by David Crane

 

            21…16…3…  The padlock clicked open and the safe door swung open with a squeel. The hinges were rusty. It hadn’t been opened for a long time.  Miles glanced inside.  Empty.

            The bar was always deserted at this time of night.  The construction workers from the demolition work around the corner had all gone home to their wives or TV sets.  The owner, a senile Slovakian immigrant who had inherited the bar from his godfather’s second cousin, had taken what you’d call a “back seat” approach to running his property.  In other words, Miles ran things.  Which he didn’t mind at all.

            He was glancing through a USA Today when they came in.  A man, older, with raison skin and a thick Mario-brothers mustache, and with him, a woman in a blue summer dress, much younger, perhaps a bit younger than Miles, which was technically illegal, but this was Pittsburgh, and if you had tits and a nice ass and you wore both proudly, you could walk into a bar at 15. 

            The man was laughing.  It was a loud, barking laugh that rang through the bar.  The woman was smiling.

            “I tell you right now!” the man laughed, “He was peessed!”

“Can I get you folks something.” Miles turned on the folksy charm he’d seen bartenders use in the movies.

“Ah…yes. Babe, what you like?”

The woman smiled again.  It was a beautiful smile. It seemed reassuring, caring.  It was very seductive.  Miles winked at her.

“Apple Martini, please”

“And what can I get for you, sir?”

The man took a breath, like he was getting ready to address a crowd of screaming fans.

            “My friend.  You looking a at a man who just made $500,000 dollars without lifting a finger”

            Miles looked at the girl. She winked back.

            “How’s that?” But the man shook his head and threw up his hands as if to say, no no, that I can never tell you. But do ask.

            “You can just get me an apple martini like this lovely lady right here.” He drew his hand around her waist.  For a split second, Miles thought he saw her grimace, but when he looked back she was back to being playful.

            “Sure thing. Two apple martinis comin’ right up.”

            Miles always enjoyed using that phrase.  It was so slick. Sure thing. Comin’ right up. He felt like Tom Cruise, pre-scientology.  Earlier in his short bartending career, he had even attempted the circus act from Risky Business, juggling Smirnoff bottles in the air, but he ended up sloshing vodka all over the place, eliciting Spanish curses from the handful of patrons.  He soon gave the whole Tom Cruise thing up and just mixed the drinks.  Which he did very well.

            “Here you are sir. Ma’am.”

            “Thank you, my friend”

            “Thank You”

            “Okay,” Miles started, “Where you folks been all night?”

            “Oh, all around, my friend, all around.” The man started.  Miles glanced inquiringly at the girl.

            “Ah, this one I find at gas station.  I stop and fill tank.  You see I drive limousine.  Her car break down as she reach station, so I offer lift.”

            She giggled at the way he said lift and allowed her red hair to fall past her shoulder.  It was all an act. The giggle. The hair.  Miles knew it and was amazed at how wonderfully it worked.

            “But, my friend, I want you to understand.” The man said, “I do not normally pick up strange and beautiful young girls.  But today, you see, today is a special day.  Today you looking a man who made $500,000…oh but I already say this.” He laughed and downed his drink.  Miles automatically took the glass from him and refilled it.

            “You seem to want to tell us about it.”

            The girl had remained quiet for most of this time, but was now gazing at him with curious green eyes.  The older man considered her statement.

            “My dear, for you. I tell you anything.”

            “So how’d you get $500,000?” Miles asked.  He was getting impatient.

            The man looked him up and down, pausing for dramatic effect.

            “I stole it.”  He’d clearly expected a bigger reaction than he got, because he went on.  “Stole it from a thief.”

“This morning, I get a call. Some guy.  He says he wants me to pick his son up for his birthday.  It’s supposed to be a surprise.  He says to be at address at seven o’clock.  Now, pay close attention, it’s a bit complex for a kid like you.  I get a call, about an hour later, same guy.  He says he’s caught up at his job and can’t get home, so he offers to pay me extra to stop by his wife’s work and pick up his son’s gift.  Now, his wife works at Wells Fargo.”

            Miles raised his eyebrows. 

            “Wells Fargo?”

            “Yes my friend, here it gets juicy.  I get to Wells Fargo.  Pull up. This woman comes out carrying box.  Gift wrapped.  And she looks scared.  I mean like someone-trying-to-kill-her scared.  She sees me and jumps about a mile.  She practically ran to me and shoved the box in my hands.”

            The martini glasses were empty.  Miles took the liberty of filling them.

            “So.  I take the box.  It’s almost 7:00 so I start heading towards the address.  Here’s where it gets weird.  I get another call.  Same guy.  Says that he’s sorry, but his son is sick and cannot go out tonight.  So he tells me to swing by HIS work and drop off the gift and he’ll pay me.  I’m getting suspicious, though, wondering exactly what’s going on here.  All sorts of questions.  Anyways, I take a corner too fast, and the box falls off the seat where I put it.  It hits the floor of my car and out spills more cash than I’ve ever seen in my life.  And I piece it together.  It all comes into focus.”  The girl played dumb.

            “What? What came into focus?”

            “Well it may be a bit complex for you to understand, sweetheart, but the man I had been talking to, and screened the rest of the times he called, was robbing the bank.  He’d obviously called that woman, scared her into putting $500,000 into the box or he’d blow the place to bits.  Then he must’ve told her to take it outside and give it to the limo driver. Me.  There was no son.  You see?  It was all a set up.”  Miles cringed at the man’s choice in words.

            “So what’d you do with the money?” he asked.  He liked this guy.  Or rather, he liked listening to him exaggerate the complexity of the crime.  Everyone loves an ego boost. 

            “Oh ho ho! My friend,” the man chuckled knowingly.  “If I told you that, I wouldn’t be much of a criminal mastermind, would I?”

            You’re not, thought Miles.

            “Awww. Pleeeease?”

            “No, my dear.  Can’t.”

            Miles paused a moment, exchanging another glance with the girl.  He would have to resort to more drastic measures.  He reached under the bar and let his hand rest on the old rifle hooked to the underside of the bar.  It belonged to the owner.  From Slovakia.  It probably didn’t work.  No matter.  It wouldn’t need to.  Miles dropped his hand to the dusty bottle of ’86 Cognac sandwiched between the pistachios and extra ashtrays.

            “You know what?” He began brightly, “let’s have a toast.”  He produced three scotch glasses and filled them.  “To the criminal mastermind!” He announced, lifting one.

            The driver hesitated a moment, considering whether or not to trust this sudden shift.  He noticed both of the others were staring at him, waiting for him to raise his glass, and he realized how young these two were.  The girl not so much, but this bartender was just a kid.  Probably no more than 19 years old. 

            “What year is this?” He asked the kid.

            “’86.  Finest we’ve got.”

            “Very well.  To the criminal mastermind!” The three kicked back their drinks, and the man stood up.  Miles and the girl looked at him questioningly.

            “I must use the little boys’ room.  Excuse me.”

            As he disappeared around the corner, Miles produced an empty pickle jar from beneath the counter.  He and the girl each spat the Cognac from their mouths into the container in turn.

            “You’re full of—“ She began, but Miles  pressed his finger to his lips, pointing to a six-inch gap in the wall at the ceiling from which they heard a trickling sound and a voice mumbling to itself.  She made a face and reached across the counter to the pad of paper and pen next to the pad of paper next to the register.  She flipped over the first page with numbers and tabs, and began writing.

            “So how long you been working here?” she said loudly, scribbling furiously.

            “Two years, almost.  Next Tuesday, actually.”  Miles took the paper from her.

            Did you check the safe? Miles nodded.

            “Great…Where’s the owner?”

            How did you find this guy?

            “He lives in the back and usually doesn’t come in.  Don’t see him much.  So your car broke down?”

            No time to explain. Listen, how do we get this guy to tell us?

            “Is that a fact?”

            “Sure is.”

            Flirt with me.  This one stopped her.  She made another face and whispered one word. Gross.

            “I left…myyyyyyy heaaaaaaaart….in Saaaaan FRAN-cis-co…” the driver’s voice wafted into the room.  Miles gave her a look.  She bit her lip.

            “SO, you run this place all by yourself?”

            “Sure do.”

            “It must get awful lonely…” The singing stopped.

            “I suppose it does.”

            “Hmmmmm,” she purred, looking as if someone had just waved dog poo under her nose, “What’s your name?” She asked. Then she added, “Cutie.”

            The door to the bathroom swung open and the driver hurried out.  Someone was after his prize.  Miles stashed the notepad.

            “Hahaha. I wasn’t gone too long was I? I hope not.”  He glared at Miles.  Miles glared right back, eyebrows raised quizzically, as if to say, it’s on. 

            “Oh no, not at all,” she said innocently looking to Miles, “we were just…chatting.”

            The man was furious, but he wasn’t giving up.  Good.  “What about?”

            “This bar of his.  Apparently he owns it.”

            “Well, I don’t quite own it but –“

            “Oh don’t be so modest.” She laughed, touching his arm, “You run it by yourself.  It’s yours.”

            “Well. I…” The driver said clumsily.  She and Miles looked at him.  Miles tried to look as smug as possible.  “I run my own town car business.  Did I mention that?”

            “Oh really? Hm.” Her response was less than satisfactory to him.

            “Well…yeah.  Partially.”  Perhaps at a different time the man would’ve been better at this competition.  But he was wasted.  Miles took advantage of this pause to mosey over to the old-fashioned jukebox next to the bar and try one of his favorite moves.  The song was always set so he could pull this one off without having to scroll through song after song.  That wouldn’t be slick.  He rested his elbow on top of the rounded, lighted top, flipping one foot over the other in what he hoped was a subtle James Dean homage. 

            “You folks want some tunes?”  Without waiting for a response, he brought his fist down on the machine.  Please work. Please work. Please work. Please Work.

            The machine made some gurgling noises.  Miles couldn’t remember the last time it’d been used.  Finally, strings floated through.

            “Sweeeeeeet dreeeeaaaams….of youuuu…”

            The man looked like he was about to throw up.  From the alcohol or the music? Miles thought.  I win, he thought.

            “We should go, my dear.” That was quick.

            “Already?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well…” She looked at Miles, “I think I may stay here.”  The man looked at her longingly.  I shouldn’t have lost, he thought to himself.  I’m rich. 

            “Do you want to see the money?” the man blurted.  There was an awkward silence.  “Come with me and I’ll show it to you.”

            Miles tried hard to look dejected.  As if the battle was over.

            “I…Of course!  Where is it?” She said.  What else was she supposed to say?

            “It’s…”

            “I don’t believe you have $500,000” Miles said aggressively, “I think you’re full of shit.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “What makes you say –“

            “Because you’re being a pussy about telling us where it is!”

            “Fellas.”

            “Oh yeah? Well I know exactly where it is.”     

“Okay then where is it?”

            “The frontage road! Okay? It’s buried at the frontage road right down the street, you asshole!”

            “Oh nice.  Way to be vague, fuckstick.  Anyone could’ve said that.  And of course, who’s gonna go looking for it on the frontage road.”

            “Right underneath the pedestrian crossing sign. It’s in a pile of garbage right there!”

            There was a crash of glass and the girl broke the Cognac bottle over the man’s head.  He hit the floor bleeding clumsily.  He was out.

            “Sorry.  I was getting impatient.” She declared to Miles, who was frozen in shock.  “Let’s go get our money.”

            “Ours?”

            “Yeah.  It was our plan.  It was our heist.  It’s our money. Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Hey Miles…You okay?”

            “Yeah I’m just…you know…whoa.”

            “I know.”

            “There’s just one thing.” He said, snapping out of his daze and grabbing his coat.

            “What’s that?”

            “Did you have to use the Cognac?”