Fat, Fifty & F<li><li><li>ed! Read online

  A small group stood waiting for him outside the locked bank. Daryl, Fran and Esme. His staff.

  So very young, he mused, and now so very redundant.

  Esme had a tea-towel-covered cane basket over one arm, and he suddenly remembered there had been talk of a party-come-wake. In the basket would no doubt be Esme’s banana cake and a couple of bottles of cheap sparkling wine.

  Who would name a child Esme in this day and age? he wondered. What chance did a twenty-year-old have with a sixty-year-old’s name?

  As he stepped out of the car, Martin heard the whoop whoop whoop of the siren on the police Land Cruiser. It rolled up beside him. Colin Curtis switched off the engine and leaned out of the window, smiling.

  ‘Hate to give you a ticket on the last day, mate.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘Not my problem, Col. It’s the bank’s car again from four, so do your worst. They can afford it, and it’ll help you fill your quota.’

  Colin shook his head and gave him an offended look. ‘Those malicious rumours of a traffic-infringement quota are a totally unfounded and highly defamatory urban myth,’ he said in mock seriousness. Then, smiling broadly, he raised his eyebrows.

  Martin smiled back. Colin could always manage to get a laugh out of him.

  The policeman glanced over at the group waiting outside the bank. ‘You reckon you’ll need a hand today, Martin?’ he asked. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of cash for you girls to handle.’

  ‘Ouch. I’m crushed,’ Martin said with a sigh. ‘But with Fran and Esme as my first line of defence, I doubt your manly presence will be required.’

  Colin laughed. ‘Okay then, but it’s your funeral.’

  That was the second time he’d heard that word this morning, Martin realised.

  ‘So what’s the day look like?’ Colin went on.

  ‘The SecuraGard van is scheduled to drop off at ten, and the first of my John Smiths should stagger in about noon with their cheques and their fake IDs. They’ll all be way too fragile from last night’s booze-up to cause us any grief.’

  Col nodded. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said. ‘Derek over at the motel reckons he’ll need to hire a front-end loader to clean up all the empties in the car park. That’s after he spends the morning hosing away the chuck. Seems the serious piss-artists were parking tigers all over the shop from an hour after kick-off. Must’ve been all that pre-game practice.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Martin smiled. ‘Projectile vomiting as a party trick. Joys of alcohol, eh?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Now, if you’re sure you won’t need any muscle …’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

  ‘Thanks anyway, Col. Our biggest problem today will be the ones who can’t remember their assumed names. You reckon it was compulsory to be on the run from the law to get a job up at the meatworks?’

  The only reason Martin’s branch had remained open as long as it had was the slaughtermen’s insistence on being paid weekly, in cash. They all seemed to have a morbid fear of tax-file numbers and any kind of bank account that required identification.

  Curtis put up both hands. ‘Don’t want to know about it, mate. First thing you learn on these one-copper postings is you gotta go with the flow.’ He scratched his chin. ‘It is kinda hard to ignore a Korean carcass-boner named John Brown, but,’ he said.

  Martin nodded in agreement. ‘No other major dramas last night?’

  The sergeant looked at Martin and briefly considered saying something about the Volvo, but decided against it. ‘Nope. Pretty quiet night all round. It was a good thing they got their final pay by cheque instead of cash yesterday. They couldn’t drink it at the party and it stopped some silly bugger trying to pinch it. A cashed-up drunk is always a tempting target.’

  ‘Even some of those psychotic Neanderthals from the killing floor,’ Martin said.

  ‘Beats me why any bugger would even think about messing with a bloke who can carve a mooing Poll Hereford into a pub-raffle meat tray in three minutes flat,’ Colin said. ‘Not something I’d like to get in the middle of, that’s for sure. And I’m allowed to carry a pistol.’

  He glanced up at the sky and then at his watch. ‘Well, I think it’s about time I hit the highway with my trusty radar gun and issued a few urban myths.’

  The Land Cruiser’s already-warm engine started easily. Curtis slipped on a pair of mirror-lens, aviator-style sunglasses and leaned back out the window. ‘Okay Martin, you remember what to do if the ammo dump explodes?’

  Martin smiled. It was a regular piece of banter between the two men. ‘I’ll fire three shots in the air to wake you up?’

  Colin grinned, waved and gunned the Land Cruiser away from the kerb with a squeal of tyres on bitumen.

  *

  Martin walked slowly up to the front doors of the Burrinjuruk branch of the Federal Austwide Sansho Banking Corporation and offered a subdued ‘Good morning’ to the waiting group. The bank, a single-storey 1930s sandstone building, while not totally shabby, was showing obvious signs of neglect. Paint was flaking from the verandah posts and windowsills, and on the sign above the door a graffitied ‘d’ and ‘e’ had turned ‘Sansho’ into ‘Sandshoe’. He unlocked the doors and Daryl, Fran and Esme followed him inside, Daryl heading straight for the alarm panel to punch in the security override code. As Esme walked past, Martin lifted the checked tea towel covering her basket and whistled softly.

  ‘Some cheeky domestic champagne and your world-famous banana cake, eh?’ he said.

  Esme blushed. Esme blushed on a regular basis.

  Fran chimed in, ‘My sister’s bringing us a couple of roasted chickens and potato salad and coleslaw after two.’

  Fran and her ‘sister’ were an object of some conjecture in the district. Fran was a placid blue-eyed blonde while the sister was olive-skinned and dark-haired with a fiery temper. They owned a struggling market garden and poultry farm outside town and neither woman had ever been seen out with a man. Colin reckoned all the talk was just sour grapes because the ‘sister’ had won the open-entry wood-chop at the district agricultural show three years running. But she certainly knew how to cook a chook. Her potato salad was pretty damn good too, Martin remembered as he relocked the front door.

  ‘I’ll pick up a slab on my lunch break,’ offered Daryl.

  The typical Aussie bachelor’s contribution to a bring-a-plate do, Martin thought. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘if you can find a case of beer within fifty k’s of this town after last night’s little shindig, I’ll pay.’

  He glanced around the main banking chamber. Over the previous few weeks it had been slowly stripped back to the bare essentials in preparation for today’s final shut-down. He shook his head. ‘Okay, let’s get set up and try to look like we care.’ He turned to Daryl. ‘Better put a couple of buckets out front, Dazza, and have the mop and some Pine-o-Cleen standing by just in case. Most of our John Smiths are going to be in pretty shabby shape when they finally manage to surface.’

  Daryl nodded and the staff moved off to prepare for the day. Martin walked into the manager’s office, which was just to the right of the tellers’ windows. He came back out again almost immediately, holding up a curling fax.

  ‘It’s officially official, boys and girls,’ he said.

  The three tellers looked up from their cages.

  ‘The money to cover the meatworks pay cheques arrives at ten this morning and we pay out from eleven. Final pays plus all entitlements plus redundancies. Paid out in cash, as per their negotiated agreement. Which is, of course, why we’re still here.’ Martin smiled sadly. ‘You guys really should have been in their union.’

  He quickly scanned the rest of the fax. ‘The Burrinjuruk branch of the Federal Austwide Sandshoe Banking Corporation closes forever at four this afternoon,’ he read. The group managed a smile at Martin’s acknowledgement of the graffiti. ‘Final cheques for bank staff, including allowances, holiday pay, sick pay and redundancy, to be posted to your home address in five to seven working d
ays.’

  Nobody spoke.

  ‘Of course,’ Martin continued, ‘after four this afternoon, there won’t be a bloody bank within two hundred k’s to cash them at.’ He screwed up the fax and tossed it into one of the plastic buckets near Daryl’s cage. ‘They also want the bank pistol and any security videotapes. Anyone seen the gun recently?’

  Daryl, Fran and Esme shook their heads.

  Martin shrugged. ‘Better think about getting that grog on ice, Esme,’ he said. ‘I reckon we’ll all be needing it later.’

  *

  The bank’s single security camera covered the main banking chamber and ran through a VCR/TV mounted on the wall of Martin’s office. He pressed the eject button on the unit and a cassette slid out. The title was unfamiliar but the ‘XXX’ on the spine suggested it was almost certainly not a training video on bank procedure. Martin knew for a fact that sexy Swedish au pairs were a bit thin on the ground in Burrinjuruk. He put in a blank tape, pressed RECORD and walked back into the chamber, tossing the XXX cassette over the wire cage to Daryl.

  ‘That must be yours, Casanova,’ he said.

  Esme glanced at Daryl and blushed for the second time that morning. Interesting, Martin thought, and shouted back over his shoulder as he re-entered his office, ‘All unofficial copies of the bank keys should probably be slipped discreetly under my door in the next fifteen minutes.’

  It took Martin ten minutes to track down the bank’s .32 calibre automatic pistol, which he finally discovered neatly wrapped in a tea towel inside a biscuit tin at the back of his filing cabinet. The loose cartridges rattling around the bottom were covered with tiny white flecks of desiccated coconut, reminders of the time the tin had contained Iced Vo Vos.

  During his search for the gun, half a dozen keys had been slipped under his door. Martin wondered if there was anyone in Burrinjuruk who didn’t have a key to the bank. Maybe head office had been right in refusing his regular requests to install an ATM for after-hours banking. In this town, who needed it?

  Around nine-thirty Fran brought him a mug of lukewarm instant coffee, which he sipped at his desk. The security monitor now showed the three tellers getting their cages ready for the expected rush. Martin picked up the pistol and examined it, trying to remember exactly where the release for the magazine was located. The brass clip suddenly fell out of the bottom of the handgrip and landed on his desk. He picked it up. It was empty. Martin looked at the family photograph on his desk. He stood up and took off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Sitting down again, he began loading the cartridges into the clip, carefully blowing the flecks of coconut off them first. He pushed the loaded clip firmly into the base of the automatic and it locked into place with a solid metallic click.

  Martin studied the photograph on his desk for a long time, absently stroking the metal of the pistol. He put his thumb over the muzzle. It was cold. He turned the pistol around and looked down the barrel. Hooking his thumb backwards around the trigger, he placed the muzzle against his forehead, between his eyes. He made a clicking noise with his tongue. What have I got to lose? he asked himself.

  At ten past ten, Daryl unlocked the bank’s main door in response to a confident and rhythmic knocking. A pair of uniformed security guards stood behind a two-wheeled trolley stacked with canvas bags. The hinged metal bars that secured the tops of the bags were padlocked and sealed and the guards were armed with revolvers. The older of the two smiled pleasantly at Daryl.

  ‘Good morning, young sir. Anyone here order a shitload of cash money?’

  ‘You’re late, Frank,’ Daryl said, swinging back both doors.

  Frank shrugged. ‘Some dick left a Commodore in the no-standing zone where we usually unload.’

  At ten-fifteen, Martin walked out of his office. He had been watching on the security monitor as Daryl and Frank checked the delivery, and Daryl had just signed the receipt on Frank’s clipboard. The younger guard, new to Martin, was leaning on the counter, smiling and chatting to Fran.

  You’re really backing the wrong horse there, mate, thought Martin. ‘Everything okay, Frank?’ he asked. ‘All signed for?’

  The guard nodded. ‘She’s all yours, Martin. You’re in the money.’

  ‘I guess I am, Frank,’ Martin agreed. Then he pointed the bank’s pistol at the group.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry, but this is a stick-up.’

  four

  A broad grin spread over Daryl’s face. ‘Jeez, Mr Carter, you’re a dag,’ he chuckled. ‘I thought we were planning to have the party after we closed.’

  Frank and Martin looked into each other’s eyes. There was a long pause, then Frank nodded and slowly raised his hands.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘if that’s how it is, Martin.’

  ‘That’s how it is, Frank,’ Martin said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  After a moment of confused silence, Daryl also raised his hands. Behind Frank, the young guard was looking uncertainly at Martin, one hand wavering near his pistol. Even standing with his back to him, Frank sensed his indecision.

  ‘Let’s not do anything fuckin’ stupid, eh Wayne!’ he growled. ‘They signed for it, so it’s not our problem. The bank and the insurance company can sort it out.’

  Wayne hesitated.

  ‘Come on, it’s only money, mate,’ Frank said lightly.

  Wayne raised his hands, but the look on his face said he wasn’t very happy about it.

  ‘Do we have to put our hands up too, Mr Carter?’ It was Esme speaking from behind the counter.

  Martin turned. Fran and Esme were standing together in Fran’s cage, looking perplexed. Esme had a half-inflated balloon in her hand. Martin glanced at Wayne, back at the women, then back at Wayne. ‘Um, yes. And you’d better come out here and join us,’ he ordered. All the head-turning was starting to make him dizzy.

  ‘Should we put our hands up now or after we come out?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Er, now, I guess.’

  Esme raised her hands and let the balloon go. It shot up, spluttering around the roof before landing on a blade of the ceiling fan.

  ‘Want me to take Wayne’s gun, Mr Carter?’ Daryl suggested eagerly. His eyes held a look of respect Martin hadn’t seen in his five years as manager. Wayne glared at him.

  ‘Does this mean the party’s off?’ Fran wanted to know. ‘It’s just that my sister’s going to be cooking all morning …’

  Jesus, Martin thought, this was starting to get very complicated. ‘You two can put your hands down now,’ he said to the women, ‘but no sudden moves, all right?’

  They nodded solemnly and Martin turned his attention back to the guards.

  Esme slowly took another balloon out of her cardigan pocket. She looked at Fran, who gave a small shake of her head.

  Warily, Martin took the pistols from the two guards and then herded the group into the bank’s secure-document storage area, which doubled as the staff lunchroom. The room had barred windows with opaque, wire-reinforced glass and a steel security door. Off to one side were separate male and female toilets which also had barred windows fitted with the same shatterproof glass. Martin motioned his captives towards the laminex-topped table in the middle of the room.

  ‘You should be comfortable here for a while. There’s plenty of tea and coffee.’

  ‘And biscuits,’ offered Esme brightly. ‘I refilled the jar yesterday. Assorted Creams. Arnott’s.’

  ‘Good one, Esme,’ Daryl said. ‘Dibs on the Orange Slice.’

  Backing out of the room, Martin noticed the wall-mounted telephone and jerked it roughly away from the plaster by its cable. The phone reminded him of something else.

  ‘Better hand over your mobiles too,’ he ordered.

  Daryl and Frank gave up their phones immediately. Fran said hers was in the cash drawer in her cage. Esme didn’t own one; her mother held grave fears over the possibility of her only child developing a brain tumour from the radiation. Martin pointed his pistol at Wa
yne.

  ‘Give it up, Wayne,’ Frank said.

  The young guard pulled a tiny phone from his shirt pocket and sullenly tossed it to Martin.

  ‘Wayne’s got a really little one,’ said Frank, and Esme blushed.

  Martin locked the door on the group and dropped the guns and phones into one of the buckets Daryl had organised. Noticing Esme’s picnic basket, he unlocked the door again and pushed the hamper inside with his foot. As he relocked the door he heard a low whistle and Frank’s voice.

  ‘The fully catered bank heist,’ the guard said. ‘My all-time favourite.’

  Alone in the middle of the bank, Martin looked at the cash bags still stacked on the trolley. He looked at the pistol in his hand and then at the clock. Ten-twenty. He looked at the bags again.

  ‘The next step is usually the getaway.’

  Martin spun round, pointing the gun towards the source of the voice. Colin Curtis was leaning nonchalantly in the open doorway, arms folded. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think you really want to use that, mate,’ he said, indicating Martin’s pistol with a nod of his head. ‘I reckon a dead cop in the middle of the main street will really mess up what little chance we’ve got in this year’s Tidy Towns competition.’

  Martin motioned with the pistol for Colin to come in and close the door behind him. Colin complied, then raised his hands.

  ‘Looks like you’re having a bit of a bad day, Martin,’ he said. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘What’s to talk about?’ he asked. ‘Apart from the fact that I’m fat, fifty and my life’s fucked, everything’s just peachy.’

  ‘Come on, mate, cheer up. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Colin paused. ‘You’re not really all that fat.’

  Martin lowered the pistol slightly. ‘Isn’t it a bit risky taking the piss out of someone who’s holding a gun? Do they teach you that in hostage-negotiating class?’