping a satisfying number of bones,
sending the gun skittering across the counter, onto the floor at
Jerry's feet. The man screamed in agony. One of the customers
behind them screamed. The security guard was yelling, too.
“...stand down, man! Don't piss him off, let him take the money
and get the fuck out of here...!”
These sounds didn't even register in Jerry's mind. He was in the
zone, now, the red-hot zone of boiled-over rage. Sounds and sights
were meaningless. He only had eyes and ears for the man with the
gun, the man who was so obviously trying to get in his way, to fuck
him over, to keep him from making his time-sensitive deposit.
“...don't have time for this shit...” Jerry was muttering,
spittle flying, as the briefcase rebounded off the counter, leaving
behind a mangled wreck of a human hand sticking out of the business
end of a heavy winter parka sleeve. Jerry shoved the man aside, and
put his briefcase back on the floor, picking up the gun. He looked
at it absently, slowly turning it over in his hand.
The man in the parka bounced into the island, still screaming.
Regaining his balance, he looked down at his mangled hand. He tried
briefly to flex it, but screamed in pain again. He turned back
toward Jerry, now enraged in his own right by the tall, crazy
stranger that had decidedly rained on today's fucking parade. “Son
of a bitch,” he said, his voice tense and heavy with mingled
surprise and anger. “Son of a bitch!” He said it over and over,
breathing heavily. His good hand briefly disappeared into the
parka's pocket, and then emerged with another gun, this one a smaller
Saturday night special, some sort of cheap, semi-automatic that was
more likely to be found in a woman's purse.
The gun rose, sloppily, in Jerry's direction. “Son of a bitch,”
the man said again, and fired. The bullet went comically wide,
striking the far wall behind the counter. The teller screamed. Most
of the bank's other occupants hit the deck, some of them also
screaming. The teller stood her ground, for some reason, overpowered
by panic, her self-preservation instinct as yet untapped.
Jerry, alone, didn't blink. He was still calmly and absently
examining the .22 he had recently acquired, and then turned slowly to
look at the would-be bank robber, now would-be murderer. The bank
robber inexplicably waved the gun around, in what he presumably
considered a menacing, threatening way, but without pulling the
trigger. He's out of ammo, Jerry thought. Stupid fuck.
“Motherfucker,” said Jerry softly, almost genially, now
completely over the edge, his eyes shining much too brightly. He
slowly raised the .22, the gun coming to rest in a level aim at the
puffy parka.
The Barney Fife guard piped up again, in a tittering child-like
voice. “Cut it out, man!” he shouted. “Cut the shit! Stand
down!”
Jerry paid him no mind. He gripped the gun with two hands, and
looked calmly at the bank robber, who had stopped waving the empty
gun, which now hung impotently at his side. Jerry squeezed the
trigger, and the .22 barked and flashed. The bullet caught the man
in the shoulder, throwing him gently but firmly backward and to his
left. The man stayed on his feet somehow, grunting and panting.
Blood oozed from what Jerry guessed to be a clean shoulder wound, a
circular stain appearing on the front of his parka, slowly growing
bigger and bigger. The gun fell from his hand, clanging thinly on
the floor.
Eyes still ablaze, Jerry stepped forward and fired again, this time
striking center-mass. The man lurched backward again, his full
weight striking the island counter bearing the deposit slips and
leashed pens, and he crumpled silently to the floor. Where he lay on
his back, very, very still.
Jerry watched him, panting, lips still moving but no longer producing
sound. His eyes still blazed in fury, his face still lit up and
burning brightly. He looked down at the man wordlessly, absently
wondering if he was still breathing, still alive, though in an
emotionless, scientific way.
He glanced down at the briefcase at his feet, which now bore a
sizable dent in one side, decorated by splotches of red and what
looked like pieces of skin. He reached into his back pocket, brought
out a folded white handkerchief, and carefully wiped the blood and
human hand off the gleaming aluminum, his lips still silently moving.
Those fiery eyes next turned toward the bank teller, who was still
paralyzed behind the counter. She stood stock-still, her eyes now
glued to the unconscious (dead?) man on the floor. The man whose
hand had been crunched by 20 pounds of aluminum, and whose torso had
taken two bullets. Jerry approached the counter, and the teller's
eyes flicked over to him. Her lips still moved soundlessly, a silent
aria known only to her, as her mind raced to register and process
what her eyes were telling her.
Jerry managed a smile, but one that didn't reach his eyes.
“Now,” he said jovially, setting the gun down on the counter. “I
would like to make a deposit.” There was a smudge of blood on his
hand, but he didn't seem to notice, as he slid the Eisner Brothers'
check and the completed deposit slip over to her. She looked at it
blankly. “Into my checking account,” he added helpfully, still
smiling.
If she understood his words, she gave no indication, her eyes moving
rapidly from the man on the floor, to the man with the dented
briefcase, to the check and deposit slip on the counter in front of
her.
She backed away slowly, her own eyes now blazing with their own
light.
And she began to scream.
