Coded Minutes

Doris opens the drawer, and her eyes flick to the customer on the other side of the metal cage. She’s out of loose twenties, and a banded stack lies in the slot. She lifts them out and rips the band, offering a smile to the man in the grease-stained denim shirt. He smiles back, patient, but he wants her to hurry.

Fresh bills. They’re going to stick together, and the line in the velvet ropes is growing. A man in a yellow windbreaker just joined it and sighed. Lunchtime. People want to cash a check, make a deposit, and get out so they can eat and get back to work.

Denim shirt only wants $60, and his account has plenty to cover it. Why didn’t he use the ATM?

She peels off three bills, counts, counts again, then a final time, her fingers flicking along the edge of the paper and fanning the three bills out so she can see three numbered twenties inked into the stiff bills at once.

The receipt spits from the printer, and she stacks it and the bills.

“Would you like an envelope?”

Denim shirt shakes his head, swipes the money, and heads for the door. Yellow windbreaker is still the last guy in the line. She shakes her head. He’s going to roast in that thing if he’s working outside.

“Next,” she calls without looking.

Smiling, she suppresses a sigh. The lady with flour dusting her hair and what looks like chocolate on her shirt cuff smiles back with no enthusiasm and unzips a bulging bank bag. Stacks of small bills are bound together with rubber bands, each with a little post-it on top. A business card tumbles out with the stacks of bills, and Doris smells a spice. Rosemary?

The card reads: Gertrude’s Bakery – Catering & Events. There’s an ornate cartoon wedding cake in the upper left of the card.

Definitely using the machine. She arranges the stack, and it starts, making that whirring sound as the bills cycle through. The count blinks, and it’s only off from the total on the post-its by two dollars. The baker doesn’t argue, takes the deposit receipt and squints at the total, and her face goes blank, calculating.

Doris smiles.

“You make cupcakes?”

The baker starts and glances up, her face a question.

“I asked if you sell cupcakes,” Doris says.

“Vanilla chiffon with lemon buttercream,” the baker says as though reading a ledger.

Doris feels her mouth water, but the baker returns to the receipt and steps away.

Feeling eyes on her, Doris turns. Jenny, the teller next door is staring at the entrance. Doris follows her eyes.

Yellow jacket is standing before the double doors, looking out, but no. It’s not yellow jacket. Hair’s different, curly and red. This one’s taller. Doris looks to the velvet ropes. Yellow jacket standing in line is looking at her. Brown eyes and hair. He steps over the rope.

A snap on his jacket is undone. His hand slips inside.

Doris looks to the door. There are two of them, both wearing the same jacket.

Back to the first. The gun is out. 9mm. His thumb flicks the safety off. A little red dot etched in the metal stares at her. Yellow jacket turns the muzzle out. It levels on Doris.

She feels like a beam is tickling her throat as though the muzzle tickles her skin, and her throat goes dry. Instinct tries to intrude, and her hand goes for the little doorbell button under the counter.

Yellow jacket lifts the gun. The beam traces up, centering on Doris’ forehead. She holds her hands up, palms facing forward. The beam falls back to her throat.

“We cut it anyway,” he leans forward and looks at her name tag. “Doris.”

A flash of the second yellow jacket streaks behind the first. He’s going to the manager’s office. The customer who began to complain about yellow jacket cutting the line drops her purse. Yellow jacket flinches. He glances back then returns to Doris.

Feeding a dirty canvas cinch bag under the cage, he flicks the enormous muzzle along the line of tellers.

“Each drawer. Hurry.”

Doris thinks of the twenties. They’ll stick together for him too. Her thought ends with the metal of the gun rapping on the cage. The voice contrasts with the rattle. It’s calm, gentle. Like a gentle, patient scolding.

“Hurry.”

It’s almost like he wanted to add ‘please’.

Swallowing, Doris shoves the bills inside. Her drawer empty, she goes to the end. Yellow Jacket follows. Her eyes return to Yellow Jacket. He watches, eyes traveling between the bag and Doris. He smiles when he notices Doris’ hands shaking.

Doris is at the third window when the second yellow jacket comes to the first. He whispers. First yellow jacket steps back.

“Should have told me you had the key,” he smiles. “Doris.”

Doris freezes. If she ducks, he might forget her. She shoves the thought aside. She isn’t a toddler.

Yellow jacket beckons. Doris can’t move.

“The bag?” Doris asks.

“Bring it too,” yellow jacket says.

Her body wants to move away, not towards. She forces it. Doris lets the bag fall to her side, each step a conscious effort. Yellow jacket is waiting. He snatches the bag and holds it out. Second yellow jacket takes it. First yellow jacket closes an arm around Doris’ bicep.

“Vault. Let’s go.”

He smokes, and as he guides her towards the vault, their gaits clash, and his breast pocket bumps her arm. It’s a hardpack of cigarettes, not like the soft packs grandpa smoked. Vantage, the one with the bullseye label. It smells the same, stale and earthy. Her face flushes. He has no right to smell like grandpa.

The thick vault door is open wide, but the smaller security gate is in place. Yellow jacket doesn’t speak but steps aside and looks at Doris, raising his eyebrows. Doris steps to the gate and slips the key from her pocket. The metal slides in, ratcheting against the lock.

“Why you?” Yellow jacket asks.

Her hand freezes before she turns the lock. Her eyes meet the pale blue of yellow jacket. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“Manager always has the key,” yellow jacket says. “Why you?”

“Manager training,” Doris replies.

“We checked this place last week. You weren’t here.”

“Transferred from downtown. Mr. Lauria is getting promoted.”

“Euclid St. Branch? You don’t work there either.”

His face is sly, suspicious. Doris freezes and swallows.

“Federal Highway,” Doris replies, her voice a whisper.

Yellow jacket tilts his head then lifts his hand, rubbing his fingertips together. “Haven’t gotten to that one yet. Big cash?”

“The auto plant workers cash paychecks there on Fridays.”

His eyes widen, and a flicker of greed brightens his face. Then, it vanishes, and he taps the gate with the gun. Doris turns the lock and steps back.

“You know better than that,” yellow jacket says and gestures for Doris to enter.

Old fluorescents buzz in the anteroom of the vault. The safe deposit boxes are to the left. The inner door of the vault seems tiny, a heavy square of metal. Its shape swims before Doris’ eyes. She closes them as her legs weaken. The touch pad beside it is dark.

A hand closes over Doris’ shoulder and pushes.

“Let’s go manager training.”

Doris lifts her hand to the pad. Her entire arm is quaking. She almost pushes a button and pulls her hand back. Two numbers enter her head. She knows the right one, but if she uses it, it’ll take time. The more time this takes, the longer she has to feel the tickle on her skin where the gun points.

“Don’t ruin this now. You’ve been doing great,” yellow jacket says.

Doris closes her eyes and takes a breath. She pushes the first number, and the pad lights, round white buttons on a green background. She finishes and pushes enter.

The pad blinks, flashes red, and goes dark. She did it. Even if he kills her, she did what they’d planned. She’d been brave enough.

The muzzle of the gun is cold when it touches the base of her neck. Yellow jacket’s voice is sing-song and scolding.

“You’re ruining it.”

“I’m sorry,” Doris says. She closes her eyes and waits. It’ll be ok. She won’t feel a thing.

Two breaths come in and out of her throat. Her heart thuds in her ears. The pressure at the base of her neck increases.

“I’m sorry.”

“Again,” the voice behind her says.

Opening her eyes, she lifts her hand to the pad. She pushes the code, the second one, then hits enter, and the pad blinks green. There’s an electronic buzzing, and the door is free.

“Good girl.”

Yellow jacket pushes past. Inside the vault, he begins pulling armfuls of cash off the shelves, shoving them into a fresh bag.

The door handle is a half-step away. Doris fixes on it. The door would lock. Bulletproof. Yellow jacket shoves a full bag into her hands, then starts on another. The bag’s heavy, like a sack of phone books.

Yellow jacket shoves his gun back into his coat when the second is filled. He takes the one Doris is holding. He smiles.

“7 out of 10, manager training. Shows promise.”

He brushes past, shoves the security gate aside and departs. The gate rattles at the limit of its hinges and bounces back. Doris starts when it strikes the latch on the return bounce.

In the next instant, a chorus of yells echo down the corridor. A yell answers. The first code worked.

Shot. Four heavier shots erupt in response. The vault behind Doris is open.

She waits. Yellow jacket will appear any second, gun out. Desperate. She’ll be the hostage he takes. Don’t resist. Do what he says. She blinks against tears trying to well.

A moment passes. No yelling. No yellow jacket. She doesn’t move.

The muzzle of a shotgun peeks around the edge of the door. Bigger than the 9mm, it’s like staring into nothing. The predatory eyes aiming it peer from behind tactical glasses, and he’s wearing black body armor. The expression evaluates, hardens, and waits.

He raises a hand and gestures. Another officer in tactical gear flashes past the door and levels his gun at Doris’ throat. His eyes show recognition. The gun drops.

“Miller?”

Doris nods but her feet are stuck. The shotgun is lowered.

“It’s over. Good job.”

Doris shakes her head, then recognizes Jeff. He has a daughter. Blonde, just like him.

“Come on. It’s ok,” Jeff says.

Doris nods, tries to move, can’t, then tries again and almost tumbles over forward. A wave of tingling rolls over her head, starting at the back of her neck. Adrenaline dump.

Sleepwalking, she steps out of the vault. Jeff pats her shoulder. She flinches.

The lobby’s empty and smells like the shooting range, cordite and gunpowder. A navy blue blanket lays over a human-sized lump. A trickle of blood at the edge. She can’t tell which yellow jacket lies beneath. The bag she filled from the drawers lays about a foot away, a few bills scattered out of its mouth.

It’s way too quiet, but Jeff is continuing towards the doors. So, Doris continues to the doors, squinting at the sunshine when she steps outside.

Blue lights flicker in every direction. Red ones on an ambulance rise above the others. Half the cops are on their radios. The rest aren’t doing anything. Eyes go to her.

Her boss is on his cellphone. He sees her and beckons without ending the call. Jeff and the other agent split off, go to the armored car, and begin stripping off their body armor.

Doris stands before agent-in-charge, McManus. He smiles and keeps talking on the phone. It’s all ‘yes, sirs’ and ‘no, sirs’. Finally, he shakes his head and pushes a button on the phone’s face.

“Outstanding. 10 out of 10. Your security pad bit worked like a dream.”

“Thank you, sir,” Doris hears herself say.

He touches her shoulder. “Get the reports filed and take the rest of the day, tomorrow too. Make it a long weekend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He turns away and dials a number.

The paramedics enter the bank, and the blanketed body is being wheeled out. She turns away, heading towards her car. She’d parked at the outer edge of the lot, thankfully beyond the yellow tape and chaos.

As she turns, yellow jacket meets her eyes. Smells like cigarettes. Cuffed, he sits on a curb, surrounded by six uniformed officers.

He says something. Doris shakes her head. He raises his voice, and she catches the first word and reads his lips for the rest.

“Manager training.”

He’s laughing and shaking his head.

Doris turned. She’d remember him and didn’t want to.

Heat billowed when she opened the car door. Sitting on the hot upholstery, she found her keys, pushed the lock towards the ignition, and missed. She tried again, and the metal key clunked against the ignition. The keys fell and brushed against her leg before padding against the carpet.

She leaned forward and fished. Finding the keys, she found the ignition on the third try. Hot air blasted from the vents.

She sat for a long time. Her hand refused to close over the gear lever, slipping off every time she tried to grip it.

Leaning back, she sat and stared. Someone was looking at her, standing outside the chaos. Her brain registered the face. Not a suspect. Associated, not involved.

Then, she caught it. The teller who sat next to her. She couldn’t remember her name. J name. Joyce? She’d try later. She had to. It would need to be in the report.