The Dead Yard (17 page)

"Four butter crunch with sprinkles, two-buck tip. I’d rather have rocky road if that’s
ok?"

"Butter fucking crunch," Touched insisted.

Seamus slunk out of the car and walked up to the ice-cream stand. There was a queue of about a
dozen people ahead of him, so it might be a while. Touched turned the car and the
air-conditioning back on.

He turned to face us.

"Seamus is ok. Don’t worry about him. He’s been a bit shaken up since the attempted hit on
Gerry, but he’s ok. You saw him that night. Fucking outstanding. He’s solid. Not like some others
I could mention."

"He seems fine to me," I said.

"I’ve had him teasing info out of you, and I’ve asked around. You’re ok, Sean, and I think
your heart’s in the right place. I want you, Sean. I like you. I think we could use you. Your
country could use you."

I looked at him. His eyes were cold now. Serious. How stupid was I supposed to act? Would Sean
know what Touched was asking him to join?

"Will it mean killing people?" I asked.

"For you it will not. Not you. Certainly not initially. British companies, businesses. Maybe
military or governmental officials, and you won’t be involved in that unless you’re completely
comfortable. Me, Gerry, and Seamus will take the high-risk assignments. Maybe Jackie later."

"You’re not the Provos, are you?"

"We’re not, we’re our own group. The Sons of Cuchulainn. Back in the heyday there used to be
about a dozen of us in two cells. Now it’s basically Gerry’s family and a few others. We’re down
in numbers but not in clout. I really think we can make a difference. Gerry is fucking loaded. We
have resources up to the roof, we just need young guns, new blood. The IRA have never even tried
a campaign in America. Chickenshit traitors that they are."

"They tried to kill Gerry."

"Aye, but they won’t try again. They’re on cease-fire now, so they can’t."

"So who’s your enemies?"

"Nobody knows about us yet. Probably only a couple of files in the FBI. Those files will get
bigger. The Brits will get involved. But we’re going to be smart. Cell structure, untraceable.
Even if the FBI are doing surveillance on Gerry, none of it’s going to get back. Hoping to have
two or three cells in place by Christmas," Touched said.

"What’s the point, what’s the goal?"

"The point is to take the war to the enemy. What I’m going to tell you is very confidential.
This goes for you too, Kit, no blabbing."

"Of course not."

"In the next week or two a new organization is going to be announced in Dublin called
Continuity IRA or Real IRA. They’re opposed to the IRA cease-fire. So we won’t be alone. If we
can impress Real IRA with a few spectaculars, I’d say we’d be quids in with them. We can have a
formal alliance or we can be co-opted. Either way we won’t be alone, not by a long shot. It’ll
mean money, influence, power, and history’s going our way, Sean. And Mr. Blair and the Labour
Party are for a United Ireland anyway. We hope to give them the boost they need to withdraw."

"By?"

"Making life impossible for British companies, consulates, and so on in the United States of
America. Hurt them economically. Way to their heart is through their wallet."

"So no killing?"

"If you’re squeamish about that you should turn me down now, because killing is unavoidable in
any war," Touched said, and to impress the seriousness of his point, he smacked his fist into his
palm. I looked at him, thought for a moment. His face had lost all of its levity. This was one
subject not to be taken lightly.

"I hate the fuckers, but it’s just not something I personally have had to do before," I
said.

"I know, Sean. It’s hard. The first time is hard. Look at Kit there beside you, she knows," he
said somewhat surprisingly.

Kit nodded.

"You’ve killed someone?" I asked her, shocked.

"No. That’s not what he’s talking about. But I know it might be necessary. If you don’t think
you have the nerve…" Kit muttered, trying to appear steely and composed. Touched nodded grimly,
his face a mask of certainty.

"I have the nerve, sister, don’t worry about that," I said.

"Good," Touched said, reaching back and clumsily punching me on the shoulder.

"The ends will justify the means," Kit said dreamily, as if that explained anything.

"I’m in," I said.

Touched grinned, grabbed my hand, and shook it.

"I knew I could depend on you, Sean. Not so fast, though. You have to prove you have the
bottle. What you did when you were sixteen was one thing, have to see if you have the balls right
now. Today will be the first test; but we need you, Sean. I’m not telling tales out of school if
I admit that what happened in Revere was a big setback. Nobody got hurt, but as I’ve already told
you, Mike has split. And we lost two more, old pal of Gerry’s called Tommy O’Neill and a wee kid
called Jamie, thought he was coming along, we all liked him, but he’s scarpered too."

"He was a nice boy. Jackie taught him to surf," Kit said sadly.

"I’m in if you’ll have me," I said.

"We’ll have you if you do well today and the next and…Here comes Seamus with the ice creams
and oh my fucking Christ, he got the rainbow instead of the chocolate sprinkles."

The National Independent Bank of Londonderry, NH, was in a little patch of land cleared from
the thick woods off Route 128. It hardly resembled a bank at all. More like a settler’s cabin
with a tiny car park next to it. It was the sort of place Robert Frost might have written about,
juxtaposing the capitalistic rudeness of the bank with the loveliness of nature. Some sort of
shite like that.

Touched drove past it once and pulled the Toyota into a lay-by about fifty yards up. I would
have parked closer, in case we had to run out of there, but I didn’t want to mess with Touched’s
arrangements. Presumably he knew what he was doing. Besides, if we were caught, they’d all go to
jail and I’d be out of the op. Though getting shot by the cops or a security guard was a
different matter.

Touched reached in the glove compartment and gave us each a ski mask to pull on. From his
jacket he produced a couple of .38 revolvers, gave them to Kit and me.

"You fired a gun before?" he asked, a fine time for a question like that.

I nodded. Kit shook her head.

"I thought your da took you to Bob’s on Route 1?" Touched asked.

"He—he said he was going to but he never did."

"Jesus. I should have done it before now. Ok, well, can’t be bloody helped. You wait in the
car, Kit," Touched said.

"I’m not waiting in the car," Kit said angrily. "I’m going."

"You’re not going anywhere if you can’t handle a firearm."

"I’m fucking going, Touched," Kit said.

Touched looked at her. She wasn’t budging. He liked that. A grin spread across his face.

Touched took the gun back, emptied out the shells, and handed it to her again.

"Just look threatening," he said to Kit.

"Ok," she replied.

"Last chance to pull out," Touched said to the pair of us.

"I’m in," I said.

Kit thought for a moment. "Me, too," she said finally.

"Ok, leave it all to me, not a word from either of you and do everything I say,
understood?"

We both nodded.

"Seamus, are you ok?"

Seamus nodded, produced his own .38, spun the barrel, snapped it in his hand. Seamus was
pretty confident with a pistol, I remembered.

We put on our ski masks, got out of the car, and walked through the woods to the back of the
bank.

There were two cars outside. Route 128 was quiet.

"Me first," Touched said, adjusting his ski mask.

He walked into the bank. I heard Kit behind me, gagging back vomit.

The bank was tiny.

One woman clerk behind the counter, one man helping her in the back. No customers. Fan in the
upper left of the room. Desk for filling out forms. Handmade posters advertising yard sales and a
stock show. Glass partition between customers and tellers. A smell of resin, wood glue, and
coffee. And as Touched had told us, one big old-fashioned surveillance camera.

Touched walked up to the woman teller. She saw the four of us, the guns, the masks.

"Can, can I hel…" she said, her voice trailing off into a whisper. Betty, according to the
nameplate in front of her, was an older woman, with dyed red hair and a perma tan that actually
suited her. She was dressed in a garish yellow frock she must have bought at Woolworth’s in about
1971.

"It’s like this," Touched began calmly. "We plan to be out of here in two minutes. No one is
going to get hurt. What you’re going to do, love, is fill this bag full of money and then we’re
going to go and when you’ve waited for twenty minutes you’re going to call the police."

Touched pushed a black bag under the six-inch gap in the glass partition. The woman picked it
up absently.

"Harris, we’re being robbed," she said, and finally the man behind her looked up from whatever
he was doing. He was also elderly, in a gray shirt, black woolen tie, and glasses. He looked the
flighty troublemaking type to me. I kept him between me and Kit in case he was going to try
anything.

"Oh my God," Harris said.

"It’s ok, everything is going to be fine," Touched said.

"Mr. Prescott isn’t here yet today. Of all days, why today? He’s not here, he’s still in
Manchester," Harris said in a voice trembling with panic. The woman looked at Harris and then at
Touched.

"Fill the fucking bag," Touched said, and for the first time he raised his pistol to the
horizontal and pointed it at her. She froze.

"I think we should wait until Mr. Prescott comes back," Harris said.

Touched was getting angry now.

"If you don’t start filling that bag with money, I am going to fucking butcher the pair of
you," he yelled.

Betty started to tear up and let the bag drop on the floor.

"Please go away," she said.

Harris put his hands over his head.

"Mr. Prescott should be back in half an hour, please, can you not wait, or come back then? We
won’t tell the police. I give you my word as, as an Elk," he pleaded, sweat shining on the bald
spot on his head and appearing under the arms of his polyester shirt.

Touched clicked the hammer back on his revolver.

"One more word out of you, mate, and you’re going to be fucking toast," he growled.

Betty began to sob. Harris began to hyperventilate and backed away into a filing cabinet,
which banged shut. Touched turned to Seamus, Kit, and myself.

"We’re going to have to shoot through the glass," he said. "You two stay back. And can someone
take out the bloody camera?"

Seamus shot the surveillance camera, something he should have done as soon as we’d walked into
the bank.

The noise was deafening.

Betty began to sway.

This was all spinning out of control. Bank tellers are trained to give you the money. They
want to give you the money. This should be easy.

I put my hand on Touched’s shoulder and whispered: "Let me try."

Touched was about to say something, changed his mind, nodded. I walked as close to the glass
as I could and put the gun down on the counter so that Betty could see I was not pointing it at
her.

I spoke gently: "Betty, please, pick up the bag, if you put some money in it we’ll be gone and
out of your life forever and this will all be over."

"I, I, I dropped it," she said.

"That’s ok, you’re bound to be nervous. But don’t worry about it, you’re really doing very
well. Mr. Prescott is going to be very proud of you. Now pick up the bag and fill it with
money."

She looked at Harris. He nodded.

"Come on, Betty. It’ll be something to tell the TV news and your grandchildren," I said as
kindly as I could, but hoping that mentioning the grandkids would also remind her that this was
life or death.

Touched seethed impatiently beside me.

Betty looked at me for a moment, picked up the bag, opened the drawer for the twenties, and
threw in all the stacks. About a dozen in total.

"What about the other drawers?" I asked.

"Mr. Prescott has the keys for those, but, but he should be back directly."

"That’s ok, just give me that bag," I said.

Seamus suddenly came to life.

"There’s someone coming in from the parking lot," he yelled, eyeing the door.

I looked at Betty and Harris.

"No silent alarms, no tricks, you two just do your job and give me the bag," I said to
Betty.

She flattened the bag and calmly pushed it under the glass. I picked it up, chucked it to
Touched.

"He’s definitely coming in," Seamus said, peering outside.

"I can’t believe this, they usually get one customer an hour," Touched growled nervously.

Kit was rocking back on her heels, looking like she might be about to pass out. I reached over
and steadied her shoulder.

"What’s he look like, Seamus?" I asked.

"Old guy in a red cap," Seamus hissed.

"Let him come in, smack him on the head as soon as he’s through the door," I commanded.

"I’ll do it," Touched said, trying to assert some of his authority.

Touched walked to the front of the bank and almost immediately the door opened. An old
woodsman came in out of the bright sunlight and before he had time to adjust to the interior
dimness Touched had savagely clobbered him with the butt of his pistol. He went down like a
puppet with the strings cut.

I turned to Betty and Harris.

"Thank you, Betty, now make sure you give us twenty minutes to get away before you call the
police, because if we’re captured before then, we’ll make sure our associates kill you and Harris
before the trial. They’ll torture you with arc welding gear until you’re begging for death. A
good twenty minutes, do you understand?"

Betty’s eyes widened and the color drained from her cheeks. She nodded and tried to speak but
could not.