Six days later, in Nashville, at eight-thirty in the morning, Parker sat in the Taurus on Orange Street, across the way and up the block from AAAAcme Check Cashing. The place wasn't open yet, so all that showed on the ground floor of the narrow three-story building, one of a row of similar structures along here, was the gray metal of the articulated grille that was drawn down over the facade at night. Once that was raised, the storefront was merely a small-windowed metal door in the middle of a brick wall, with a small wide window high on each side, both windows containing red neon signs that said “Checks Cashed.”
This was Parker's fourth morning here, and he now was sure of AAAAcme's opening routine. The business hours of the place were nine A.M. to six P.M., Monday through Saturday. At about eight forty-five every morning, a red Jeep Cherokee would pull up to the store with two men in the front seat. The driver, a bulky guy in a windbreaker no matter how warm the weather, suggesting a bulletproof vest underneath, would get out of the Cherokee, look carefully around, and cross to unlock and lift the metal grille. Then he'd unlock and open the front door, and stand holding it open, looking up and down the street. The other man, also bulky and in a wind-breaker, would get out of the Jeep, open its rear door, take out two heavy metal boxes with metal handles on the tops, and trudge them across the sidewalk and into the store. The first man would let the door close, then go back to the Jeep, shut the rear door his partner had left open, and drive half a block to a private parking lot reserved for the bailsmen, pawnshop owners, used musical instrument dealers, liquor store owners, dentists, and passport photographers who ran businesses in the neighborhood. After parking the Jeep in its labeled spot, he'd walk back to the store, knock, and be let in. Fifteen minutes later they'd open for business.
This was more of a late-night than an early-morning neighborhood. There was almost no traffic at this time of day, rarely a pedestrian until midmorning. The three days Parker'd watched, AAAAcme hadn't had a customer before nine-thirty, so their opening time must be merely a long-standing habit.
This morning, the routine was the same as ever. Seeing the Cherokee approach in his rearview mirror, Parker got out of the Taurus, made a show of locking it, and walked down the street toward AAAAcme. The Cherokee passed him and stopped at the curb, and he walked by between Cherokee and storefront. He continued to walk, pacing himself to the normal speed of their movements behind him, and the Cherokee passed him again just before he got to the entrance of the parking lot.
Today he was dressed in a gray sweatshirt over black chinos. The Sentinel was in the right pants pocket, and a Colt .45 from Kentucky was tucked into the front of the chinos under the sweatshirt. Turning in at the entrance to the parking lot, he put his hand in his right pocket.
The driver was getting out of the Cherokee. He gave Parker an incurious look, turned to lock the Cherokee, and Parker stepped rapidly toward him, taking the Sentinel out of his pocket, holding it straight-armed in front of himself, aiming as he moved. He fired once, and the .22 cartridge punched through the meat of the driver's left leg, halfway between knee and hip, then went on to crack into the door panel of the Cherokee, leaving a starred black dent.
The driver sagged, astonished, falling against the Cherokee, staring over his shoulder at Parker: “What? What?”
Parker stepped very close, showing him the Sentinel. “I shot you,” he said. “The vest doesn't cover the leg. It doesn't cover the eye, either. You want one in the eye?”
“Who the fuck are you?” The driver was in shock, the blood drained from his face. He pawed at his left leg.
Parker held the Sentinel close to his face. “Answer me.”
“What'd I do to you? I don't even know you!”
“I'm robbing you,” Parker told him.
“Jesus! You want my—oh, my God!” he cried, staring at his bloodred hand. “For a fucking wallet?”
“The store,” Parker said. “We'll go there, and we'll go in together.”
“My partner—”
“Will do what you tell him. You do right, in a few minutes you're on your way to the hospital. You do wrong, in a few minutes you're on your way to the morgue.”
The driver panted, trying to catch up, get his wits about him. “They'll get you, you know,” he said.
“So don't sweat it,” Parker told him. “It's only money, you're insured, and they'll get me. Let's go.”
“I can't walk.”
“Then you're no good to me,” Parker said, and brought the Sentinel up to his face again.
“I'll try!”
He could walk, with a limp. He kept looking at his red hand, in disbelief. “This is crazy,” he said. “You don't just shoot people.”
“Yes, I do,” Parker said. “What's your name?”
The driver blinked at him, bewildered again. “What?”
“Your name.”
“Bancroft. Why, what's—”
“Your first name.”
“Jack. John—Jack, people call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack. What's your partner's name?”
“First?”
“First.”
“Oliver.”
“Ollie?”
“No, he's no Ollie, he's Oliver.”
They were approaching the shopfront. Parker said, “Tell him, ‘I'm shot, this man helped.’ Nothing else. Show him your hand.”
Jack nodded. He was panting pretty badly, limping more. His face was still ashen.
As they reached the shopfront, Parker put the Sentinel away and took out the Colt. Jack knocked on the glass in the door, and it was opened partway by Oliver, who stopped abruptly with the door less than a foot open when he saw Parker. He said, ‘Jack?”
Jack held up his red hand. “I was shot, Oliver, this man helped.” He gestured at his leg.
“What?” Oliver looked at Jack's trouser leg, now wet with blood. “Jesus Christ!”
Oliver backed away, and Jack limped in, Parker following, shutting the door behind himself, pushing Jack to one side, showing Oliver the Colt. “Oliver, don't move,” he said.
Oliver looked tough and angry, but he hadn't been shot. “You son of a bitch, you—”
He was starting to make a move when Jack called, “He knows about the vests!”
Oliver stopped, frowning at his partner.
“That's right,” Parker said. “Your chest is safe from me. Oliver, help Jack to lie on the floor, facedown.”
Oliver hesitated. Jack said, “Oliver, I'm hurting. Get this over with, let the cops have it.”
Oliver nodded. He told Parker, “They'll get you, you know.”
“Jack already told me. Move, Oliver.”
Oliver helped Jack to lie facedown on the linoleum floor in front of the counter. The counter was stained wood panel, chest-high, with bulletproof Lucite above and small openings where checks and cash could be passed through. A windowless gray metal door was at one end of the counter, to give access to the rear.
When both men were facedown on the floor, arms behind them, Parker put the Colt away and took from his back pocket a small roll of duct tape. He taped their wrists and ankles, Oliver first, then got Jack's keys from his pocket. He made sure he had the right key to get back into the shop, and left to walk up the block toward the Taurus.
There was still almost no morning traffic around here. Parker drove the Taurus down to AAAAcme, went back inside, and found Oliver and Jack where he'd left them. Jack was breathing like a whale. When he heard Parker move around, he said, “Willya call 911, for chrissake?”
“Somebody will,” Parker told him, and went through the metal door to the rear part of the shop, where the two metal cases stood unopened on the floor. He lifted their lids and found the stacks of bills he'd expected.
Looking around, he saw an open safe, which Oliver must have just unlocked for the start of the day. Inside were more stacks of bills, and on top of the safe was a lockable gray canvas money sack. Parker put the bills from the safe in the sack, then opened the cash drawers under this side of the counter, and found more bills. There was change, too, which he left.
The two boxes and the sack were now full. Parker carried everything through to the front door. Oliver kept twisting around to glare at him, but Jack merely lay there, eyes closed, cheek on the floor, mouth open, wheezing.
It took two trips to get everything from the store to the Taurus. Parker propped the store door slightly open, so the first customer would be able to get inside and find Oliver and Jack and make that 911 call, and then, at seven minutes to nine, he drove away, looking for the signs to Interstate 65.