Beneath a steel sky so foreboding Patch might have known, he strolled into the Merchants National and did not notice the extra guard posted by the side door, sitting back behind a newspaper. And when he pulled his gun he did not see the man pull his own.
The teller shoved bills into an envelope, then glanced up once, over Patch’s right shoulder, as he handed him the money.
The shot sounded like a cap or a firecracker.
The glass divider shattered.
The screams dropped him to the floor with the rest.
He crawled his way across the carpet as hell broke loose around him. An alarm rang out; sprinklers washed the panic from him as he settled behind a desk and breathed deep.
There was hollering as the guard moved forward, trembling gun held out in front as he fired.
Patch did not know the background of the man, but did know that the Model 36 carried six bullets, and he’d counted five shots.
So when he heard the sixth thud deep into the desk behind, he climbed to his feet and sprinted for the door.
Until then it had been a game. A redistribution of wealth to where it was needed most.
He mailed the money to the Forever United charity. The bills still wet as he sealed the package.