The Aquarium

Part I: In Which 8-Eyes Dies

8-Eyes scrabbled down the stairs along with Lilly, nearly stumbling into her, tumbling headlong into the vault.

“It’s gonna be OK, Lil,” he said unconvincingly, gasping breathlessly. He was getting too old for this. Things shouldn’t go as wrong as this when you’re old. Experience should count for something. “As long as Ferret and Big Dawson can keep the crowd upstairs under control, we got this.”

“I know,” Lilly said brusquely.

For a brief moment, 8-Eyes was surprised to see a full grown woman jogging beside him, her brunette hair tied neatly in a bun, steely blue eyes like her father. The little girl he’d helped Dead Daddy raise was gone.

“Left, 8-Eyes,” Lilly ordered. “I got the right.”

They stood at opposite ends of the vault door. The security system required two personnel verifying their voice, retina and handprint simultaneously. Only three employees at Wiltfordshire Bank had access to this vault. 8-Eyes and Lilly were not on that list of privileged staff.

“You ready?” Lilly asked.

“Question is, is Red Pocket ready…”

“Only one way to find out. On a count of three. One, two…”

There was no time for 8-Eyes to hesitate. If Red Pocket did his job right, the system would recognize them, the vault doors would unlock and everything would be even-steven. Hallelujah. If not, Commissioner Sampson, Attorney General Thicke and the Mayor would get an automated message… along with red alerts fired off to a third-party security force. A SWAT squad would arrive within a ten-minute window. If they were lucky. His research found them showing up on average five minutes earlier, zealously gun-happy. That’s when it would become a party.

“… Three!”

Synchronously, 8-Eyes and Lilly put their palms down, eyes forward and spoke the passphrase of the day: “Heracles Kiwi Magnesium Cedar Velveteen”.

The silence that followed haunted 8-Eyes. His heart caught in his throat. Had Red Pocket managed to navigate through their system in time and uploaded their prints, scans and phonemes? Or did one of them say “Hercules” instead of “Heracles”? Lilly made a point of that the moment they got the passphrase. “Huh. It’s Greek,” she had whispered, pursing her lips to the right. A signature of Dead Daddy’s.

He stole a glance at Lilly. She stood frozen, cold sweat glistening down her temples. She mouthed “fuck” silently. “We should try again,” she said without making eye contact.

It wasn’t a suggestion, like from goddaughter to godfather. It was a command. She was the boss. He was part of the crew. She had tunnel-visioned. Something her father had done on jobs as well. It almost got them caught many times. And the last time…

Like father, like daughter.

“No, Lil, we gotta go. We have five minutes. Ten tops. They’ve been alerted. It’s time to go.”

“No. One more time. Maybe Red Pocket didn’t get us into the system yet. Maybe one of us got the passphrase wrong.”

8-Eyes started to trek towards Lilly. He had to get her out of here. He thought he could give her a bearhug, tell her we could come back another time. It’s worked many times before.

She screamed. “What are you doing!? Stop moving Ralph. Stay where you are. We are going to try this one more time.”

8-Eyes didn’t stop.

Lilly pulled out her sidearm and pointed it at him. Tears of defeat and disappointment streamed down her cheeks. Her words stuttered. “I’m not giving up now. Go back. Now.”

He found his open palms shooting up reflexively. “Woah. Woah, Lilly.”

“Go back to your station and we’ll do this again.”

“What are you going to do? Shoot your uncle Ralphie? Old 8-Eyes? C’mon Lil. I love you. And we’ll get through this together. But right now, we have to go. Think about Ferret. Big Dawson. Red Pocket. They’re all still upstairs. If we leave now, maybe everyone gets out alive. But if we stay, those three are as good as dead. Are you listening to me?”

8-Eyes took another step forward, dipping his toes into uncertainty. Not as a godfather now, but as a supplicant. Someone asking permission to enter a goddess’s sanctuary. She took her right-hand off her pistol to wipe away her tears. The gun trembled. She was about to break down. “We’re so close. We’re so damn close,” she moaned bitterly.

Closing the gap, 8-Eyes wrapped his thick lumber arms around her willowy torso and gently nudged her face into his chest, stroking her hair. “It’s OK Lil. I know what this means to you. Your father wouldn’t want you to get hurt though. I promised him. You promised him. We’ll get it back another time. They don’t know it’s us yet.”

She sobbed in his embrace, just like she had after her dog had died when she was in middle school. Or when Phil Ash stood her up on prom night. And when they finally found her fiancé’s body, mutilated and left in front of her house. Lilly was a little girl again. The little girl 8-Eyes had spent his retirement looking after with Dead Daddy. They had sworn to quit their life of crime and take care of her after her mother died.

That was a lifetime ago, or two. Or three. Raising children speeds time up and slows it down at the same time. Something only parents knew intuitively and thought about incessantly.

Their earpieces fuzzed. It was Red Pocket. “8-Eyes. Lilly. We’re OK still. I messed up. Sorry. Go ahead and try again.”

8-Eyes released Lilly, held her at arm’s length and smiled. She chuckled softly through her wet, red eyes and grinned back.

They returned to their stations. Eyes forward, palms down and spoke the passphrase again: “Heracles, Kiwi, Magnesium, Cedar, Velveteen.” A series of high-pitched beeps trilled happily. The locks on the vault door ground noisily, steel against steel, like swords drug slowly against an anvil.

Lilly raced over to the door, spun the hatch door and pulled. She considered 8-Eyes briefly, a slight smirk of gratitude, then vanished into the vault. 8-Eyes followed her. He would follow her anywhere. He would always be there to protect her, to keep her safe, to take care of her.

He never fathered any children in his half-century of walking and thieving God’s green planet. At least, not any that he knows of. But he had raised this one with his best friend and partner-in-crime. It was more than he could ever ask for.

A burst of sentimental shivers shot up his spine. It made him stupidly happy.

And then he felt someone punch him hard on his left shoulder. He turned around. Four black tarantula-men, goggled, armoured and carrying long rifle sticks descended the stairs. Another bullet-fist hammered into his right thigh and seared through the kevlar.

Adrenaline throbbed through his veins. The pain would come later. He made sure Lilly was behind him and he rushed out the vault and slammed the thick door, closing Lilly in before she could react. His last image was of her open mouth of surprise.

Part II: How Lilly Escaped

Uncle Ralphie was dead.

Even through the thick vault door, Lilly could hear the muffled pops of rifles. The pit of her stomach laid barren. Her breath shallowed.

She closed her eyes in resignation. No tears came. She had exhausted them earlier. She would have to mourn her godfather later, after she got out of this alive. Or after they stuck her in jail.

Lots of time then, she thought wryly.

She threw her duffel bag onto the bare steel table in the center of the room and poured out its contents. Time for Plan B.

But first, she had to do what she came her for. What 8-Eyes died for. What Ferret and Big Dawson and Red Pocket died for. She located safety deposit box 34C, unlocked it with the key hanging from the silver chain around her neck. The short, wide box sprung out slightly. She eased the rest out with both hands, lifted the lid and found the notebook they had killed Dead Daddy for and stolen. A ledger encrypted in code with the scattered whereabouts of Lilly’s inheritance.

She slipped it into an inner chest pocket and zipped it up. The notebook sat snug against her ribs. A pang of longing, missing and love pulsed through her. This was a piece of her father. It was hers and they took it and now she got it back. It was all she had left of him. That mixture of emotions stirred intensely then passed quickly. Not out of heartlessness, but practicality. There was no time.

The tarantula-men outside won’t be able to override the security system, but the three Wiltfordshire bankers were most likely on their way now, if not already in the office.

She slammed the bank box back into its casing. It snapped in, pulling the door shut with it. After she relocked it, she turned to the table. There were four thick metal tubes, each the same size, about the length of a microphone. She took one and snapped it downwards. Three retractable legs whipped out and stretched into a tripod. She positioned it on the far corner of the vault. A button released the head of the device. A satisfying click and it popped out like the head of a gopher. She set the other three in the same manner next to each other like a firing squad.

Next, she wrapped her gas mask and goggles around her head. The same one the tarantula-men outside donned. The strategy was simple. It was a chaos race. When they opened the vault door, they wouldthrow in a flash grenades, hoping to disorient her before rushing in. Lilly’s plan was to escalate the chaos. Whoever created the most disorientation won those precious first few seconds.

She crouched in front of the vault door, several feet back, with her pistol aimed straight at it, and her right index finger curled around a thin cord. She waited. It didn’t take long.

The same trilling beep from earlier resounded again, and the door nudged open. Lilly unlatched four smoke bombs just as their flash grenade flew in. The room crackled with lightning. She was unaffected by it. Her goggles were tuned to it. Her bombs hissed and filled the room with an impenetrable fog. The four tripods behind her stood guard. When the vault door swung wide, tarantula-men stood poised, ready to fire. Lilly’s tripod-men lit up, streaks of lasers and pulsing strobe lights sprayed out. A dozen rock concert light shows packed into one terrible minute. It blinded anyone looking in its direction.

The tarantula-men fired recklessly anyway. Bullets ricocheted wildly, but all flew over Lilly’s head. She carefully picked them off one by one from below. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Their marionette bodies collapsed onto the floor. She whipped another four smoke bombs outside the vault just as she caught a glimpse of the two panicked bank managers fleeing up the stairs. She leapt through the opening, somersaulted and stood up, making sure not to look back at her own blinding light show.

Now came the tricky part. She had to get back to the women’s restroom by the loan officer’s office. She strode up the stairs, two at a time, praying the bank managers had carelessly left the barred gates open in their retreat. They had.

So much could go wrong here. So much rested on whether Red Pocket had done his job right. Were the cameras still jammed?

She strafed slowly through the labyrinthine hallways towards the restroom. Her heart beat allegretto and staccato and fortissimo. Just one sighting of her from a hiding employee, lost customer or wandering tarantula-man would be the end of her. Nobody said Plan B was pleasant or well thought out. It just was.

The cubicle office where she had had a meeting earlier with a Lynn Barrister about a unsecured line of credit appeared around the corner. A short walk from there was the ladies room. She approached and hoped to high heavens that Lynn was gone. She didn’t want to shoot her. As she rounded the corner, her heart sank. She spied a pair of fat, quivering thighs in pantyhose beneath the desk. Lynn had not moved. In the commotion she had stay put.

Lilly peeked from behind the corner without giving herself away. Lynn’s face was flat on her desk, both hands laced behind her head, covering her thinning grey hair. She was a sweet woman. She had told Lilly about her grown daughters and how Lilly reminded her of them. Probably a sales tactic she read in a magazine once.

She ran through her options. Killing her was the cleanest option. A smoke bomb second best. Both would draw unnecessary attention to this corner of the bank. There was no reason for her crew to come this way. It would blow her cover. Third thing she could do was if she simply walked past her and banked on her keeping her head down.

This was risky and she hated it. But that’s what she did.

Part 3: Why Red Pocket Betrayed His Crew

Two Saturdays before the heist, Freddy Chang had the weekend with his eight-year-old daughter. They went to the aquarium. She wanted to look at the special stingray exhibition they had going on that month.

On the phone, she’d cried out exasperatedly, “Ba Ba, Ba Ba, I saw it online. You could lean over this large pool. There were hundreds of them. And they let you pet them. And if you’re lucky, you can see them getting fed too!”

Being the exacting programmer he was, Freddy replied, “I’m sure there aren’t hundreds of them, bunny. But yes, we’ll go this Saturday. I promise.”

That day’s pickup was worse than usual. The two times in a month he was allowed near Thuy to pick up their daughter, they were both nearly always stifling one reason or another to get into a row. The divorce papers were filed just last week. That had reopened wounds. Undone some stitches. Exposed some other cuts and bruises he’d managed to hide before, but not under the glaring light of her abusive lawyers.

He dreaded seeing her face, but this morning, it felt like his ex-wife’s one-eyebrow-lift soared higher upon seeing him sloughing up her driveway. She chewed her gum furiously.

Throwing me major shade, bitch. Who the hell chews gum at nine in the morning on Saturday anyway?

She whipped out a crisp, white envelope at him when he got up to the stoop. “I told you to not send your shit here.”

Freddy sighed and bit his tongue. He snapped the envelop from her.

It looked like a personal letter. The handwriting seemed a little girlish at first glance. Upon closer inspection, it was clear the sender had used an old-fashioned fountain pen. The strokes were rich and dark and had line variance, an unsteady mixture of thick and thin lines curving and tapering toward and against each other. There was no stamp.

He knitted his brows in confusion. “Where’d you find this?”

“It was beneath the mail slot along with the other junk and bills. Where did you think I found it?”

“I don’t know, Thuy. Did it occur to you that a personal letter with no stamp might be a little strange?”

She paused, her face blank, dropping her blonde-highlighted, cherry-nail-polished ‘Namer attitude. She looked old. Like forty-something old. Like those gossipy ladies she used to hang out with at her mom’s nail salon chittering nonstop about nothing in loud Vietnamese. Seeing her like this, Freddy keenly regretted his stupid teenage lust. They were both all of 24 now, their whole lives supposedly ahead of them. And yet, here they were.

“Wait,” it finally dawned on her. “Shit, Freddy. Shit. Do we have to move again? I fucking hate you. I wish you would just stay away from Hermione and me. You’re nothing but trouble! FUCK!”

Yes, he’d let her name their daughter after a Harry Potter character. Today’s serving of regret piled on high. “She’s my daughter too, Thuy.”

He pressed his lips tightly together until they disappeared. “Listen. It’s probably nothing. Where’s Hermione anyway?”

She glared at him with that squint he used to find sexy then screamed over her shoulder without taking her eyes off him. “HERMIONE!!!”

Freddy started. He never got used to how loud Thuy could get. Just this tremendous voice coming from a tiny package. All 5’2 of her. “Hermione! Get down here. Now! Your Ba Ba’s here!”

“OK!” Her girl shouted back, just as loud as her mother.

Freddy absent-mindedly tore open the envelope. There was a plain vanilla card inside. Blank on the outside. Inside, a simple message and a photograph.

It read: “Let’s talk at the aquarium. - J.D.”

The photograph was a clear, up-front-and-personal picture of Thuy and Hermione at the playground a block from here. They knew where they lived and had gotten uncomfortably close to his family. Fuck.

J.D. was King Yorke’s right hand man. King Yorke was the one who had Dead Daddy killed so he could get at his notebook. Freddy was too low on the totem pole to know why, but for better or worse he was bound to Dead Daddy in life or in death. The third pang of regret this morning. Hat trick. Triple strike-out. Hip hip hurray!

There was only one reason J.D. would want to talk. They knew what they were up to. And they were banking on Red Pocket being the weakest link in the chain. Or who knows. Maybe Ferret and Big Dawson were looking at the exact same card this morning. Freddy doubted it though. Everyone on that crew was thick as thieves and went way back. Except me. Fuck.

Hermione, wild long hair with a single thin braid, came rushing down and threw her arms around his shaking legs. “Ba Ba!”

Her small face looked up at him. “Are we going to see sting rays today?”

He stroked her hair. “Yes, bunny.”

Part 4: How Ferret Recruited Red Pocket Six Years Ago

Ferret shifted his beady little eyes, scanning the crowded restaurant. Big Dawson sat quietly next to him as they both took in the bustling of Golden Phoenix Teahouse.

His wispy chin jutted out impatiently. A vulpine face. It intimidated people and kept them at a distance. If you ever found yourself in a conversation with Ferret, it’s because he came to you and not the other way around. Unless you were foolish enough to approach him yourself in the first place. Then you were just cheap stupid prey.

He knew all this about himself, being a self-reflective man, and that’s why he brought Big Dawson along to meet up with Freddy. He didn’t want to scare the kid.

The raucous dim sum house was near Freddy’s house. They picked the place because the poor kid didn’t have a driver’s license, heck, couldn’t even afford a car what with being a teenage father working at McDonald’s after school.

Responsible enough to stick around though. Good kid. Never mind the fact he steals a few dollars from the till once a week.

Big Dawson huddled over his tiny porcelain tea cup. For a big man, he seemed to get cold a lot. It didn’t make much sense to Ferret since the place was jam-packed and badly ventilated. No matter. Instead, he kept eyeballing the entrance. Freddy wasn’t late, but he’d expected the kid to be somewhat eager for work and would show up earlier. No such luck.

“Har-Gow! Sook-Mai! Cha-Siu-Bow!” The cart-pusher screamed in Cantonese as she wove through the tables. “Har-Gow! Sook-Mai! Chai-Siu-Bow”

She approached Ferret’s table, ducked her head conspiratorially and asked him, “Hai-Gow? Sook-Mai? Chai-Siu-Bow? Sweet smelling and freshly steamed!”

Big Dawson canted his large head her way and spoke in perfect Mandarin, “Wo yau liang guo, xie xie.” (I want two thank you.)

The old waitress eyes widened, taken aback by the linebacker-sized black man addressing her. She clucked in delight and responded in Cantonese, “Ha, you know Mandarin, ah! You speak it very well!” She fetched two bamboo baskets from her cart with a pair of barbecue tongs.

“Shi, xie xie,” (Yes, thank you.) “We’ll also take two orders each of Har-Gow and Sook-Mai. And do you know when the Fung-Jow will come around?”

“Soon, soon. It’ll be out soon.” She said cheerfully as she hole-punched their long order stub.

“Show off,” Ferret muttered after she had left. Dawson simply grinned as he tore open a steamed pork bun and shoved half into his mouth.

“Where is that kid?” Ferret asked no one, then half-heartedly to Dawson, “Back in my day, Chinese kids knew better than to knock up a girl before getting married. Standards, Dawson. Standards have dropped, my friend.”

Dawson chewed thoughtfully, bounced his eyebrows and nodded.

The bell attached to the glass door rang. A thin, wiry boy with a pockmarked face wandered in. He tiptoed and periscoped about the room. Ferret waved him over.

Awkwardly, the first words to stumble off his lips were, “Where’s Mr. Copeland?”

“He’s not here. Sit down.”

His shoulders foundered and he sat, haltingly.

“Do you know who I am? Never mind. I’m Ferret and this is Dawson. We work for Mr. Copeland. You’ve seen us around the office.”

“O.K…. What’s this about?”

“I’ll get to that, kid. Just listen. Mr. Copeland liked your work on the websites. You made quite the impression. You got some skill kid.”

He beamed like only a teenager could, gawky and obsequious. “Thank… thank you.”

“So here’s the deal. We want to hire you for more work in the future. But you don’t have the skills yet. You’re not ready.”

“I can learn! I’m a quick learner!”

Ferret held up his palm. “We don’t doubt that. But we need you to learn faster, you see. Dawson?”

Dawson retrieved a folder from beneath the table and handed it over to Freddy, who took it timidly. “What’s this?”

“It’s your college enrolment papers. Tuition for the first semester has already been paid for. And we’ve chosen the classes we’ll need you to get up to speed on.”

“That’s…. that’s… I can’t take this. I don’t have the time,” he paused, flipping through the pages. “And even if I did… I have a wife and daughter to take care of. I have a job already. I was hoping for more side gigs. Extra money. Things I can do in an hour or so on the weekend and the like. I appreciate the gesture. Really, I do. But this is too much.”

Ferret rolled his eyes. Youth was wasted on the young. “You mean flipping burgers? You seriously think you’re going to support your family doing that? Do you really think Hermione would be proud of a greasy fast-food cook as herdad?”

The kid stuttered, “Wait. How do you know my daughter’s name? I never told you or Mr. Copeland or anyone.”

Dawson grimaced and shook his head in disapproval. At this, Ferret exhaled, paused and spoke calmly. “We know a lot of things kid. Like how you take five-finger discounts at work. Like how you met Thuy Trang back in West Falls Church. Like why you ran away after what you did back home.”

He blanched, blood draining from his face. His pockmarks turned a pale, dun color.

“Now, obviously, you can say no to all this. We’d be OK with that. We won’t turn you in to the cops back in Virginia. And we can get a refund on this tuition very easily. But we like you kid. We’ve vetted you and we want to make a long-term investment. Just think about it.”

After a considerable silence, Freddy sputtered, “Can I talk about this with my wife?”

“You do what you got to do, kid,” Ferret replied. “You do what you got to do.”

Part 5: Big Dawson Waits For Astroboy To Show Up

Dawson stood outside the bank’s entrance, arms crossed, surveying the urban vista as the city roared alive with a dull insect-drone. Traffic lights blinkered green, yellow, red each successive regime change more violent than the previous rule. Commuters swarmed purposefully towards endless hours of oblivion in their cramped cubicles, lonely offices and masked meetings.

And observing it all was the insignificant flyspeck of the universe, Dawson Jones Jr. standing guard, enveloped in its gelatinous monstrosity but at the same time, simultaneously, in parallel, concurrently peering in, hands cupped to his face, like a boy at an aquarium. The wild exotic undersea world of Boston’s habitants.

That’s good, he thought to himself, chuckling inside but not betraying a single muscle, crinkle or tic on his body. Yeah, that’s good. I should write this down for my book.

He continued to compose his Great American prose in his head:

The strange, fine balance between boredom and alertness settled in. He shifted his muscular bulk from one leg to another, favouring his left knee, an old sports injury that had in one singular moment spun his trajectory from a lifetime of stadiums, locker rooms and easy girls to a metaphysical awakening instead.

Rousseau, Wittgenstein and Foucault quickly overshadowed Lombardi, Belichick and Shula in the weeks that followed. In the blessed reprieve of his current station, he pondered seriously, deeply upon that terrible tackle at the 35-yard line, third down with two yards to go… Michael Stewart, the name forever engraved and bronzed in his mind.

The security uniform coiled around him like a weak python. The starched collar, the cheap polyester, the tight kevlar. Nothing fit. It made his neck and arms itch. The only comfort he had was the AR-15 cradled snugly in his ready hands.

An older gentleman approached. A lupine face, piercing blue eyes and wispy white hair. A self-important man who expected nothing less than the world at his beck and call. Without acknowledging Dawson, without reading the clear signs indicating an emergency renovation, he attempted to walk past him on the left only to encounter the large looming palms of an Afro-American, a rude interruption to his otherwise unstoppable white path of pure righteousness and capitalist privilege. His eyes widened subtly, just slightly perturbed, but nevertheless, relentlessly determined.

“Sir, we’re closed today. Emergency renovations,” Dawson stated calmly and nudged his head towards the signage. It meant nothing to the man however. At this interlocution point, he had maintained his course of disengaged eye contact, and instead treated the disembodied voice and hand in front of him as separate entities, both of which interfered with his noble enterprise. He paused, mind reeling in his steel trap.

“Sir, we will be open again in the afternoon. Please come back then.” The black man added.

After a thoughtful silence, with a grand peremptory voice, gravelled and majestic, he declared, “I have a meeting with Mr. Fitz. Let me pass.”

With a hint of impatience, Dawson repeated. “Sir, we are closed. All appointments are cancelled.”

“Impossible,” he shook. He finally shot his gaze at Dawson, sizing him up, the petty guard with outsized power sloshing in his Neanderthal skull. “I confirmed with my secretary this morning. Now get out of my way.”

Dawson sighed inside but only stared blankly back. He grasped his assault rifle tighter, just enough for the relentless man to notice. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We will be open again in a few hours.”

“Do you know who I am?” he spat with vitriol and menace, hot wrath scorching white, his chest shivering with the impropriety of having to address this peon, this minimum wage rent-a-cop, this animal.

“Actually, Mr. Keller, I do. You’re the CEO of Keller-McKenzie Enterprises, a medium-sized concern in industrial electrical-components. You have long-term contracts with Dow Chemicals, GE and Boeing amongst other Fortune 500s. You recently had to replace your CFO, because you discovered John Barry had embezzled nearly two-million from you, and you’re here to strategize what options you have with Mr. Fitz. But as I have said already, sir, we are closed. All appointments are cancelled.”

Taken aback, Keller could only mouth wordlessly, stuttering to retort, but came up with nothing. Suddenly, a white van emblazoned with the logo of Prof. Plumb pulled up in front of the bank. A vaguely Eastern European man wearing a grey jumpsuit, slightly plump, balding with wide set fish eyes alighted from the driver’s side. He lugged a red toolbox up the short stoop to the bank entrance, eyeballed Mr. Keller, then faced Dawson, “Yeah, youse guys call ‘bout a fluddin’ problem?”

Dawson nodded. “Yes, you’re late. Come on in,” and swivelled out of his way.

Astroboy pushed the revolving door with his thick hairy hands and vanished into the maw of the bank. Dawson returned to his position. Mr. Keller had not left. Dawson stood sentry, scanning the horizon, ignoring the man halfway up the stoop. For a minute, the man’s presence continued to register as an non-threat in Dawson’s peripheral, a grain of sand in his oyster. But eventually Keller gave up and turned away, muttering to himself.

Once he was out of range, Dawson grinned into his earpiece, “Thanks for that back there, Freddy. Almost knocked his pearly whites out. Racist motherfucker.”

“Anytime Dawson.”

“Everything OK in there?”

“Yeah,” his voice crackled. “So uh… who’s the plumber?”

“Just a sixth man Ferret and I asked to drop on by, y’know. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh… Okay.”

Dawson cracked his neck and shoulders and shifted his weight again.

Fuck me, I’m so bored.

Part 6: In Which Ferret Pistol Whips Red Pocket Out of Mercy

Ferret grimaced, chewed his lower lip, and tapped his foot. He paced. He stole glimpses at his fake Rolex. And as he patrolled the bank’s reception impatiently, he grunted and cursed repeatedly like a boy with Tourettes.

Every step he took sent concentric ripples of fear outwards, his erratic presence renewing panic in the hostages as they cowered and shrunk into their corners. His hard leather soles slapping against cold marble floors reverberated throughout the vaulted atrium.

A whoosh of air from the front door interrupted his droning footsteps. Ferret instinctively turned, rifle aimed square at the intruder. His vinyl dog mask with tongue lolling out made him look ridiculous. Or menacing. Or strangely adorable. He liked to think it was all of the above and it made for an unpredictable impression.

“Astroboy,” he called, lowering his weapon. “You’re late.”

Astroboy shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. Dawson tol’ me already.”

“What’s the fucking point of hiring extra help when the extra help is fucking late and the whole fucking job is most likely botched up now?”

“Yeah, I’m here now. So shut your yap and get me up to date.”

“Yeah. Fuck. OK. I’m docking your pay still.”

The portly man shrugged again. “You collect all their cell phones, tablets, laptops, watches, and whatever-the-fuck-else kids use to connect online already?”

“Yeah.”

“You give them the hero speech already?”

“Yeah.”

“You knock out the bank manager who tried anyway?”

“Yeah.”

“You make an examp…”

“Listen, you dumb fuck” Ferret interjected. “Do you think it’s amateur hour here?”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Astroboy spread his palms. “I’m just double-checking here. Jesus Christ what climbed up your craw this mornin’?”

“Nothing. You. You climbed up my craw. I needed you here fifteen minutes ago. Not ten minutes ago. Not five. Not when you decided it was OK for you to saunter in like a princess. FUCK!!!”

Astroboy rolled his eyes, then blinked languidly. “So I’m just babysitting here then, yeah?”

“Yes. Don’t fuck it up.” Ferret said, stabbing his index finger in Astroboy’s direction.

He then marched into the center of the room, surveyed the twenty-two hostages. Six tellers, one half-dressed security guard, one unconscious bank manager, three advisors and eleven customers. No babies or kids, thank God.

“Alright, you motherfuckers. Listen up. I’m going to leave for a few minutes and while I’m gone, you’re going to listen to Mr. Underpants here. The same rules apply, OK? You make a move to run, you get shot. You reach for a phone or electronic or alarm, you get shot. You talk to each other, make plans or ask about each other’s name, you get shot. You got that?”

Hushed whispers and quiet murmurs echoed back.

“Understand this. Mr. Underpants just found out his wife is sleeping with half the Red Sox team and his stupid dumb bitch of a daughter gives blowjobs to drug dealers in exchange for crack. Do not, I repeat, do not try his patience. He is pissed off. He is pissed off at the world and he is pissed he has to be here to babysit you sons-of-bitches.”

Astroboy brushed by Ferret to take his place and punched his arm. “Good one. Slutty wife and druggie daughter. Thanks.”

With that, Ferret made his exit. He strode quickly towards the server room where Red Pocket was. Once out of sight, he jogged, almost nearly ran.

How much does he suspects, he wondered. Is it too late?

Through the labyrinthine back offices, Ferret carried forward with urgent momentum. At the room’s threshold, he checked the safety. It was still on. He had no intention of murdering his protege, but every fibre of his being wanted to. The betrayal wounded him deeply. He had treated him like a son, if not at least a nephew. How the fuck could he do this? To us? Our family?

Stepping in, he found Red Pocket sitting cross-legged on the server room floor tapping furiously into his laptop, braids of wires like umbilical cords hooked into the bank’s system. The kid didn’t notice him entering the room. If he did, he didn’t look up. So Ferret trampled up until he loomed over him, arms akimbo, casting an imperious shadow.

“Freddy.” No response. “Freddy. Look at me.”

The kid raised his head, puppy-eyed. So he knows I know. Great.

“Have we not been good to you? Did we not put you through college? Kept you employed? Were we not there when you needed help? When Hermione was sick? When Thuy needed a loan to cover her gambling debt? Were we not there?”

“How long have you known?”

“What? I dunno. I didn’t know. I suspected shit on our way here. Who cares?”

“Why am I here? Why didn’t you sideline me for this job?”

“Jesus Christ, kid. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry Ferret,” he whispered dejectedly, eyes sidelong. “They took Thuy and Hermione.”

“Why didn’t you come to us right away?”

“I don’t know. I panicked.”

“Freddy. We’re your family too. You should’ve come to us.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” he started to weep.

“OK. We can fix this. What did they ask you to do? Have you done it yet?”

Red Pocket’s blank expression gave it all away. It was too late already. Ferret radioed the crew. “We need to abort. We’ve been compromised. Repeat. Abort mission. Now.”

Dawson and Astroboy chimed in, one after another, “got it.”

There was no response from Lilly nor 8-Eyes. Ferret’s brow knitted. “What’s going on?” He asked Red Pocket.

“They’re out of range, probably in the vault by now.”

“Do you have visuals on them?”

“Yes, I…” Red Pocket covered his mouth in alarm.

“What? What is it?”

“Tarantula-Men,” he mumbled.

That was the last thing Ferret wanted to hear.

“Dawson. Astroboy. They’re here. They’re here. Get out!” Ferret cried into his earpiece. No one answered. He darted his eyes towards Red Pocket. He was a shivering mess now.

“FuuuuUUUUCCKKK!!!” Ferret roared in frustration. He whipped out his pistol and flipped off the safety. “Six years! We took care of you for SIX YEARS.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry Ferret. Please, just do it. I’m sorry. Just kill me. I deserve it.”

Disgust roiled in the pit of his stomach. The kid wanted this. He wanted to end his life in martyrdom. Well, fuck you, Freddy.

“How many of them are there?” he asked brusquely.

“Wh-wh-what?”

“You heard me. How. Many. Tarantula. Men. Are. Outside?”

“Just one squad. A fire-team in the vault, a search team in the offices, four men each. Maybe another squad outside the building. I don’t know.”

“Fine, and you rerouted all surveillance in the building already yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, great. Now go the fuck to sleep.” Ferret hammered the butt of his 9mm into Red Pocket’s temple. He collapsed into a weird pretzel shape on the floor.

Ferret snapped the laptop from his unconscious arms and flipped through the security cams. He found two tarantula-men stalking the office floors above, and another pair heading his way. He could easily take them out. On the next channel, he saw 8-Eyes’ body laid down in front of the vault door, like an undignified welcome mat. The tarantula-men were waiting for Lilly on the other side.

What he saw next was Lilly’s Plan B executed with the poise and grace he missed seeing ever since Dead Daddy passed away. “Like father, like daughter,” he whispered.

He then left to take out the two tarantula-men outside the room.

Part 7: Red Pocket Makes Use of Himself

The sound of four shots in rapid succession just outside the door woke Red Pocket up. He startled, held a hand to his sore temple where Ferret had hit him, and fought through the grogginess.

Sitting up, he tallied the blood on his hands. 8-Eyes. Big Dawson. Astroboy. Most likely Ferret too now. Unless it was Ferret outside taking care of business. He wished he’d taken care of him too.

But here he was. Alive. Traitor’s guilt reignited in every cell of his being.

Thuy. I need to talk to Thuy. And Hermione. He groped around in his pants pocket, fished out the burner J.D. gave him and dialled. It was immediately picked up on the other side. “It’s done. Everything’s fucked up, as agreed. Will you let my wife and daughter go now?”

“Of course, Freddy. Of course. I just need to double-check on something. Is Lilly still alive?”

“Hold on.” Red Pocket circulated through the channels on his laptop. Lilly was jogging through the hallways, rushing back to the ladies restroom on the 2nd floor offices. “Yes, she is.”

“Excellent. Excellent. I’m sorry about your losses today, Freddy. Nasty business. It’s not personal. I hope you understand. King Yorke thanks you.”

Red Pocket grimaced. Thirty silver pieces. I should go hang myself. “Can I talk to them?”

A halting moment.

“Yes, I suppose we could arrange that. I’ll patch you to their hotel room now.”

A click, then two spurts of ringback tone, and pick up. “Freddy? What’s going on? Where are you?”

Red pocket winced in pain. “Are you OK? Is Hermione OK? Did they treat you OK?”

“Yes, we’re fine. There are men outside our room.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No. We’re just… Freddy. What’s going no?”

“They’ll let you go soon, OK? Everything’s going to be OK. Can I talk to Hermione?”

The phone rustled as it changed hands.

“Baba! Baba! We watched three movies last night and Mama ordered in room service and we had dumplings and huinan chicken and rice and Mama let me pour soy sauce on it! Why aren’t you on vacation with us?”

“I’m sorry, bunny. I’m working,” Red Pocket began to choke up. “I’ll go with you next time, OK?”

“OK.”

“Listen, I need to go soon. But I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it, Baba? I can do it! I can learn!”

Red Pocket chuckled. “That’s great, bunny. I’m glad to hear that. All right, I need you to promise me something OK? I want you to promise me you’ll always take care of your mother, even when she gets really mad at you, even when she’s sad, even when she tells you to go away. Can you promise me that?”

“Even when she takes away my toys and tells me she’ll throw them away if I don’t listen?”

“Yes, bunny. Even then.”

“Even when she gets so mad she sends me to my room?”

“Yes, bunny. Even then.” Red Pocket could hear the pout on the other end. “Do you promise?”

“OK Baba. I promise.”

“Good, put your mother back on the line.”

“Freddy, you’re scaring me now. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No. Not on this line. You’ll be back home safe soon. I want you to make me the thịt nướng grilled pork with vermicelli I like,” Red Pocket hoped Thuy remembered their code phrase for packing and leaving without him.

Thuy’s voice faltered, holding back tears and said goodbye. “OK. I will. With the minced ginger sauce.”

Good. She got it then. “Listen, Thuy. I’m sorry about what happened between us the last two years. I wished it was different. I wished we’d, I mean, I wish I’d tried harder. I love you Thuy. I never stopped loving you. Goodbye.” Red Pocket hung up.

On camera four, through dispersing smoke, he saw the bodies of 8-Eyes and four tarantula-men piled in front of the vault. On camera seven, just outside the server room, another two black-clad corpses. One cameras one and two, the plumber Dawson and Ferret called in laid prostrated on the marble centrepiece bleeding out. There was no camera into the ladies room on the 2nd floor. He hoped Lilly Copeland had made it. There was no sign of Big Dawson. Maybe he got out. Where was Ferret though?

There were two tarantula-men about too. Where were they?

Red Pocket flipped through the channels. The South wing staircase! They were tumbling down the stairs, chasing someone… it was Ferret! That’s just down the hallway from here…

He slammed his laptop shut, threw it in his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. He picked up his gun, a newer Beretta with a pressure-sensitive safety on the butt. Ferret had assigned him this pistol as he didn’t trust Freddy to remember to click the safety off in the heat of a firefight. He felt a morose twinge of regret. It was true, despite everything, Ferret had been a surrogate father to him. Why had he so easily betrayed them then?

Time to make good, he reflected bitterly. He rushed down the hallway to the fire escape and shoved the door aside with his hip. The two tarantula-men descended from above. Red Pocket unloaded on one. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! One bullet found its mark and the man tumbled down the stairs, almost tripping his partner.

The partner danced, hopscotched over the rolling mass, swivelled and fired twice. Both lanced through Red Pocket’s midsection. He slumped like a rag doll and his butt crashed into the concrete stairwell. The image of his killer seared into his irises. He was clattering down the rest of the steps to finish him when his head exploded.

Red Pocket lolled his head left. Ferret rushed two-step up and propped him up. “I thought I knocked you out.”

“You did. I woke up anyway,” Red Pocket whispered faintly. As he spoke those words, a sense of surreal unreality overtook him, like he was outside his own body, hovering and watching the scene.

Ferret was fiddling with his wounds, assessing the damage. “You’re going to be O.K., kid. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“No,” he said weakly, “leave me. I don’t deserve this. I betrayed you.”

“This again? We’re family. I fucking hate your guts right now, except you don’t have any, but you’re family.”

Red Pocket giggled. “Don’t, ow, make me laugh!”

Ferret slipped one arm under Red Pocket’s knees, the other through his armpits. “I’m getting you out. Big Dawson’s outside. Lilly’s back in her starting position. You’re going to be OK.”

As Ferret cradled him down the stairs, his life draining out drop by drop, he plucked up the last of his strength, “Ferret. Ferret. I have to tell you something.”

“What?” He huffed. “Not now. You’re fucking heavy.”

“Listen Ferret. Listen. King Yorke wanted Lilly to get the book alive. I think they couldn’t figure it out.”

He began to fade.

“OK. OK. Stay with me, kid. Stay with me. Don’t let go.”

He let go.

Part 8: Lilly Walks Out Of The Bank

Just as Lilly was about to boldly stroll across Lynn Barrister’s office, someone tugged at her shoulder. She started.

“Shh. It’s me.” Ferret whispered. “Let me take care of this. Go hide.”

Lilly slipped into the office adjacent Lynn’s and crouched under the wall partition, beneath where the frosted glass and mahogany joined together. Just next door, she heard Ferret’s muffled commands and Lynn’s panicked sobbing. “Get up! Get up now. You’re not supposed to be here. If you want to live, you will head downstairs to where everyone else is. Move!”

A pair of black pumps and Ferret’s leather shoes marched down the hallway towards the atrium.

Lilly rose and rushed to the bathroom. Once there, she quickly undressed. Her graphene jacket, her kevlar vest, her turtleneck, all her polyfiber pads, her calf-high army boots. She made sure to pull out her father’s notebook and placed it on top of a sink.

Stripped to her underwear, she fished a plastic bag out of the trashcan and retrieved her cornflower blue pencil skirt, a white blouse, white high-heels, a smart worsted cardigan, and a little blue Marc Jacob handbag.

She placed the notebook inside. Then she changed quickly and returned all the army gear into the same plastic bag, and threw it outside the window.

For a fleeting second, she examined herself in the mirror. Her makeup had ran down her cheeks, her hair was mussed up and she was glistening with sweat. Perfect.

She found an empty stall, closed the door, perched herself on top of the toilet and then waited.

It didn’t take long. Twenty minutes after she had got in position, the ladies room door swung open.

“Hello?” A man’s voice called. “Is anybody in here? This is the police.”

“I’m here,” Lilly said meekly. “Help me.”

“O.K. Ma’am, for my safety and yours, can you please come out with your hands up? I need to see you’re unarmed. I’m sorry about that. But I need to be sure.”

Lilly stepped gingerly onto the restroom floor and opened the door slowly. She strafed out with her hands up, looking as frightened as she could possibly muster. “I heard gunshots and loud noises,” she stuttered, crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks. “I got scared and hid. Was it a robbery? Was anybody hurt? Are they gone?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re all gone now. We have several ambulances outside. Let’s get you to one so they can check you out. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

PART 9: That Time 8-Eyes Took Lilly to The Aquarium

“What’s wrong with daddy today, Uncle Ralphie?” the little girl asked. “He was really quiet this morning and didn’t look at me and seemed really sad.”

“Hold on, pumpkin. Let me make this left turn first,” 8-Eyes answered gently without looking, his focus diverted to the oncoming traffic. “I hate this intersection…”

When they were safely driving forward again, 8-Eyes glanced sidelong at the six-year-old sitting in the passenger seat. She had Nicole’s upturned nose and frizzy hair, but no doubt about it, she was a daddy’s girl through and through. She had John Copeland’s perseverance and stubbornness. She insisted on sitting up front like a big girl and today, 8-Eyes caved into her demands.

But then again, today was different.

“You remember the drill right, Lil? If you see a cop car or I say ‘drop’…”

“…I slip down so my shoulders are on the seat and they can’t see I’m sitting in front.”

“Right. And if I say ‘penguin’…”

“I climb back to my car seat. I know, Uncle Ralph. Geeeeez-Louiissse.”

8-Eyes chuckled. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“I dunno.”

They shared a brief moment of silence.

“Sooooo…. why is daddy sad?”

“Well, pumpkin, today’s a very important day. Do you know what day it is?”

“Saturday!”

“Yes, right. But do you know the date?”

“Is it August…?”

“yes…?”

She knitted her brows in deep concentration, then frowned, giving up. “I don’t know.”

“It’s August 23rd. And that’s a really important date you need to remember. Do you know why?”

“Is it somebody’s birthday?”

“No, pumpkin. It’s the day your mom passed away. You were too young to remember. But she was really sick and there was nothing the doctors could do and she had to go away. Your daddy really misses her and because today is the day she left us, it hurts him more than usual. That’s why he’s sad.”

He gave Lilly some time to process this while he navigated up Tremont Street next to Boston Common.

“Where did my mommy go?” she asked with a tentative curiosity, like when she asked for a cookie even though she knew the answer was ‘no’.

8-Eyes calmly considered his mental notes from this morning again. “Well, pumpkin. She went to a better place. It’s called heaven. When good people on Earth pass away, they get to live in a happy place called heaven.”

“Is that where angels sing and play harps?”

8-Eyes smiled. “Yes, but more importantly, you get to see all the people you have ever loved and lost. Like your Nana and Pop-Pop. It’s like a big family reunion. Kind of like last week, when your cousins came over and played hide-and-go-seek with you at the barbecue. Do you remember that?”

“So heaven is like a big barbecue where you get to play with your family?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

“When can we go to heaven Uncle Ralphie? I want to visit mommy.”

“Well, heaven isn’t a place you visit, pumpkin. When you go to heaven, you move there and you can’t move back. And you can’t just go there. It’s not like buying a train ticket. You have to be a good person first. That means taking care of your family when they’re sad. Being there for them even when they’re mad at you. Or helping them even when they hurt you.”

“That sounds hard. And unfair.”

“It can be, sometimes,” 8-Eyes said softly.

Another pause. 8-Eyes turned on to Court Street. “We’re almost there! Are you excited to see the blue penguins and octopuses and sea turtles?”

No response. She was looking out her window into the distance. “Uncle Ralphie?”

“Yes, pumpkin? What is it?”

“How come you don’t have a family?”

“What do you mean, Lil?”

“Well, how come you don’t have a wife or kids?”

“Lilly, you doofus. I do have a family. You’re my goddaughter and your dad is my brother. You’re my family.”

“But you and daddy aren’t really brothers right?”

“No, we’re not related. But sometimes, we find people on this planet who we’re closer to than our own blood family. When your daddy and I were in Iraq during the war, we saved each other’s lives more times than we can count. And that’s why he’s my family, just like you are.”

“oh”

“And when you grow up, you might find people that are not related to you but you’re so close to them and you trust them and love them so much… you consider them family.”

“ok”

8-Eyes turned down Atlantic Avenue and began eyeballing for parking. It was always such a pain near the wharfs.

“Uncle Ralphie?”

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Can we see an IMAX movie too?”

“Sure.”

“And get popcorn?”

“Yeah. Ok. Just don’t tell your dad I let you sit in the front, OK?”

“OK. I promise.”

THE END