Read Online Bank Robbers by C. Clark Criscuolo - Free Book Online

and had her hair done, she was going up to the Bronx and take Arthur MacGregor by storm—or get a gun.
    *   *   *
    â€œY OU CALL me Mother Teresa one more time and I swear I’ll smack you.” Teresa crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her son-in-law. She watched his eyes dart over to Tracy, and she could tell Tracy was rolling her eyes.
    â€œAnd I ain’t your mother … Now, explain to me again why someone your age gets amnesia every time they’re supposed to buy a carton of cigarettes.”
    â€œIt’s just that the doctor said—”
    â€œI been smokin’ since I was twelve and I ain’t gonna give it up now.”
    â€œMother, you spent a whole month in Sloan-Kettering watchin’ Pop die, didn’t you learn nothing?”
    â€œYeah, I learned they got benches out front where youse can smoke; now where the hell are my Marlboros?”
    Again the redheaded pain in the ass she called her son-in-law stared behind her. They had been standing in the kitchen of Teresa’s apartment for twenty minutes now, arguing. Teresa refused to be taken down to her doctor’s appointment until she’d cleared up this crap about her cigarettes.
    â€œTracy,” he said pleadingly, and Teresa turned to her daughter.
    Tracy had Teresa’s black hair, which she kept permed and crimped and teased out into volumes. She was skinny as a rail, even under the heavily decorated sweat suit she was wearing. Her nails were long and painted a bright shade of pink to match her lip color. Her lips were now pursing and twitching back and forth the way her father’s had when he got angry. She was twisting a large diamond engagement ring around her finger. Her daughter had changed since she’d moved out to the Island. Now all her clothes were by big-name designers, and every time she talked of things it was always what brand name they were, that she and Brian had a big fancy house at some big fancy address … and East Harlem was not good enough anymore.
    â€œWhy the hell do you wear sunglasses in the house, huh? You got a problem with your eyes?”
    Tracy’s smile twisted into a frown and she pulled off the pair of designer glasses and glared at her mother.
    â€œBrian didn’t forget your cigarettes, I told him not to put them in the cart, all right? You wanna blame someone for not killing your lungs for twenty-four lousy hours, you blame me.”
    There was a silence.
    â€œWhatsa matter, Brian don’t have no thoughts on his own?”
    â€œAw, Christ! There she goes again,” she heard Brian yell out behind her. “I can’t win with your mother!”
    Teresa’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œThe doctor told you months ago to stop smoking. What is it, you wanna get sick and die? It’s not enough we just had to watch Pop?”
    Well, maybe Tracy had changed, but, Teresa thought, she still fights below the belt.
    â€œYou want cigarettes? You walk down those six flights for ’em from now on, ’cause we ain’t bringing ’em,” Tracy said, staring straight at her.
    Teresa grabbed her purse, and glared at them.
    â€œOkay, fine. I’ll go out in this neighborhood for my own cigarettes. And when someone stabs me, I’ll just tell ’em it’s because my daughter couldn’t remember to bring me my cigarettes.” Teresa turned and walked into the hallway.
    â€œThat’s another thing, you shouldn’t be living in this dangerous neighborhood by yourself,” she heard Tracy call after her, and she listened to the clacking sound of Tracy’s high heels against the stone hall floor. She was going down the stairs as fast as she could.
    The sounds of Brian locking the apartment door echoed above Tracy’s heels.
    â€œNow don’t start in about that!”
    â€œYeah, I am startin’ in about that. Fred’s comin’ into town next week and we’re gonna sit