American Skin

Loath as I am to admit it, Stapleton knew his craft. The bank was in the centre of Shop Street. Four streets converged at its location, he’d planted smoke bombs in five premises nearby, designed to go off with maximum volume. We had three cars for the task. Move and change. Keep moving, keep changing, never let them fix on a definite vehicle. Over and over, like a mantra, he intoned it.

Made sense.

We were sitting in the first car, uncomfortable in the uniforms. Watched as the army stood outside the bank, the bags of money being carried from the trucks. I was in the front with Stapleton, the assault rifle between my knees, barrel to the floor. Stapleton was sliding the rack on a Browning automatic. Tommy, in back, was singing quietly. Stapleton barked,

“Cut that out.”

Tommy nodded and Stapleton added,

“Adjust your beret, soldier, it’s crooked.”

He glanced at me, I asked,

“Getting antsy there, fellah?”

And got the look, he said,

“I don’t get antsy, I get the job done.”

Then the first bomb went, sounding loud and lethal. Tommy moved and Stapleton gritted.

“Steady.”

Then, in rapid succession, three more, the smoke began to cloud the street, Stapleton rooted in a hold-all, took out the canisters, said,

“Let’s roll.”

The soldiers had begun to disperse up the street. We were out and Stapleton lobbed the CS... We pulled on the gas masks, chaos on the make. We got into the bank, pulled off the masks, then into the centre. Two soldiers, confused, were standing by the money, Stapleton barked,

“You two, secure the rear.”

They hesitated and I knew he’d take them down, then they registered his stripes and moved off. We lifted the bags and Stapleton shouted at the staff,

“Keep your heads down.”

They did.

I couldn’t believe how smooth it was going. Glanced at Tommy, sweat on his forehead, his eyes dancing in his head, he muttered,

“This fucking rocks.”

He was electric, cranked on the action. We got to the door, a guard there. Stapleton said,

“Officer, ensure the staff remain inside.”

The tone of command, air of authority, it’s awesome.

The guard near ran to his assignment, I swear I saw a tiny smile light the corner of Stapleton’s mouth. We were down the street, that close to a clean job when it fell apart. Threw the money in the boot and heard,

“Don’t move.”

A young soldier, his rifle cocked, had approached from nowhere, Tommy panicked, lifted his weapon, and the soldier let off a burst, more from nerves than intent. His face shocked as the rounds tore into Tommy’s chest. Stapleton turned, shot the soldier in the head, said,

“Go, go, go!”

Pulled Tommy in the back, Stapleton jumped in beside him. I got behind the wheel, reversed, got out into Mary Street, pulled off my tunic and cap, a shirt and tie beneath.

Citizen.

Drove to the Square. Despite all my inclinations, I kept to the speed limit. Stapleton was lying over Tommy, you couldn’t see them from outside, I asked,

“How’s he doing?

“Shut up, drive.”

At Salthill, I pulled in behind the large, empty ballroom, our second car was there. Transferred Tommy to that, he looked bad. Three minutes, I was driving along the promenade, driving slowly, I could hear sirens all the way. They wouldn’t be looking for a single man, in a suit, driving leisurely by the bay. The third car was outside Spiddal, down a boreen. This is Irish for a road that defies description. I pulled up, got out carefully, a deep ridge on my left, almost a precipice. We’d selected it to dump the uniforms. Stapleton got out, said,

“He’s not going to make it.”

“The fuck you know, we’ve got to get help.”

He was shaking his head, said,

“I’ve seen gunshot wounds, there’s no return from this one, and if he recovered, what, the rest of his life in jail?”

Before I could answer, he turned, put two bullets in Tommy’s face, then the gun moving up. I had the rifle, slammed him between the eyes with the stock. He gave a tiny o, then fell backwards, crashed down the precipice, was lost from view. I should have followed, put one in the back of his skull.