Forcible Entry

All systems were a go. The heist crew’s next target was chosen, and all that was left was last-minute recon. Their last job had a bit of a hiccup and the cops showed up a few minutes after they escaped, but luckily, they were too far behind to cause any issues. When the men arrived back at their temporary accommodations, they agreed it was time to ditch the van already. Someone had to have seen them, and that just wouldn’t do. Thankfully, they had already replaced the one with the stupid beaver on the side before that last job.

Unfortunately, Rodney had nothing else big enough to transport Gord around, so they had to take their chances by keeping the van a while longer. It would have been more of a risk trying to squeeze Gord into a Prius than using a compromised van. The good news was, the Ram van was generic, and they covered the license plates, so it should be hard to identify.

On the agenda was to do some surveillance of their next target, which they’d hit in a few weeks. Downtown Alliston was not busy in the evenings, so the best opportunity to blend in was the middle of the day, while everything was open. People were always so caught up in getting through their daily tasks, they never paid attention to others around them. Ignorance allowed people like Gord, Nelson, and Earle to go unnoticed.

Gord and Earle got in the van and drove into town. Scouting a location didn’t require three guys, and two guys in a van looked like co-workers—which, of course, they were; they just weren’t your average blue-collar workers. Nah, those guys were suckers. Slaves. Spending their days busting their butts to earn a paycheck barely big enough to pay for a roof over their heads. That was a life Gord would never settle for, criminal record or not.

“What do you reckon we’ll make from this score? I hope we can hit 50Gs.” Earle rubbed his hands together, bobbing his head from side to side. “That would set us up good to make this stop our last before we retire.”

Although Gord was sure retirement was the best course of action—quit while you’re ahead—he also found himself worried that he’d be bored, unstimulated. They had worked hard to build up their nest egg and set themselves up for an easy life during their golden years, with no concerns over money, as long as they lived modestly. The biggest concern was having enough money for the endless supply of sunscreen Gord was sure to need. But was that what he wanted to do with himself? Only time would tell.

He put those concerns on the back burner and focused on the task at hand. “We should make 75Gs easy on this one. We just have to be smart about it. The pharmacy job was too close for comfort.”

“That was weird. I checked all businesses on the street’s hours beforehand and the only ones that were open were the pharmacy and the dog groomer. They were running some weird uppity mom class, but it said online it finished at 8:30. Do ya think maybe one of the people in the apartments saw us and called it in?”

“Who knows? Whoever it was, we need to watch each other’s backs and be careful. Especially since we’re still driving this God-forsaken van. Rodney better find us something else fast.”

“In this town, these white vans are sitting in every third driveway. No one’s going to bat an eye at us. Don’t get yourself worked up.”

“Yeah, let’s hope so. We’re just scoping the place out today, anyway. We shouldn’t give anyone reason to suspect us. Double check the alarm system, test our signal jammer on their security cameras, and study entry and exit points.”

“Sure thing, boss man.” Earle bent forward to slide on a special pair of prosthetic gloves that looked like normal hands—without Earle’s trademark knuckle fur. They were a luxury purchase to prevent them from leaving fingerprints, but also avoid looking suspicious. “Remember how nervous we were on the first job we pulled together?”

Gord recalled the heist that landed his old friend in a world of trouble. The result wasn’t ideal, but they learned more from the failings of that job than they ever had from successful ones. Earle’s time in jail allowed him plenty of opportunity to connect with other career criminals and learn what got them caught. He emerged from his incarceration with a wealth of knowledge, familiar with what to do and not to do. One fellow prisoner taught him all about alarm systems and how to deactivate them efficiently—a skill he had not only become proficient at but put to good use.

Another man explained how he was busted because a little girl thought he was Santa Claus and a mob of kids surrounded him. He was left standing just outside of a big box store with a bag of stolen goods right as the police arrived. From that, Earle learned to never overlook potential threats.

Every prisoner had something to teach, and Earle had the right kind of personality to endear himself to even the most hardened criminal. He was a stereotypical con man, skilled at playing people against themselves. He had never cut hair in his life—and his hair often looked as if there were a family of birds living in it—but he convinced the other inmates he was a barber so they’d come to him and spill their guts with barbershop talk. It worked like a charm. He even became pretty decent at cutting hair with the dull tools he had available.

Earle’s proficiency at blending in any situation, manipulating people to do his bidding, and his ability to deactivate alarm systems, made him a valuable member of the team.

Since his release six years earlier, they’d taken on that knowledge and created a virtually flawless criminal enterprise, amassing a small fortune, leaving chaos in their wake, and didn’t have the slightest concern for the people they hurt.

They were about to.

Justin and Brendon, AKA Fat Tony and Scar, were walking down the south side of the main street while Whitey and Corky drove around town looking for anything suspicious. Since Fat Tony knew what the criminals looked like, and considering the ringleader looked like an aged leprechaun on growth hormones, spotting them wouldn’t take a genius. Good thing.

“Who’d have thought a few months ago that we’d be spending our days off patrolling town looking for a bunch of wise guys.” Scar adjusted his jacket, unzipping it to expose his rounded midsection.

“Just imagine what would have happened if we watched Mrs. Doubtfire instead of Goodfellas that night.”

Both men stopped walking for a moment. Fat Tony imagined what inspiration would have struck if they had watched Robin Williams sporting fake knockers and a prosthetic nose instead of the gangster movie they had settled on. He considered for a moment that Mrs. Doubtfire could be a Suburban Watchdog uniform idea to make them inconspicuous. No one would suspect an old lady of anything. He could have been Mildred instead of Fat Tony. Anyone named Mildred would be viewed as harmless.

“Don’t even think about it, man.”

“What?” Fat Tony rattled his head and focused his eyes on his partner in anti-crime.

“I saw your wheels turning. None of us are dressing up like Mrs. Doubtfire.”

With a hand held to his chest, Fat Tony replied, “I’m hurt you wouldn’t even consider the idea. Is this because you’re too cheap to pay for a wig?”

Scar stared at Fat Tony a moment, not giving away anything with his expression. “No. I’m not buying a wig, but it has nothing to do with being sensible with my money. You say cheap; I say smart.”

“Fine. I just want people to take us seriously.”

Scar snickered. “I don’t think cross-dressing as an old lady is the way to make that happen. Normal clothes are a better option.”

The Watchdogs continued walking and talking about life—a little of this, a little of that—when they observed a large white van driving slowly down the main street. Fat Tony shouted with excitement, slapping Scar’s shoulder as he watched the van fifty yards ahead. Scar, being the more sensible of the two, grabbed his friend’s arm to drag him inside the nearest open business. They stepped into a bookstore, appropriately named Run for Cover.

They stood directly inside the door so they could watch out the window, as Scar took out his phone to text their friends.

Scar: Spotted. Perps parked on the main street by the bookstore.

The van pulled over to park next to the curb in front of two banks.

Justin was standing on the window ledge, face pressed to the glass. “What do you think they’re doing? They’re not going to rob a bank, are they?”

A throat cleared behind the men, and they turned to see a not-so-friendly face belonging to a bookstore employee. “Can I help you with something?” Her voice didn’t mask her irritation the slightest bit.

Gee. Whatever happened to customer service? With his best effort to think quickly, Justin replied, “I’m looking for a book by Shakespeare.”

The lady, clearly not convinced, opted to play along. “Okay. Which one?”

Justin, who had turned back to watch out the window, stated with confidence he had no business expressing, “William.”

The portly woman grumbled something indiscernible. “No, which book by William Shakespeare?”

“Oh, uh… How ’bout you pick your favourite and I’ll buy it?”

The men returned to watching through the window, studying the white van. There were no signs of movement, and neither of the passengers exited the vehicle. It appeared they were doing their own recon.

Moments later, the sound of a throat clearing again interrupted the Watchdogs’ efforts. The woman passed Justin a worn paperback copy of King Lear with a pleased smirk.

“Ah, King Lear. A tale of how both figurative and literal blindness can lead to one’s destruction.”

Brendon’s and the bookstore employee’s jaws dropped.

“You know, this is probably my favourite of Shakespeare’s tragedies,” Justin confirmed, slapping the paperback in his palm and fanning the pages with a satisfied smile.

Brendon stumbled over his words. His attention had moved from the white van to his friend’s face.

Justin, sensing the question in his friend’s glare, answered the unspoken words. “My grade eleven English teacher was this good-lookin’ broad, so I tried real hard to impress her. Ended up impressing Scarlett instead. Look where that landed me.”

“Scarlett’s not all bad.”

“The other night she got mad because I fell asleep on the couch with Karma. When I went up to bed, she woke from a dead sleep to go on about how I like the dog more than her. The woman whipped a pillow at me when I agreed.” Justin shook his head. “Talk about mixed signals. Does she want me to be honest or not?”

“You told your wife… the woman you’ve been married to for fifteen years… that you like the dog more than you like her, and you don’t understand why she was upset?” Brendon scrubbed his hands over his face. “Some things are better left unsaid, man. You should have read Miranda Rights instead of your wedding vows.”

“I was just telling the truth. If she wasn’t as vicious as a rabid dog, maybe I’d like her more.”

Silence passed for a moment before Brendon spoke again. “This is a chicken and the egg situation.”

Justin tilted his head, awaiting clarification.

“Did your wife turn into a raging monster first? Or did you turn into an oblivious airhead first?” Brendon’s lips curved into a smirk. “Never mind. The egg came first.”

The pair continued to watch out the window after pleading with the crotchety bookstore employee to allow them to stay, and they waited for their friends to arrive before deciding what to do. The crooks hadn’t exited their van and appeared to be chatting amongst themselves. Fat Tony was itching for some action and anxiously awaited the men slipping up so they could swoop in and get them off of their streets.

Alas, it was not the day for such an accomplishment. With no apparent rhyme or reason, the white van pulled onto the road and drove away.

Whitey and Corky pulled up to the curb a few buildings west of the bookstore, but by that time, the white van was gone. They exited Corky’s work van just as Scar and Fat Tony were walking out of the bookstore—Fat Tony with a Run For Cover bag in hand. Guarantee, that’s an Avengers comic in that bag, Whitey thought.

“You just missed them. They never got out of the van, and we only saw two of them. I wrote a partial plate number, but I bet it’s stolen.” Justin was flailing his empty hand around, talking in an Italian accent. Fat Tony had come to play.

Morrie bit his bottom lip to stop himself from chuckling because his small friend looked more intense than ever. “We should report what you guys saw to the police.”

“Why?” Justin looked confused—so, Justin looked like everyday Justin. “They can’t do anything. The guys didn’t do nothin’ wrong, so tellin’ ’em we saw a suspicious van parked by the bank with no idea if or when they’ll strike isn’t going to do any good.”

The other two men nodded in agreement.

“Fat Tony’s right. That’s why we started this—because the cops are spread too thin and can’t waste time on stakeouts with no information. We’ve got to keep an eye out for these guys ourselves.” Corky won himself the admiring stare of Fat Tony who appeared enamoured by his friend’s support.

“Corky knows where it’s at, Whitey. We’ll stake the place out ourselves and call for backup when the time comes.”

Morrie glanced across the street at the banks, noticing all the people coming in and out, some shoving wads of cash into their wallets as they walked out the door. People of this town felt safe despite the recent spike in crime, but if he could help put a stop to fear from overtaking his townspeople, then he’d be a coward not to. “Fine. We’ll watch the place for a few nights, but never alone. If we can’t work out a schedule to come together, we’ll just have to take our chances and have no one on watch. We need to live our lives too, so we can do our part, but I’m not taking on another full-time job.”

“Badda-bing, badda-boom.” Fat Tony fired his finger guns around, sporting a face-splitting smile. “That’s what I wanna hear, Whitey. Good on ya.”

“Badda-bing, badda-boom?”

Fat Tony pinched his fingers together, kissing them in an obnoxious, stereotypical Italian gesture. “That’s the only Italian I know. Let’s get back to headquarters and sort out a schedule for this week.” With that, he turned around and walked back toward the other end of the street, where his pickup truck was parked.

“Headquarters?” Whitey mouthed to his friends standing in front of him.

They all chuckled, and Scar jogged away to catch up with Fat Tony, who appeared to have a renewed passion for stopping the town’s swindlers.