Smash & Grab (6 page)

He takes in a breath and then picks up a pen and the gum my mother always has in her purse and thrusts them toward me. “Look. I know you don't believe this, but I had nothing to do with what happened to your father.”

I look into his eyes and he smiles sadly at me, and I start to think that maybe he really means it, that maybe he had no idea that my dad was doing something wrong and was caught off guard just as much as we were.
Can you tell if someone is guilty just by looking into his eyes?
Either I'm not experienced enough to know exactly what to look for or Harrison is a pretty good liar, because I can't tell. “Sorry. I just…Things are bad. Obviously we're just…”

“Scared,” he says. He slips the last item into the purse and helps me up. He's so close to me that I can see the pores on his chin, the tiny black whiskers that are just under the surface. “I guess you would be. Listen. I can't officially help. But I was your father's friend. I do care about your family. Let me think about it. There might be something I can do….” His hand is on my shoulder. I can feel the light pressure of his fingers through my shirt. His thumb rubs the ridge of my bra strap. At first I think he's doing it by accident, but then he keeps stroking that spot, and I get the oddest feeling that he's trying to hint at something. I look up, and when I see the way he's looking at me, it isn't hard to figure out. Oh my god. And ew, gross!

I back away, holding Mom's purse in front of me like a shield.
Mr. Harrison is hitting on me!
I think, so shocked that I can't quite believe that it's real.
Am I so upset that somehow I'm imagining it?
But I can still feel the lingering heat of his fingers on my shoulder, and my stomach turns.

“Lexi?” he says, his voice all surprise and confusion. I'm not fooled this time. The man is a snake. I don't bother answering him; I just turn tail and bolt out of the bank.

“My purse,” my mother exclaims when I nearly bump into her and Quinn. The street is loud with morning traffic. It feels good to be outside, but I want to get away from the lobby windows. I feel like Harrison is watching me from inside. Leering.

“Well, so what now?” Quinn asks.

My mother pulls out her phone. “We find a good lawyer.”

“Who?” I ask.

She rubs her temples. “Your father has someone he wants me to use.”

“Okay, but then what?” Quinn says, a little more urgently. “We have no money.”

“We need to get creative,” Mom says. “First, we ransack the house. I usually have a little stashed in a purse or two. Then we call every friend and family member we have and ask for help. We pool our resources until your father's lawyer gives us some other ideas on what we can do. I'm not sure if we can sell anything without the FBI considering it an asset directly related to the crimes your father's accused of and trying to take it. And then…I don't know.”

Quinn pulls out his wallet. “I have thirty dollars.”

Mom looks at him, and her eyes go shiny with tears as she puts her palm to his cheek. “It's a start, thank you.”

I dig my wallet out of my purse and grab the thin stack of tens inside. “I've got forty-two,” I say, and then I notice the bright red card tucked between the bills.
My Bank of America card. My savings account for college. Quinn has one, too. Oh my god. There's thousands of dollars in those accounts. Can that money be seized, too?
There's a Bank of America building less than two blocks up the street. If the FBI isn't aware of those accounts…

“I'll be right back!” I yell as I take off running. It was Dad's idea for us to open our accounts at a bank other than his in our own names.
Was he worried even then that this would happen?
I don't want to believe it, because that would mean he's been keeping things from us, lying to us for a long time, but as I run, it makes more and more sense. As mad as I am about the lies, I'm also excited. We just might have a chance.

My alarm goes off
at six, same as always. Except instead of going to school, I'm getting ready to rob a bank.

I slip out of bed and lock my door before I lift my mattress and box spring off my bed frame. I pry up the loose floorboards and fish around in the space beneath them for the garbage bag–covered package inside that has my disguise in it. Once it's out, I stuff it into my book bag and replace the boards, then put the bed back together. I make sure to arrange my Galaxy blanket so that the giant soccer ball across the right-hand side almost touches the floor.

“Christian, breakfast.” Mom knocks on the door and then jiggles the knob. “I don't like you locking doors, mijo.”

“Even if I'm naked in here?” I call out, and zip up my book bag in a hurry.

“You aren't, though, right?” she asks, laughing.

Privacy isn't in my family's vocabulary. I've managed to keep the jobs hidden, but it hasn't been easy. The key is to never, ever let my guard down.

“How long do I have, Dad?” Mom asks my abuelo as I duck into the kitchen to grab a banana. She's sipping her coffee and pouring Maria some cereal.

“Christian!” Maria crows at me as she picks up her spoon and dunks it into her Cheerios.

“Less than a week.” Abuelo glances up from the stack of bills in front of him, at the wall clock, and then at me. “Christian, tuck in your shirt. You look like a cholo. Five minutes before the bus comes, mijo.” He's mad serious about being on time. Never been a minute late to anything in his life, even Mom's wedding, which he was adamantly against.

Dad should be out here helping. Worrying about the bills, too, since it's his fault we got so far behind in the first place. I glare at the closed door.

“We'll talk about the bills later, okay? I can probably get the water guy to give us a few more days. Unless you'd like to call for me?” Mom gives Abuelo a pleading look. “I have to meet with those buyers in an hour, then I'll talk to my manager at the café. If he gives me my check a little early, we'll have the money.”

“Okay, so we get more time on the water, but what about rent?” he asks.

Mom presses her fingers to the center of her forehead and closes her eyes. Breathes. “We'll get it; we always do.”

“Hey, Gabriel's got me doing some tiling this week. And he owes me from last week. I should have something to put toward the bills tonight, too, if I can get him to pay me,” I say, laying the groundwork so that when I hand her some cash later, she doesn't wonder where it came from.

“I don't like you giving us your money,” Mom says. “You need to save that for college. Speaking of, did you hear from UCLA yet?”

Truth is, I haven't checked my email all week. I might've gotten one about my application, but I'm half afraid to look. Not because I'm scared UCLA will reject me, but because the school might actually accept me. My transcripts are strong, and I've done lots of extracurriculars. Even made state for cross-country last year. It could happen. Which is why I can't bring myself to check email. It's one thing to be rejected, to not have a choice. It's another to know I can go.
If
money weren't an issue.
If
my dad weren't such a screw-up.
If
Mom's business were on solid ground already.

“Well, I know that you'll hear soon, mijo,” Mom says, patting my arm before she turns to put away the milk.

“Yeah.” I pull on my Saint Jude, the medal I wear around my neck—a coin-shaped piece of silver on a leather rope, just like the one Benny wears. We bought them together before our first job because Benny thought they would protect us.

“I gotta go,” I say, and I kiss her cheek and Maria's and head for the door. Going to school today won't help pay the bills. Robbing this bank will.

“Órale!” Eddie yells out the Mary Kay van window the minute I round the corner, safely out of sight of the house.

The back door slides open, and I throw my backpack at Benny and hop in. He, Carlos, and Gabriel are all dressed in the black-hoodie-and-jeans combo we always wear for jobs. Eddie takes off before the door's shut all the way, but otherwise he drives slow and steady, making a point to stay under the speed limit.

“You catch the news last night?” Benny asks, excited.

I shake my head.

“They had a thing on about some group jumping off the US Bank Tower downtown.” He gives me a pointed look.

The girl.

“They catch them?” I ask. I don't know this girl from Adam, but suddenly I'm hoping like crazy she got away.

He smiles. “Nope. The way they talked about it, it sounds like a bunch of adrenaline junkies. Apparently, they think it's this group that's been pulling stunts all over LA. Street racing. Bridge jumps. Lots of crazy stuff.”

What is that like? Breaking the law just for kicks? I don't get it.

“Hurry up and get ready,” Gabriel interrupts. “Who cares about all that. Focus.”

Benny raises an eyebrow at me as Gabriel mutters in Spanish under his breath and pulls his mask over his face. I wish my mom and abuelo taught me Spanish. They thought they were helping me fit in, but at times like these I feel like an outsider.

I unzip my pack and fish out the garbage bag–wrapped package I took from under my bed. Ripping off the tape, I pull on my black hoodie and slip my zombie mask over my head. I slide on a pair of aviators and settle into the seat next to Benny. Gabriel opens one of the long black duffel bags at his feet and pulls out the Glocks we've used for every job. We stick them in the front pockets of our sweatshirts.

The van is quiet. We're all in our heads, picturing how it's supposed to go down. The clothes, the masks, the guns, the silence—they've become our routine. Keeping to it has started to feel crucial to the success of the take.

“Dude.” Eddie looks over at Carlos. “Seriously?”

Carlos works at the wrapper on the giant frosted honeybun in his hand, his mask still up over his forehead. “What?”

“You got a serious sugar issue, vato.” Eddie makes a turn. “Pretty soon we're gonna have to get all your gear in XXXL.”

“Shut it,” Carlos grumbles, biting into his honeybun. “It helps calm my nerves, okay?”

“Whatever, man, but just so you know, you get so large you can't run, we're leaving your fat ass.”

“Yeah? Then I'll beat your skinny one.” Carlos glares at him, and the rest of us crack up.

The freeway's jammed, so we sit awhile, a weird sort of lull that makes it hard to maintain the right level of adrenaline. But that changes as we pull onto Figueroa and the Bank of America comes into view. My pulse quickens. We slip on the last of our gear: black gloves fitted with countdown timers on the wrists—Benny's invention. We set the timers to zero, and then as Eddie pulls over in front of the bank, we start them in unison. My stomach gets that free-fall feeling, even though I'm sitting down, and then the van door opens and I straighten my mask one last time and we are running toward the bank, my vision tunneling down till all I can see is the glass front doors. I take out my gun.

“Get down! GET DOWN!” Gabriel hollers.

He barrels into the bank with us close on his heels. My mask is hot and humid against my mouth. I can't stop panting. People start to scream, but most of them fall to the floor immediately—the customers standing in line, the two security guys by the door. The tellers are the only ones who are still upright, staring at us with wide eyes, their mouths gaping.

We fan out across the lobby, guns aimed at the tellers, the customers, the open office doors. The Glock is alive in my hand, volatile the way I imagine a bomb must be, like it might go off if I so much as graze the trigger. I'm always careful to keep my fingers wrapped around the handle so it doesn't. Benny pulls the plastic zip ties out of his bag and starts to bind people's hands behind their backs, beginning with the security guards and bank-manager types, while Carlos keeps his gun trained on them. Gabriel goes to the teller counter, throwing his duffel bags ahead of him as he does.

I rush over to the offices lined up on one side of the lobby, all of them clearly visible through the glass walls that divide them from the rest of the bank. I check under desks and around the backs of the doors. They're all empty, all except one.

“Out here now!” I yell. The sound of my voice echoing in the space makes my stomach clench. I hate this part the most. Hurting people. Scaring the crap out of them. I grab the woman hiding behind her desk, my fingers digging into her arm as I yank her up. She has to place a hand on my chest to keep from toppling over. Panicked, she claws at my shirt, almost pulling off my mask. I push her hand away as I propel her toward the door. I try to ignore the two framed pictures on her desk—one of a baby, the other a pigtailed toddler who looks a little like Maria, both smiling right at me. My gut is pure acid, burning. The woman hurries through the door, shrinking as far away from me as she can, her eyes never once meeting mine.

“Stay where you are and no one gets hurt.” This time it's Carlos talking, his voice deeper and angrier-sounding than normal.

He grabs the lady I brought out of the office, and I can't help saying, “It'll be okay. Just do what we say and you'll be fine.” The woman looks back at me once, distrust all over her face. “I mean it,” I say, but it's pointless. I'm her worst nightmare. I let out a breath and vault over the teller counter to join Gabriel.

He's got his gun pressed to the back of a teller who's chalky white, her whole body quaking, but she isn't crying, not yet. He has her fill up one duffel bag with money from her drawer, discarding the money stacks with dye packs in them—
if it can't bend, it won't spend
—and makes her open the small backup safe underneath it. The other tellers are on the floor by his feet. One by one I get their keys and then use my own set of zip ties to bind their wrists. I don't look at them, not in the face. They are just wrists and hands. Body parts, not people. I can't see them any other way or it messes with my head. I start cleaning out the drawers and safes at each teller station.

“One minute,” Carlos shouts. His chest is heaving, his foot tapping the floor.

Benny has the manager's keys. He locked the front door in case someone tries to walk in, and now he's swinging them around one finger. We have two minutes from start to finish before the cops might get here. Every second longer than that is a risk. Our haul will be only what's in the drawer, the reserve cash safes, and the night-deposit safe. Not a huge take, but on a Monday morning it should be at least sort of fat with weekend deposits from local stores and restaurants.

I open the night-deposit safe, and bags waterfall out onto the floor, piling one on top of another, each landing with a satisfying thud, feeling heavy in my hand when I throw them into my duffel. I'd never admit it out loud, but I get a high from being around the cash. My head practically buzzes with it. I used to think I'd be disgusted or nauseated, but you see all that cash and you can't help yourself. The smell alone makes you giddy. This might be our best job yet.
It isn't like we're stealing from these people directly,
I silently remind myself. The bank's insurance will cover what we take. I don't like scaring them, but it can't be helped, can it? In a few minutes it'll be over. They'll go home safe with a crazy story to tell.

“Okay, ladies, ten seconds,” Carlos yells as Benny unlocks the front door. We run for it. My duffel bag bounces against my side as I cross the lobby. Behind us someone is probably hitting the silent alarm, but it's too late. We'll be long gone before the cops get here. I hit the front doors first and shove them open wide, heart in my throat, chest tight, totally unprepared for the wild-eyed blond girl running straight at me.