Spoonbenders

He needed to play it cool for Matty, but he knew in his heart that he could never do this again. Maybe real thieves got off on the danger. Maybe people like his dad could sit at a poker table and rob gangsters while looking them in the eye. But Frankie wasn’t that guy.

If he left, this very second, he’d get away a free man. But then what? If he bailed out now, he’d never get his house back, and Loretta would never forgive him. He could lose everything: his marriage, the twins, and most definitely Mary Alice, who resented his presence. He wanted to be that presence. He wanted to be the guy who stuck around even when she wanted him to leave, because he wanted to be better than her deadbeat dad.

No. The only way out of this was through it.

He put the drill into the bag, then followed the light of his Maglite down the hallway to the main room. The Bud Light sign glowed in the window, casting a red smear across the surface of the bar. Did they keep beer taps on at night? He should at least take a bottle of scotch before he left.

The door to Mitzi’s office was unlocked. He moved around the desk and pointed the light at the black safe.

“Okay, Matty,” he said. “Here we go.” He crouched down beside the safe, and held the piece of paper up to the glow of the flashlight. The second set of numbers was the safe combination: 28-11-33. His ears were roaring.

“I apologize in advance for any cursing,” he said.

He spun the dial to clear it, then dialed each number, left, right, left. There was no indication that the combination was correct. He pushed down on the handle, and tugged.

The door swung open.

“Thank you fucking Jesus,” Frankie said. Happy curses were allowed, he decided. “And thank you, Matty.”

Suddenly he remembered the name of the imaginary phone service: Astral Travel and Telephony. AT&T! Ha! He’d have to tell the kid that one.

He aimed the flashlight inside the safe. He couldn’t quite process what he saw. He swung the light away, then back, then played it all around the interior, as if looking for false bottoms, for mirrors. From the back of his throat came a high whine, like air being squeezed from a balloon.

The safe was empty. Or almost: a kid’s lunch box sat on the top shelf. It was too small to hold what he needed.

The inside of his head clanged with the same three syllables, over and over: NOMONEY NOMONEY NOMONEY…

He pulled out the lunch box, a soft-sided Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles model. Money? he asked the box. He yanked open the zipper. Inside was a plastic container holding the remains of some popcorn, or maybe white Chiclets.

No money.

Not even a fucking thermos.

“God damn it!” he shouted. “Give me a fucking break! One fucking break!”

—

There was one thing he’d learned this summer while practicing breaking locks, and failing: if he got really, really frustrated, he had the strength to pick up a safe and hold it over his head. Of course, he’d also learned that if he lost his balance he might accidentally drop it on his wife’s car.

This time when he picked up the safe—first hauling it to waist level, and then up to his chest—he picked his target. He tossed the thing onto Mitzi’s desk, and the explosive crack of wood was so satisfying it almost calmed him down.

Then he thought: I should get out of here.

He hurried down the hallway to the back door. Why would Mitzi move the money? It was already in a safe! That’s why they called it a safe. The stacks of money were supposed to be there, waiting for him. He was supposed to buy back the house—no, buy a new house, with two bathrooms, with AC installed. And a new car, too. He’d come home like a Greek hero in his Toyota chariot, and the twins would run to him. Even Mary Alice would smile. And Loretta—Loretta wouldn’t leave him.

The back door wouldn’t lock, of course. He pulled it shut as best he could, then strode down the alley, still fuming. He had to talk to Matty. When had the Pusateris moved the cash, and why wasn’t the kid watching when they did it? Maybe he could spy around Nick’s house, find out where he kept the dough. No way was the mobster putting that much money into a bank.

The wall beside him was suddenly lit by a swipe of headlights; even his silhouette looked surprised. The cops! For a long moment he was paralyzed, expecting strobe lights to erupt behind him, the whoop of a siren. But nothing, nothing except the clank of a car door opening. The sound unlocked his legs. He ran pell-mell for the street, the tool bag clanking at his side, and threw himself around the corner.

He reached the driver’s side of the van and smashed his elbow against the big mirror trying to brace himself. He yanked open the door, threw the tool bag and the fucking lunch box inside. Where were the keys? He searched one pocket, found nothing. Did he drop them? Where was his flashlight? He pushed a hand into the other pocket.

Keys!