Stumpy (2) “Is that your final decision, Mr. Clemmons?” Peterson asked. “And even if I do open the vault, you’ll never get the money out…at least not alive.” A sly little grin was playing around the corners of the banker’s mouth. Jake sighed. “Why not, Peters?” he asked in a tired voice. He was through with Peterson’s stall tactics, and might very well carry through with his threat to blast the chunky lady out of her sensible high-heel shoes. But they had been warned, oh yes, Jake knew that. “Because Stumpy wouldn’t allow it,” Peterson said. He said this as if it were a matter-of-fact; an undeniable truth in an otherwise crazy universe. “You go in that vault, Mr. Clemmons, and both you and your partner are dead men. Simple as that.” Stumpy? Jake thought. Is that what Peters just said? Stumpy? “Who the hell is “Stumpy?” he asked. But Peterson just kept on grinning his sly grin, those owl’s eyes bright and shiny despite the gloom that had settled over the bank’s rustic interior. The sun had all but given up, its struggling rays of warmth devoured like hors d’oeuvres in the teeth of the ravenous storm. Layers of frost had already accumulated on the window panes; flecks of ice and snow crystals pattering against the glass in some alien Morse code. “You don’t want to know, Mr. Clemmons,” Peterson answered shaking his head. “You really don’t. And neither does Mr. Gumbler, for that fact. Take what’s in the tills and leave. Please?” Jake couldn’t believe it, astounded --utterly stupefied-- by Peterson’s obstinance and outright DENIAL to open the bank’s vault. There were lives at stake here--and the little shit knew it! Was willing to risk the life of one of his employee’s over a simple matter of money that wasn’t even his to begin with, for Christ’s sake! Unbelievable! “Last chance, Peters,” Jake growled. The beginnings of a headache was brewing at the back of his skull, his finger tightening down on the Magnum’s trigger. How much pull was left? How much more would the trigger take before it suddenly snapped back, the hammer falling forward, and the heavy-set teller taking flight backwards into the teller’s cage in a mist of blood? Peterson sighed heavily, eyeing Jake with not only disdain but also bewilderment. Holding his hands up, palms out, as if to ward off further insistence from Jake, he said, “Okay, Mr. Clemmons, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll open the vault. But let it not be said that you weren’t duly warned, foolish man.” And with that stated, Peterson turned on one foot, the overhead rafters of the bank creaking in the gales of the storm. The lights flickered, the wailing of a car alarm screaming its lonely cry from outside and down the street-- no doubt already abandoned by its owner in the tempest of the driving snow and ice. “Follow me, gentlemen,” Peterson said, already walking around the teller’s cages and toward the rear of the bank. “You two…” Jake motioned to the two silent tellers. “Follow your boss and don’t try anything silly, because we’ll be right behind you.” He waggled the Magnum back-n-forth for emphasis, as if the ladies had forgotten in the last few minutes that he was carrying it. With the tellers in the lead, Jake and Rod finished up the unlikely quartet, following the trail of Peterson, who was now standing in front of Oldfield National Trust’s vault door. The door itself was unremarkable: 10 feet by 10 feet of pure Pittsburgh steel, with four thick cross-bars running both vertical and horizontal across its facing, connecting themselves inside hinges at each corner. Jake, still on the heels of the teller’s, could see their reflections inside the vault’s stainless steel face. Four of them, approaching what he hoped would be the pay-off of a lifetime. He also noticed a small console built into the metal face, complete with an ivory-colored keypad numbered from 0 to 9. “Far enough,” Jake ordered, stepping up to the vault. “You ladies, over to the side there, where I can keep an eye on ya’.” The tellers moved dutifully to the right beside a ceramic pot which housed an immense stake of Devil’s Ivy. It was easily five foot in height; its glassy green heart-shaped foliage droopy and dreary in the bank’s dank atmosphere. “Okay, Peters,” Jake said, “we’re all here nice and snug, now open that vault.” Peterson gave a grotesque little bow, and snickered. “As you wish, O’ Master.” And punched in the vault’s six digit key-code: 7 8 8 6 7 9 Or, S-T-U-M-P-Y Jake took a step backward as the cross-bars began to release with a low whirring sound, like a wind-up clock moving in fast-forward. Peterson was smiling as the cross-bars came to a halt, the vault’s steel doors slowly opening outward in a breath of stale, salty air that reminded Jake of the ocean and rotten seaweed. The way the mouth of a decomposed whale might smell a week after beaching itself upon some sandy shoreline. “What the hell is that smell, Jake?” Rod asked. He was behind and to the right of Jake, holding his nose and regretting that they’d ever come in here. Something was wrong. It was all wrong. He could sense it, just like he could sense that Peterson wouldn’t throw him a life preserver if he’d fallen into shark infested waters. That man would’ve rather watched him be eaten alive --limb-by-limb and piece-by-bloody-piece-- and would have had a nice chuckle over it before making love to his fat wife. Rod knew this, and most certainly knew there was something wrong in this place. “Never mind the smell,” Jake replied. “I don’t care what it smells like, just what’s inside.” Rod nodded, peering inside the vault’s doors. It was dark inside--pitch black, like the yawing womb of some steel beast ready to give birth. Again, that odor of dead fish and old driftwood permeating the air, forcing Rod to cover not only his nose but also his mouth with the back of one hand. My God but wasn’t that stench awful! Rod thought. He couldn’t imagine what was causing it, let alone why it was coming from inside a bank vault. What the hell was Peterson keeping in there anyway? “Where’s the light, Peters?” Jake demanded. “It’s darker than a well-digger’s ass-hole in there, and smells twice as bad.” Peterson uttered another high-pitched giggle, the man’s shrill voice grating on Jake’s last nerve like a bad tooth. “Such a funny man you are, Mr. Clemmons!” Peterson exclaimed. “My apologies. How can one rob a bank without adequate lighting? Here…” Peterson reached out beside the vault door, flicking on the light switch. The interior of the vault sprang to life in a sickly glimmer of amber light, as Jake and Rod took a few steps forward inside—and then stopped. “What the hell is that?” Jake asked, looking back at Peterson. “Looks like a mutt,” Rod offered, staring around the room. His sad brown eyes were wide, soaking in the cold if not sterile atmosphere of the vault. It was like an operating room sans doctors or nurses. But what it did house were two things of genuine interest to both Jake and Rod: Rows of cabinets across the back wall, five drawers a piece, all lined up side-by-side like soldiers awaiting orders… --and— …one tired looking dog. Its tawny-colored coat was drab and full of tangles and knots of hair. The dog had been lying on its belly, stretched out on the cold steel of the safe’s floor, and upon Jake and Rod’s entry, was now standing before them on wobbly legs. It took only one glance from Jake to see that the mutt was old and decrepit—much like Oldfield National Trust. The dog was just standing there, trembling, one of its eyes blinded white by cataracts, the other staring blearily out of its bloodshot eye socket. It was neither barking nor growling, or even wagging its disheveled tail. If it was hurt, the dog wasn’t showing it, and if it was about to attack, Jake was pretty certain the misbegotten flea-bag couldn’t see five feet in front of its furry snout, not to mention most of its teeth had probably already fallen out or rotted clean away. The dog was a mess. Jake pointed his Magnum at the trembling canine. “You better start talking, Peters!” he warned. “What the hell is a damn dog doing in your vault? I ought to report your tight ass to the Humane Society, you slimy piece of--” When Jake suddenly had an inspiration. He thought he knew exactly who the dog was. Of course. The dog had to be what Peterson had been referring to earlier. What was that name? Thumper? Thumpy? Jake’s eyes brightened as the name came to him and passed softly between his lips. Stumpy? he whispered. He lowered the revolver and crouched down on his haunches. Is that your name, boy? he asked. Stumpy? Cocking its head to one side, the dog looked back at Jake indifferently, hiked its leg and pissed on the floor. The puddle was a mixture of blood and urine, spreading out in a semi-circle roughly the size of a dinner plate. Jake began laughing. Straightening up to his full height of six-foot-one, the Magnum safely back in his waistband, Jake stepped around the dog and marched over to the cabinets against the wall. “Hell of a dog you got there, Peters!” he called over his shoulder, examining the cabinets. “Train him yourself, or did Stumpy come that way?” He could hear Rod laughing behind him. Good-naturedly, of course. There wasn’t a mean bone inside Rod, and that was the God’s truth. Frank was still surprised he’d talked Rod into this little caper, but also knew (and understood) that Rod had needed the money. The man had two kids to feed and clothe, two kids he hadn’t seen in the past ten years when their whoring mother packed them up and moved off to Vegas to live with some Blackjack dealer named Ace. Figures. But had that mattered to Rod? Jack reckoned it didn’t, not in the sense that Rod wouldn’t miss his kids --because he did terribly-- but because Rod was loyal. Loyal to the cause, so to speak, and if the cause involved his two children, then he’d go right on and keep sending his ex-wife seven hundred dollars a month for their health and welfare. And, unfortunately, if the cause involved robbing a bank, well…life’s funny that way. Jake could still hear Rod giggling, but realized he hadn’t heard a word --not even a pompous sniffle of disgust-- from Peters. He fully expected for the cabinets to be locked tight, pulled one at random, and was delighted when it slid out on its well oiled tracks. “Cat got your tongue, Peters?” Jake called. “Or are you as deaf as that damn dog? You sure are as ugly, though!” This brought fresh howls of laughter from Rod, with Jake wondering if Rod even understood what he was laughing at. He hated thinking such thoughts, but when dealing with Rod, Jake had quickly learned to think for the both of them. Inside the cabinet drawer were wooden boxes the size of cigar cases. Lifting one out, Jake broke the small golden seal pasted on its side, and opened it. A soft whistle escaped his teeth— Gold! Gold ingots, to be exact. The wooden case was stacked with them, about 20 in all, each roughly the size and shape of a candy bar. “What you got over there, Jake?” Jake turned, smiling, a single gold bar in the palm of his hand. “Rod, I’ve got your future right here in the palm…“ Jake’s words trailed off into nothing. Something wasn’t right. It was Peters and the two tellers. He could still see them, standing there right outside the mouth of the vault. But they were staring at him and Rod differently now, like they were all in on a little secret meant only for bank employees. “What the hell you yokels staring at?” Jake demanded. He hefted the weight of the ingot in his hand, tossing it in the air. “You two ladies want a piece of this action? Run away with me and Rod and live a life full of debauchery? Is that it?” He tilted his head back, laughing. But the three remained staring, offering Jake no response except for their deafening silence; appearing neither frightened or concerned, their eyes speaking to Jake and Rod above the howls of the storm outside in…could it have been…pity? Jake took a closer look at the motionless employees with their dreamy eyes. The dog, meantime, had decided to join them outside the vault, and was now sitting quietly at Peterson’s small feet. It whimpered once, then lay its shaggy head on top of the banker’s shiny black shoes. Rod asked. “Jake? Since when did banks start putting bars on the ceiling? I ain’t never heard of such a thing.” “What are you talking about?” Jake replied, looking over at his partner. Rod was staring up at the vault ceiling, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and searching, both hands planted on the arch of his hips. Pointing up, he answered, “Right there, Jake. Their running up and down. And…and it looks like somebody painted them all white. Can you imagine that?” Jake, following the direction of Rod’s finger, peered up at the ceiling. Well, look at that, he mused. Some hayseed decided to put white bars in here. But why? And why on the ceiling of all places? “Peters,” he said, eyes still plastered on the ceiling, “why in God’s name did someone—“ “I think you’ve asked enough questions for one day, Mr. Clemmons,” Peterson suddenly interjected. “I have work to do, and so do these ladies. So, if you’ll excuse us…” Unseen by Jake or Rod --and therefore equally unexpected-- Peterson suddenly reached up, grabbing hold of a security gate built within a narrow crevice inside the vault’s entryway. The gate, comprised of small inter-locking steel bars and bolts, slammed down in a crash of metal-on-metal. The dog at Peterson’s feet cried out with a strangled YELP!, trying its best to back-pedal against the man’s leg. Peterson pushed it aside with one foot, “Get out of here, Blue!” he snarled at the cowering mongrel. “Go lay down or something!” The dog with no interest in arguing the point, skittered away back across the gloomy foyer, disappearing behind the teller’s cages. The grandfather clock, lost in the shadows behind these empty cages, read: 10:00. For the second time that morning, Jake was momentarily at a loss for words. But as before, located them with stunning quickness. “What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing, Peters?” he roared. “Open that gate! Open it right now,” Jake pulled the .357, leveling it toward the gate, as if intent on somehow killing it, “or I start blowing holes, BIG HOLES, in people!” In return to Jake’s rage, Peterson only smiled, making sure the security gate was securely locked with a tug of his fleshy hand. “I don’t think so,” Peterson said smugly. “In fact, I don’t think so at all. You know what I think, Mr. Clemmons? I think your chances of hitting anything with that big gun of yours through this gate are one in fifty. What do you think of that?” Cocking the hammer of the Magnum, Jake was ready to fire, if for nothing else but to shut that smart-ass banker’s prissy mouth --gate or no gate-- when Rod spoke up, his voice tentative and full of wonder: “Jake...I…I think the ceiling is…is growing somehow. At least those white bars are. Look at them! I swear, their getting…getting longer…” Jake swore to himself softly. They were trapped in here like rabbits in a cage, with goddamn Peters on the outside looking in wearing that pretentious cock-sucking smile, and to put the cherry on top of this shit sundae, Rod was over here having hallucinations! “Rod, listen,” Jake said, struggling to control the anger rising in his voice. “We’ve got other things to worry about right now. We’re trapped in here, or haven’t you noticed? We’ve got to find a way out of here before Peters runs off and…Rod?” But Rod wasn’t listening. Rod was watching. Watching as the vault’s ceiling continue to elongate itself, those white bars stretching open until they broke in half one-by-one. Now there were two rows of bars, one on top and one on bottom, the middle nothing more than an open chasm of impenetrable darkness. A low growl, like distant thunder, rumbled through the vault.
Copyright © 2009 Matthew Lett |