Tribe, page 2
Stepping into the street was a death sentence.
Henry didn’t give it a second thought. He simply took another bite of double-chocolate bliss and kept right on walking—
—until a hand grasped his shirt and yanked him back to the curb.
Henry slipped the headphones down to his neck.
“What the hell?” he said to the good Samaritan—an overweight man in his fifties, sporting a shaggy beard and a worn briefcase. Henry knew the type. A government worker, pushing paper in one of the towering skyscrapers.
“Are you nuts?” the man asked, part anger, part concern, not yet knowing whether Henry was a delinquent or suicidal.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “I kind of am.”
He turned and stepped back toward the street, fully intending on completing his journey without waiting for the rules guiding other people’s lives to control him. He wasn’t offended by the concept. He just didn’t care. And it wasn’t because he was a bad person. He simply felt no fear of life’s consequences. For anything.
He didn’t lack a moral code. He understood right and wrong. But when he chose between them, fear of punishment for breaking the laws of social norms, or state and federal governments didn’t factor. He didn’t like hurting people, didn’t enjoy wounding people’s pride, and didn’t seek out trouble, but if any of the above happened…he’d shrug his shoulders and be on his merry way.
This time, the government worker took hold of Henry’s arm.
A mistake. Personal space was important to Henry, and those inside it were risking mental, emotional and/or physical pain. The logic that tempered most people’s instincts was missing, taken with his amygdala. Even he couldn’t predict how he’d react to life’s curveballs.
He turned to the man preventing him from walking through the intersection. Understood that the man was afraid for him—something his therapist told him was a good thing. The charity of strangers would keep him alive. While most people might draw back from a venomous snake, avoid the crumbling cliffside, or not step into Boston traffic, people with Henry’s condition weighed life or death decisions with the same kind of casual consideration normally reserved for debating the merits of Cocoa Pebbles vs. Cocoa Krispies.
Two options sprang to Henry’s mind—physical assault or verbal? The government worker was out of shape, but large, and had a good grip. Henry wasn’t concerned about being on the receiving end of a beating. Never crossed his mind. But he didn’t like wasting time. Efficiency was key.
“You’re fat,” Henry said. “Like, way too fat. Hippopotamus fat.”
The man released him, looking like he’d been slapped.
Henry held up his second donut and spoke as though the man were a puppy. “Here boy, you want it? You want the donut? Who’s a hungry fat boy?”
Insulted and degraded, the man looked ready to explode. Then he noticed the curbside audience of tourists, businessmen, and a snickering school group wearing Boston Aquarium T-shirts. He deflated, mumbled, “Asshole,” and backed away into the crowd.
Henry slipped the headphones back on. Nothin’ But a Good Time was playing. He stepped into the street, biting his donut, eyes closed in delight.
Tires screamed.
Horns blared.
Angry drivers hung out of rolled down windows, hurling curses in a smattering of languages.
Henry didn’t notice. He continued across the street until reaching the other side. Unscathed and unconcerned with the chaos left in his wake.
On the far side, he breathed deep, inhaling the faint scent of ocean, the constant tang of exhaust, and the almost overpowering smell of sausage cooking at a street vendor. The donuts were good. Even better than the two Munchkins he’d been planning to buy, but meat cooked right…
His dough-filled stomach somehow managed to growl.
I could just take it, he thought, and if he was closer, he might have, despite the possibility of being caught and certainty of being burned. But he didn’t have time for distractions. Life goals and all that. Things to do. Places to go. No one to see, but money to make.
He passed the cart, eyeing his destination ahead: Harbor Bank. As far as banks went, the local establishment was small. One of a dozen in the Boston-metro area. It was owned by Bank of America and was federally insured, but it was a second thought to most people who passed its doors.
He approached the marble exterior, noting the aging guard standing out front, diligently smoking a cigarette. When Henry reached for the door, the guard eyed him for a moment, and then turned to watch a woman in a tight power suit.
Henry thought banks smelled funny. Like age and paper money, the way doctors’ offices smell like sterilization and plastic. The air conditioning was brisk, a welcome relief from the early June heat. Henry wore just a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and some old sneakers. He wore no underwear. No socks. A lack of fear kept blisters and chafing far from his mind. He’d have been just as comfortable walking down the street naked, but then he would have no place to keep things, and he wouldn’t be allowed into the bank. Shirts and shoes and all that. He didn’t worry about the rules, but he knew some had to be followed to get what you wanted.
So he followed the rules that enabled him and broke those that didn’t.
The bank’s interior was old school. Marble floor. Hardwood counters. Ten teller stations. Columns. Fake trees. Felt ropes to guide the non-existent clientele. It felt like a museum no one wanted to visit.
He stood at the island, fiddling with paperwork and watching the tellers.
There were just two of them. The one who thought a lot of makeup could hide her scowl, and the other, who was too pretty to be a bank teller. Henry squinted at her. A tight white blouse and the hint of a lace bra seen beneath it. He lingered for a moment. She noticed. Most teenaged boys would look away, face burning. Henry lingered some more until the young woman rolled her eyes and turned around.
She’s looking for a husband, he thought. She could judge a man by his looks and the dollar amount in his account. Know when to flirt and when to hold back. He respected the strategy. Ballsy for a woman with a functional amygdala.
She might have been a problem, but he’d put her off balance with his too-long stare.
Unskinny Bop began playing. It would be the anthem for the start of his new life.
He started tapping his foot. No one paid attention.
His whistle caught the made-up teller’s attention, deepening her scowl.
“What’s so wrong with your life?” Henry asked, and she turned away. He could see the tellers glancing at each other, mouthing, “What the hell?” and “I don’t know.”
When he started singing along with Bret, the women cringed. Their body language grew tight. Both locked in place. Neither wanted to deal with the weird young man with lingering eyes and a big mouth. Too bad for them, they didn’t get to choose which teller window he’d approach.
A breeze tickled his ears. He glanced back. A woman had entered the bank. Her casual, flat shoes and delicate white dress didn’t look expensive, but the way she carried herself spoke of the kind of confidence that only comes from fame or money. Her olive skin and dark eyes looked Mediterranean, but her comfort level in the bank suggested she was a regular. Local for at least a few years, but not born and raised. The abject lack of stress in her body language and the way she matched his stare for far too long were not common in New England…or most places.
She strolled through the bank, snapped her fingers a few times and said, “Susan?”
The frowning teller beamed and clapped her hands together, genuinely happy to see the woman, but doubly so because she’d been summoned away from Henry, who had fallen silent.
Whatever, he thought. Wasn’t going to pick you anyway.
Susan followed the newcomer to a side room, disappearing behind a solid oak door.
That left Henry and the gold digger.
He reached into his pocket, waiting for the young woman to make eye contact again. That would be the perfect time to—
A woman bumped into him from behind, catching him off guard. He nearly slugged her, but then—recognition. She wasn’t wearing the Dunkin’ Donuts apron anymore, but her dark skin, pom-pom hair, and wide smile were impossible to forget. He pulled the headphones from his ears in time to hear her say, “You snooze, you lose.”
He took a step toward her, hand still in pocket, but then he remembered her kindness. Sure, he had stood up to the man annoying her, but his motivation had been selfish. To get the line moving. To get something to eat. To stay on schedule. But her kindness was real.
Henry stood his ground, pulled the thick, metal pen from his pocket, and started filling out a deposit slip, scrawling numbers where there should be zeros, waiting for his turn.
Unless she takes too long. He glanced at his watch and decided Dunkin’ Girl had one minute. Just cash your check and leave, he thought, and then he heard casual conversation. Names. A laugh.
He shrugged. Oh, well.
3
“He’s a total creep,” Kim said, leaning forward to deliver a too loud whisper.
Sarah tried to hide her cringe. The kid in the Poison shirt might be a freak, but he’d done right by her. She had given him the donuts, though, and the milk, so they were even-steven. Then again, she lost her job, so maybe the kid owed her…or she owed him. There was no future in donuts. She lost the scholarship, and her job, and long ago, everything else. Maybe it was time to move on?
The paycheck in her hands would give her two weeks to figure out a new path. And if she didn’t find it? Where could she go? Who could she ask for help?
There was no one left.
Sarah quickly filled out a deposit slip for her one-and-only meager check. “He’s okay.” She glanced back at the kid, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a big, black pen and started scrawling on a deposit slip. Huh, it was a pen, she thought, and then, but he doesn’t have any checks.
“I mean, first of all, who listens to Poison?” Kim asked.
“Just because he’s wearing the T-shirt doesn’t—”
“He was singing.” Kim raised her eyebrows, challenging Sarah to disagree with her again. “Loud. And he was staring at my boobs.”
Sarah glanced down at the sheer white fabric stretched over Kim’s ample bosom and easy-to-see designer bra. “Pretty sure that’s the effect you’re looking for.”
“Yeah, but not for creeps,” she said. “And he stared like way too long. Even players will look away if you catch them looking. He just locked on until I turned around.”
“He’s fearless,” Sarah said, more of a memory than a conclusion. She slid her check and deposit slip across the counter.
“No kidding.” Kim tapped keys and scanned the lone check.
“I mean literally. I heard him say it. Something wrong with his brain…with his…amee…amig…amygdala, or something.”
“Holy shit, he’s like disabled?” A practiced pouty face somehow made Kim even prettier. She bit her lower lip, leaned out, and gave the kid a glance. “If I knew that, I’d have let him keep looking. Disabled people gotta find their joy where they can, amirite?”
Sarah laughed and was glad Kim wasn’t bright enough to know the difference between being laughed with and laughed at.
Kim’s frown became genuine as she looked at the screen. “Oh, Hon. You bounced a check. System took twenty-five from your account, and make sure you pay that bill again…before you spend all five hundred bucks. You going to get a better job soon?”
“I’m looking,” Sarah said.
“I mean, with that face, and hair, and skin, you could be a model for sure. Not like a lingerie model, but with your sporty build—” Kim reached out and gave Sarah’s shoulder a squeeze. “Holy shit. You feel like a brick. You work out?”
“No,” Sarah said, trying with all her might to avoid rolling her eyes. “I’m made of bricks.”
Kim snorted. “I don’t see a gym membership on your statement.”
“Hey,” Sarah said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to—”
“Rent, electricity, gas, food…and two deposits including today.” Kim’s forehead furrowed as she struggled to process what that meant. “Wow, you don’t do…anything.”
Rather than face the truth about her lame existence, Sarah glanced back at the kid. He was walking toward her, pen in hand, but deposit slip left on the counter behind him. She was about to point out that he’d left the slip when motion from the door caught her attention. She hoped it was more customers. A line would give her an escape route from the conversation about how pitiful and empty her life had become.
But there was something off about the newcomers. There were four of them, dressed in black suits—not uncommon for downtown Boston. But they were also wearing ski-masks, which universally says, ‘We’re bank robbers.’ The security guard laid out on the sidewalk confirmed it.
When the kid saw her eyes go wide, he seemed confused for a moment, like she should have been afraid of him instead. Then he stopped, turned around, and groaned, like the robbers were simply an inconvenience.
The four men entered the bank, smooth and confident. When the door chimed four times, Kim looked up from the computer screen with a smile on her face and her posture perfect to accentuate her figure—just in case. “Hi there, I’ll be right with—”
Her lips pursed and then slowly opened, like a miniature black hole being birthed into existence.
“Don’t you have a button you can push?” Sarah whispered, trying to motion to the counter with her eyes.
Kim blinked a few times, then came to her senses. “Right. Yeah.” She leaned back.
“Don’t fucking move!” the tallest of the men shouted, shoving the kid out of his way while pointing a shotgun at Kim’s head.
The shortest of the men stopped in the middle of the bank, looking back and forth. “Where is she?”
No one had an answer.
Short Man pointed his shotgun at Sarah. “The woman who came in here. White dress. Real pretty. Where did she go?”
“I don’t… I wasn’t…”
“Over there,” the kid said, pointing to a closed door.
“Oh, that’s cold,” Kim said, hands raised.
Short Man motioned toward the door and the two strong men moved for it. They looked like MMA fighters squeezed into suits. Neither of them held a weapon.
The kid pushed himself off the floor and started walking toward the tall man.
“You guys aren’t here to rob the bank?” the kid asked.
The shotgun shifted from Kim to the kid.
“What’s your name?” Tall Man asked.
“Henry.”
“Well, Henry, if you don’t stop walking, I’m going to paint the floor with your brains.”
Henry stopped walking. “All I want to know is if you’re not going to rob the bank, do you mind if I do?”
Tall Man flinched back as though slapped. “Huh?”
“I want to rob the bank,” Henry said, slow, like he was talking to the elderly. “Are you cool with that?”
“What?” Short Man said. “Kid, shut the fuck up and get on the floor.” He motioned to the floor with his shotgun.
Sarah wanted to say something. To do something. But what? She couldn’t tell if Henry’s request was a ruse, or if he really wanted to rob the bank. He was acting weird. And his pen…
He’s still holding the pen…
The men were armed, but neither of them were pointing a weapon at her. She was fast. And strong. But this wasn’t a wrestling match. If she lost, she died.
Not that I have much to live for, she thought, and then glanced at Kim. When the now-shaking teller made eye contact, Sarah glanced at the counter again, reminding her that there was something she could do.
Kim’s hands lowered toward the counter’s edge.
“I said don’t move!” Tall Man shouted, redirecting his aim once more. “If the police show up, I’ll shoot you, just out of spite.”
A rattling doorknob turned Small Man around. “What’s wrong?”
“Door’s locked,” one of the thugs said.
“So kick it in!” Short Man shook his head. “We don’t have much time.”
“I’m on a schedule, too,” Henry said, taking a step forward. “And I’m really done waiting.”
Tall Man shifted his aim again, taking a step back. “Seriously, kid. I will kill you.”
“I don’t think so,” Henry said, his pace steady now, unflinching in every way.
Tall Man pumped the shotgun.
Henry moved closer.
Tall Man glanced at Short Man. Both men were baffled. And even Sarah could see neither man wanted to kill the kid…or rob the bank.
They’re here for whoever is hidden behind that door.
The heavy thump of foot-on-door reverberated off the bank’s solid stone walls. On the other side, a yelp of surprise from Susan, the older teller.
Tall Man glanced back at the unmoving door. Henry took two steps closer and held out his pen.
“Hey,” Tall Man said, lifting his hands back and stepping away from Henry. “Seriously, kid, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Seriously,” Henry said, stepping closer again. “I…” He poked the man’s chest with the pen tip. “am…” Poke. “on…” Poke. “a schedule.”
The flick of Henry’s fingers was subtle. The pen flipped around from the pen tip to a pointy back side. Sarah finally saw the writing utensil for what it was—a tactical pen. One side for writing, the other side for breaking car windows.
Henry moved like he was going to poke the man again, but angled the pen upwards at the last moment and struck the underside of the man’s chin. The sharp, hardened steel tip stabbed through the ski mask and then the man’s skin.
4
The turned-up eyebrows, scrunched nose, and lips pulled down on the edges of Tall Man’s face made no sense to Henry. He’d seen the expression enough times to know it was fear, but he didn’t understand it. The expression, however, wasn’t pure. Tall Man experienced equal parts surprise, pain, and fear, the latter of the three exaggerating the first two.
