The Pineville Heist Read online

  Gordie reached into his jeans' pocket and retrieved a black GPS unit. “That's why he gave me one of these, genius.” Gordie recorded the coordinates as he moved deeper into the woods. “Come on–we still need to stash the other backpack and dump the van.”

  Jake groaned and watched Gordie walking away as he wiped the perspiration from his neck with a handkerchief. “Lazy bastard,” he murmured. “Wouldn't take so long if you picked up a shovel.”

  With a second thought, Jake reached down and unzipped the backpack, carefully, easing through each tooth of the zipper to ensure an almost silent opening. He touched the canvas bag within the backpack–stenciled with the words: PINEVILLE SAVINGS AND LOAN.

  “Don't take all day,” Gordie called out.

  Nervously, Jake retracted his hand and turned his coveting eyes away. Zipping the backpack closed, he proceeded to bury it in a pile of dirt. “Goodbye–for now.”

  Leaving the hole mostly unfilled, he dragged a wooden board over and placed it on top. Then he kicked some soil and leaves over the plank of wood, disguising it, blending it with the rest of the forest groundcover.

  “About time, genius,” Gordie coughed as Jake joined him.

  “No need to be a jerk,” Jake said. Finally he'd had enough.

  Gordie turned to face Jake, examining him with his steely unblinking eyes. He recognized he was pushing boundaries. “Okay, Jake. Relax. Stash this second backpack and be quick about it. Unless I've hurt your feelings?”

  Jake shook his head. That was good enough, he supposed. “Give it to me.” Jake snatched the backpack and ventured off into the woods.

  Gordie scanned the trees and breathed a sigh of relief. A smile crept across his face. He called out to Jake. “C'mon! Hurry up.”

  Soon both men were returning to the white van. “That was just too frigging easy,” Jake laughed, suddenly feeling free of the burden of what was safely stowed in the backpacks, deep in the woods.

  “Don't count your chickens just yet,” said Gordie.

  Jake opened the passenger's side door and turned around, holding the gloves, two security uniforms and two Halloween masks, what appeared to be a zombie and a Frankenstein's monster. “Why do you always have to be so serious? Come on, relax. We did it. We're on easy street now, man,” Jake said, oblivious to the teenaged-sized footprints in the mud, which he was obliterating with his every step.

  four

  The Pineville High School was imposing as approached from the expanse of the athletic field. An older three-level brick and mortar monstrosity, the school housed 235 young minds week on week. One of the oldest buildings in Pineville, the school stood strong on the horizon. Built in the late 1800's as part of the railway expansion, the building converted to a school in 1935 when the commuter trains stopped slipping past the town.

  Aaron looked up from his mud-caked shoes and picked up the pace. He was really going to be late at this rate.

  With a squeak, Aaron entered the polished locker-lined corridors, and didn't pay much attention to the boiler-suited janitor with a mop in his hand, who was aghast that Aaron had left footprints marking his freshly clean floors.

  Aaron made a beeline for the nearest classroom on the left – he passed by the walls, covered with famous literary quotations and paper flyers touting various school productions of plays by Steinbeck, Miller, Mamet, and Shakespeare. He knew by the noises inside the room that he was indeed late for English, with Miss Becker.

  Miss Amanda Becker. She wasn't like the other teachers. In her mid-20s, in a skirt, heels and a blouse, she was the thing of teenaged fantasies. A teacher in the ballpark age of her students – and in the tight clothes that challenged every boy's mind to focus on Shakespeare. She tossed her straight sandy blonde hair often, and her glossed lips looked angelic as she helped the students speak in 17th century prose.

  It wasn't inconceivable that any one of them had a shot with her. It wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. One day their age differences wouldn't matter. So, perhaps, maybe, who knows. It happens all the time; there was a case recently featured on CNN, thought Aaron, before shaking it off. Too weird. His mind wandered back to waiting for the right moment to make his entrance.

  “This is Shakespeare guys, not Tennessee Williams,” Amanda announced from the side of the room. She was watching two boys dressed in Elizabethan clothing as they acted out the final scene in Hamlet in front of an audience of fellow students. “He wrote the words that way for a reason. Keep going.”

  One of the boys, Mike, leaned on his sword. The plastic blade bent and he looked down as it was starting to give way under his weight. “Do we get to use real ones on Monday, Miss Becker?”

  “Yes, Michael, you get to use the real one during the play, now please continue.”

  “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince,” Mike said, jumping back into character, as Amanda stepped towards the stage.

  Peering into the room, Aaron knew he couldn't wait any longer; he decided to slip in now, and hopefully Miss Becker wouldn't interrupt the rehearsal just to bite his head off. He sauntered in and slid into the nearest empty seat. “Aaron! What time do you call this?”

  Aaron released a long sigh. It was going to be one of those days. He looked over his shoulder at Miss Becker and she was already crooking her finger, beckoning him to the back of the class. Her face was a mask of displeasure and nothing like the fantasy conjured up by his television fantasies.

  “I thought you took this role seriously, Aaron,” Amanda whispered in hushed tones.

  “I do, Miss Becker, I do,” Aaron whispered back to her, lifting his copy of Hamlet–considerably worse for wear after its dunk in the puddle. Amanda cast her eyes over the disheveled book and it appeared that her disappointment was gaining momentum.

  “If you really want to be a professional on Broadway someday, you need to realize how the simple act of being late can affect the entire production. The play is called Hamlet… and you're Hamlet,” she said, poking him in the chest with a ruby-polished nail. “That means this whole thing rests on your shoulders. Understand?”

  Aaron looked down at his dirty shoes and then back into Amanda's eyes. “Yeah, but it's not my fault. My dad's in the middle of some stupid deal and couldn't drive…”

  “Another part of being a responsible actor is taking your lumps and not passing the buck. Okay?”

  “Okay, Miss Becker. I apologize for being late,” responded Aaron. “Should I jump in?”

  “Yes, Aaron, please join the group. We can't practice 'Ham-let' without Hamlet,” Amanda said as she patted Aaron on the shoulder.

  Aaron moved to the front of the class, glancing back at Miss Becker, who was staring out the window, arms crossed. Just when Aaron was becoming worried that Amanda was extremely angry with him, she pulled herself away from the window, smiled and focused on the group of teens at the front of the stage, assessing their stances and stage placements.

  Aaron also assessed the small group, but with a less Shakespearean focus. The group consisted of about ten students, who played the characters of the last scene. Most of the students were dressed in modern clothing, most of which were cheap knock offs from discount stores. With t-shirts, baggy shorts, and tank tops matching the shaggy modern hairstyles, the group looked more apt for a run on the beach than recite classic lines.

  The group surrounded the two main characters of this portion of the scene, Hamlet and Horatio, played by Pete and Mike. The two stood facing one another, ready to act out the final scene.

  Mike, who played Horatio, was certainly not a modern day gentleman. He wore baggy skater clothing, and his shaggy dirty blonde hair hung in his eyes. Out of character, every move he made was slow and indecisive, but when immersed in his role, Mike became a quick, decisive leader.

  Pete had stepped in as Hamlet in Aaron's absence, and he was a poor replacement. Perhaps to challenge the name given him, Peter George Cornelius III, Pete outfitted himself entirely in black and was poked full of more holes
than seemingly possible. Three lip rings, a bull nose ring, two eyebrow barbells above each brow, and one large gauge lobe stretcher in each ear were the more prominent piercings, but he boasted of others in places no one–except maybe his girlfriend -wanted to see.

  Pete breathed an audible sigh of relief as Aaron approached to take back the Hamlet role. “Thank God, man. Miss Becker is a slave driver,” Pete said as he left the stage, winking exaggeratedly and blowing kisses at Miss Becker as he took his seat next to his equally holey girlfriend, Charlotte.

  The class laughed at Pete's antics, and Miss Becker hushed the class. “That's enough class. Let's get down to work. We only have a few days until opening day, and we still haven't gone through the entire dress rehearsal.”

  Miss Becker turned her attention to Aaron and Mike. “Ready to take it from the top of Hamlet's death encounter?”

  Mike nodded and threw himself into the Horatio role before Aaron could respond. “Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here's yet some liquor left.”

  Aaron jumped in, saying, “As thou'rt a man, give me the cup. Let go; by God. I'll have't—”

  “By heaven,” Amanda interrupted.

  “What?” asked Aaron.

  “As thou'rt a man, give me the cup. Let go, by heaven. I'll have't,” Amanda corrected.

  “Oh. Okay,” said Aaron. “By heaven. I'll have't. Oh good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from…from…from…”

  Aaron began thumbing through his sodden book while the students around him whispered. He tossed his book aside in frustration and plucked Mike's from his hands. Aaron furiously sought the line, and when he found it, he forcefully pointed at the line in the book and yelled “Felicity!”

  “Aaron, are you prepared for Monday's opening?” Amanda asked, her brow furrowed in concern. “Pete can always step in as understudy.”

  Aaron glanced at Pete, who looked as horror-stricken as if he'd been offered up as a sacrifice to the Gods. “No, I know my lines,” Aaron said quickly. “I just blanked on 'Felicity'.” Aaron paused a moment before continuing. “Will you be there Monday to prompt lines if we get stuck?”

  Amanda opened her mouth to answer just as a loud rattling cough erupted from the doorway. Amanda looked to the interruption in relief. Sheriff Jay Tremblay was standing there, filling out the doorframe. Even at 54-years-old, he cast a terrifying silhouette, with his tall looming stature, domed bald head and untamed black moustache draped over his crooked mouth. Having caught Amanda's attention, he adjusted the fit of his hat and checked the holster strap over his Colt 45 pistol.

  “Alright, gang, put away your scripts and props and listen up. Sheriff Tremblay has been kind enough to drop by and give us a few words,” Amanda said, clapping her hands together.

  Aaron and the other cast members quickly took their seats. Amanda nodded her head for Tremblay to proceed.

  Tremblay looked around the various boys and girls, as if he were scanning them for criminal records, or even inclinations of criminal activity. He raised his furry, graying eyebrows, like a pair of caterpillars growling at each other as they battle for the coveted position of the bare skin in between the eyes. Then, with another rattling cough, he finally spoke, “Don't take drugs.”

  A geeky student, complete with black glasses, braces and acne, let out an unfortunate and likely involuntary snort, bringing Tremblay's gaze to him. Feeling the heat of the glare, the student dropped any semblance of a smirk and lowered his head in shame.

  “You may think Pineville is some kinda Shangri-La and immune to all the crap that happens down in the big city,” Tremblay began to rant, almost spitting at the mere mention of the 'big city.' “But I can assure you that drugs are permeating our community here in Pineville just like disrespect to your mothers is ripping apart the nuclear family.”

  Aaron rested his chin on his arm as he slumped over his desk, suddenly exhausted by his morning. Yet, he kept his eyes fixated on Tremblay who was moving over to the blackboard where he picked up a piece of chalk.

  “Pop quiz. What's the biggest threat to you kids today?”

  “Reality TV,” a foreign student said, causing the whole room to burst into nervous laughter. Tremblay remained silent, with his lips held tightly shut.

  “Twitter,” a pretty girl murmured, leading to more giggles. Aaron smiled over at her, but she didn't return it.

  “Alright, people,” Amanda said, crossing her arms.

  “My father.”

  Aaron's words killed the laughter and drove the room into a sudden silence–except for the sound of Tremblay breaking the end of the chalk off on the blackboard.

  Mike grinned at Aaron while the other students looked scornfully in Aaron's direction, before turning away from him. Aaron's attempt to win praise from his fellow classmates had failed. Amanda made eye contact with Aaron and frowned. She wasn't impressed either.

  “Please continue, Sheriff,” Amanda urged.

  five

  “Ten million have tried it,” Tremblay said accusingly as he continued to eyeball the classroom of stony faces. “The majority of users are under the age of twenty.” He paused for effect before snapping, “Anyone?”

  His word echoed off the walls. “Marijuana,” volunteered the pretty girl.

  “Masturbation,” Aaron joked.

  Dead silence. Then suddenly laughter erupted from the desk by the door. It was Steve, a bushy haired seventeen-year-old, with equally bushy sideburns and a soul patch spurting from beneath his thin lips.

  “Office,” Amanda said sternly, her finger directing Aaron to the door. This immediately erased the smirk from his face and eliminated the short victory celebration of at least making Steve laugh.

  Expressing his dismay with a loud hiss-like exhale, Aaron rose from his chair. As he scuffed along the aisle, he stole a glance at Tremblay and regretted it instantly. He found himself on the receiving end of Tremblay's iciest of glares. Not a good idea to be on the wrong side of the law, Aaron thought to himself. And this lawman was as prickly as the points on his Sheriff's badge.

  Tremblay didn't miss a step and went on to answer his own question: “I'm talking about a fairly new drug called methamphetamine, also known as speed, crank or ice.”

  “It's not new. Hitler used it,” Steve said with all the condescension he could muster, leading to a few chuckles from students. Aaron shook his clenched fist in a 'jerk off' gesture to Steve, and then hurried out the door, suddenly glad to have Tremblay and Miss Becker in his rear-view. They could talk about drugs and crap all day long. He was outta there and free as a bird.

  “You want to go too, Steve?” Amanda said, her voice carrying into the corridor.

  “It's true, Miss Becker, the Nazis made it out of fertilizer. The Kamikaze pilots used it too, to stay awake and…” Steve's explanations eventually faded into muffled echoes as Aaron kept walking, smiling like he'd won the trip of a lifetime, instead of a one-way trip to detention. Still, there was time for a detour. Aaron deviated to the right, entering into the boy's bathroom.

  Just as Aaron disappeared inside, Officer Carl Smith rounded the corner with a lollipop in his mouth. The white stick dangled dangerously from the corner of the young man's mouth, like a cigarette in a Dirty Harry movie. Nevertheless, with his tousled brown hair and lightly-stubbled chin, while he fancied himself as a Harry, he wasn't quite Dirty enough.

  Carl stopped dead and tick-tocked the lollipop stick left and right in his mouth, with the flick of his tongue. He breathed in the pine-fresh scent of the freshly mopped corridors. Brought him back to his glory days. He used to rule this school. And now he ruled the town, as the Sheriff's right-hand man.

  After a quick reminisce down memory lane, Carl pulled himself together, tugged the lollipop out of his mouth and strolled towards Miss Becker's classroom. He stood by the door watching for a moment. He found Tremblay in the middle of drawing a crude picture o
f a skull on the blackboard. With an irritatingly shrill and piercing scratching sound, Tremblay meticulously shaded in the brain area with a nubbin of chalk, then turned to face the kids again.

  “This is your brain on meth,” Tremblay said matter-of-factly. A muted groan arose from the corpus of students. They'd heard this all before…

  Amanda was distracted by a light knock at the door's window–Carl was tapping with the end of his lollipop. She smiled at him, a sparkle dancing across her eyes, which she tried to hide, but failed miserably.

  “I thought we were meeting after work?” Amanda whispered through gritted teeth, attempting to smile like a teacher robot, and not a girl talking to a boy. Steve looked over appraisingly at Amanda and Carl. Normally pleasant, there was something brutish about Carl's demeanor.

  Carl blankly gazed at Amanda's face for what seemed like ages. For a man usually focused and charming, Carl looked tired and irritable.

  Amanda looked deeply into his face the entire time, trying to read his expression. To Steve, she looked like a love struck puppy denied attention.

  Carl finally turned his head, ignoring her question, ignoring her imploring gaze. Without a word, or an offer to enter, he pushed the door open wider and stepped inside the class.

  Amanda stepped back and tried to hide her emotions from the class. Steve watched as Amanda's face fell, as she wiped what appeared to be a tear from her eye, as she turned away, eyes downcast and saddened.

  “Sheriff? Can I speak to you a sec?” Carl announced to the entire room, including a slightly bewildered Amanda. He had his hands on his hips, holding onto his belt, like his dignity required it.

  Tremblay gave Carl a “what are you doing here” kind of scowl, then crossed the room, barging past Carl out into the hall. Amanda looked back at Carl, waiting for him to say something to her, anything, but instead he turned on his heels and walked out, closing the door.

  Amanda studied the closed door for a moment. Carl didn't need to speak. The back of the door seemed to be saying everything to her. She then turned around to find Steve watching her, blinking after a long stare. Did he also hear what the door had intimated to her?