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

down and discuss you movin’—”
    â€œI ain’t movin’.”
    â€œIt’s dangerous and stupid to live here, especially now that Pop’s gone. Fred’s got a extra room in his house down in Florida. His wife says she’d love to have you, and you could get to see little Fred and little Joe—”
    â€œAnd neither of youse would be stuck driving in my groceries twice a week,” Teresa tossed in nastily. She heard a grunt from Tracy, who was right behind her.
    â€œAnd we’re gonna fix it up for you, nice. Really nice. You’re going to love it,” Tracy said harshly through clenched teeth.
    Teresa turned and stopped sharply. Tracy, who was right behind her, knocked into her, startled. She put her hand up to her chest.
    â€œNow listen to me. I ain’t moving, I ain’t giving up smoking, and I don’t care what you or that jedrool brother of yours got planned for me. This is my life, not yours, and I’m gonna live it where the hell I want, doing what I want.” Teresa gave her daughter one last look, hard, just to make sure it sank in, then turned around and started down the stairs again.
    â€œNow I’m gonna be late for my doctor’s appointment,” Teresa snapped, knowing full well she was the one who had held them up.
    *   *   *
    A RTHUR sat staring over the books and the receipts. His eyes shifted over to his watch.
    Ten-fifteen.
    It was Wednesday, and every Wednesday was like this. It seemed so slow, as if the hands of his watch were weighted down, so for every minute it registered, it seemed he actually had to live through an hour. Or maybe Wednesday signaled that he’d made it halfway through another week of this misery.
    In all his years, he never thought he’d end up like this.
    Bored to death in some dark, dank little hole he called an office.
    He looked at his watch.
    Ten-seventeen.
    Great.
    Time was just whizzing right by.
    He went back to the ledger and added in a receipt for solder, and another one for coaxial cables. He tapped the numbers into a small calculator on the desk.
    Maybe he’d do something this weekend. Actually leave his house. Maybe he’d take a ride downtown to Manhattan. Maybe find some of his old haunts, just to blow off steam.
    Blow off steam. With whom? Everyone he knew was either dead, in Florida, or in jail.
    When he’d first gotten out of jail this last time, he’d traveled down to Florida, to Sarasota, thinking he might just buy himself a condo and retire there.
    It looked like a wheelchair-testing division. So Arthur figured maybe it was just not the right part of Florida, up north, so he traveled deep into the state almost to the tip, till he got to Miami.
    He was shot at on the first day.
    It reminded him of what they said Chicago had been like during the twenties.
    So Florida was either depressing or dangerous.
    And at this point he had a theory that Florida had become a prison without bars. They were keeping it a secret, so you didn’t know that an entire peninsula of the United States was actually a penitentiary.
    And the crime you were sent there for?
    Being old.
    And Jesus, the nuts down there. His first day in Miami he’d watched all these people sitting on the beaches in the beautiful sunshine, wrapped up like mummies or lepers.
    He’d sat next to this man who was covered in a sheet, a golf cap, and a blanket. And the one piece of the man still sticking out was his nose, which was spread with this white gunk. Under all the blankets, Arthur assessed that the man was probably near ninety.
    â€œSay, pal,” he’d asked, “why is everybody covered up down here?”
    â€œBecause the sun is bad for you and you might get skin cancer.”
    And Arthur’d looked at this guy, who was telling him this through his sheets, and two thoughts occurred to Arthur.
    Number one, if you’re so afraid of the sun, why the hell would you move