Lassiter’s Folly
(Fiction, Short Story)
Published by Frank Josey at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Frank Josey
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Lassiter wakes, the alarm too loud, “shit” was his first thought. That combination of anger and shame only a compulsive gambler feels – another loss, dropping $10,000 on the Canterbury Bulldogs Rugby team last night. He jumps out of bed and opens the patio door to his hotel room. His third floor room at “The Crest” hotel has great views from Kings Cross, Sydney. Thinking of his loss, Lassiter remembers something his Dad said – “Those that gamble must have failed mathematics at high school”, his smile turns to a frown, still believing that he’s a professional gambler and has no addiction.
The smell of petrol fumes, the sound of police sirens, construction sounds, cars honking and the “ping, ping, ping” sounds from walk traffic signals all cascade his senses. The sky this morning was deep blue, sun just coming up. He stares at Central Sydney’s features, “screw the walk around Hyde Park this morning” he says aloud.
Then the phone rings, “That you Lassiter”, “Yeh”, “You prick, when am I going to get my 25 G’s?” “Archie, I told you I’m good for it” “Screw you, I want my money by Tuesday or you’ll pay dearly”. “Yeh, OK”. Lassiter feels sick inside. Archie, the bookie, doesn’t mess around, just hangs up.
Lassiter’s war trauma experience from being a US Ranger sniper caught up to him three years ago. It was not just “wine, women and song” to bury the painful memories, he added gambling, smoking pot, and recently, hookers. Lassiter always joked “The great thing about hookers are you can screw them, then tell’m to piss off”. “How am I going to raise 25 thousand bucks?” he thinks - robbing a bank comes to mind, never really knowing why.
He gets dressed and goes down for breakfast. The hotel’s restaurant was quiet, the waitress pretty, too early for chatting her up he thought; but he had his sausages and eggs. Lassiter tries to relax with a cup of coffee, watching the traffic.
While walking back to his room from the elevator, he feels that fear growing inside, worse than when he waited to assassinate a North Vietnamese commander in ‘74 - the Mu Gia Pass area was hard to get to. “Shit, so is twenty five G’s” he says to himself.
One night in his favorite club at Kings Cross, “The Jazz Scene”, he raises the possibility of hitting a bank with a friend Frank, from Canada, who thought for a second or two, then said “No Lassiter, not for me! Shit man, we aren’t professional bank robbers”. Lassiter thought, “Screw you” and never raised the matter again. “Listen, they’re playin’ Satin Doll” says Frank as he turns towards the quartet playing on stage.
“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” creates strange urges, one of which can be a desire to rob a bank. One robbery in North Ryde in ’85 was the result of such an urge. Frank, a P.T.S.D. sufferer himself, has never given in to this urge. Lassiter was not so lucky.
It’s 10AM the next day. In his hotel room, Lassiter mulls over a large map of Sydney. “I’ll have a coffee and a blueberry muffin” he says to Room Service on the other end of the phone, “Room 312”. The girl was pretty, Lassiter always had wandering eyes, but this time needed to concentrate on the task at hand. “Shit”, the coffee spilt on the map. He grabs a towel and wipes the map the best he can. “North Ryde” Lassiter says aloud - a North Western Sydney suburb being the ideal place because of many alternate getaway routes. Opens the curtains and decides not to take a sweater.
The Bank, Lassiter thought, looked less formidable but just as busy than the other two banks on Cross Road that he reconnoitered. St. Herald bank had less security measures which made it more attractive. “Now” Lassiter thinks “is a night or day time robbery the best?” Although the security truck arrives in the morning (full cash allotment is still in the Bank), a night heist involves intimate knowledge of electronic surveillance systems. Lassiter decides “A day time hit and run at close of business is the best, after the last customer leaves, if the getaway driver is good. “Need two other guys” Lassiter says to himself.
He befriends two blokes that “looked intelligent but didn’t know me from Adam” Lassiter muses in the local North Ryde Pub. Taking several days to build mutual trust and ensure they’re loners and not undercover, Lassiter puts the deal to them. “We should take between $50 and $60 grand, split evenly.” Nodding, Rick asked about firepower. “I’ll carry a pistol and will deal with the tellers, you stand back with a shotgun. “Loaded?” Rick asks. “Of Course” Lassiter replies. “We’ll wear stockings and black gloves”. Lassiter added loudly, “We’ll use sign language – no voices”, then calms down. Simmo interjects “no sign language, shit, too much to remember” Lassiter stares at Simmo and then nods twice.
Simmo said he’ll steal a good car on the morning of the robbery, all agreed.
Lassiter drives out of the Pub’s parking lot, ensuring he isn’t being followed. “Strange” he thinks, “not nervous at all – I think this is going to work”. Lassiter meets Kathy, his girlfriend from Liverpool, in the Crest Hotel’s bar. They retire to his room.
The next day the detailed planning starts. Kathy and Lassiter have a light breakfast – he takes her to a waiting taxi; the kiss farewell lingers on his lips. He leaves his Holden parked at the Hotel and, with the money he won at Randwick racetrack yesterday afternoon, takes a taxi to North Ryde. Lassiter meets up with his cohorts at their regular Pub, and gets into Rick’s car.
Rick, Simmo and Lassiter park close by the bank and all three walk in, grab some pamphlets and look around carefully but trying not to look too suspicious. Leaving, Rick whispers, “Lassiter, your American accent will be a dead give-a-way, let me deal with the tellers”. “Yeh, you’re right”. Lassiter replies quickly, “Rick, when we enter, shoot those security cameras”.
In a Castle Hill Pub’s parking lot, lighting dim, the “Coyotes” Bikie gang sells them the two guns of choice, with ammo. “Pick the pistol with the silencers; there, that sawed off shotgun is perfect”. Lassiter knows he’ll get his money back from his two comrades in crime. Simmo asks “Where’s mine?” “Better for you not to be armed if the coppers catch us” he said, knowing that was bullshit “anyways, saved 800 bucks” Lassiter says to himself. They drive to a nearby park and quickly test fire the weapons when two large trucks pass.
Lassiter then reminds Rick and Simmo to tie rope around their pant legs. “Why” Simmo asks. “Been to prison, eh?” “No Lassiter”, “well, bank robberies get so tense, many shit their pants, that’s why we’ll take a change in clothes, just in case!”. Lassiter quips “Hell mates, North Ryde is a tough town – we must ensure we don’t get mugged on the way to Simmo’s car?” Rick and Simmo just stare. “Screw them” Lassiter says quietly to himself, surprised at his attempt at humor at this time.
The next morning, Simmo picks up Rick and Lassiter.” How do you like the car?” “S’truth”, Rick says, “Could it be any dirtier?” “It’s in good nick and plates harder to read.” Lassiter says “It better be okay, let’s go”.
The drive to the Bank was quiet and tense. “Now let’s go over everything again”. Lassiter continues, “Good, you’ve tied rope around your legs; Simmo, park one block away, after 5 minutes drive to the front of the Bank. Rick, we walk from opposite ends, put on our masks and gloves, entering at 4:55PM - you shoot the 3 cameras, run to the front and vault the service units. I’ll scream “everyone on the floor” and shoot into the ceiling. You throw these bags to the tellers, get’m filled, and then we piss off out of there”. Rick & Simmo nodded. “Make sure no one presses any buttons” Lassiter says aloud. The silent nod was understood.
They enter the bank running. Apart from having to calm one teller, all went like clockwork, but after the tellers fill the bags, Rick yells to the Manager “Open the Safe!” Lassiter yells “Shit”. Rick persists, and shoots his pistol in the air. The manager runs to the safe and opens it. Rick races in the vault, rushes out with an open top box full of cash, grabs the bags and yells “Let’s go”, Rick snatching the bank manager’s watch. Lassiter grabbed the box from Rick and both ran for the car parked outside.
Simmo was panicking “8 minutes, eight bloody minutes!” They jump in the back and drive away. They hear police sirens in the distance. The drive to the Ryde Park Reserve near Christie Park took 25 minutes; Lassiter is fuming but hides his emotion - the Cicadas still singing their cricket songs in the trees, “like a bloody jet engine” Lassiter thinks. They wait to see if they were being followed. The failing light creates that strange golden look amidst the bushes, with dusk coming on.
“Dump and burn the car with the stockings and gloves”, Lassiter then yells “and quick” throwing a blanket on the ground. “Dump the shit here” he says to Rick. “Split 3 ways now.” It was taking too long, Lassiter got jittery. “How much?” “Looks like 25 grand each” Simmo replies then looks ashen at Lassiter.
The bullet entered between Simmo’s eyes. Rick looked up but Lassiter shot him in the side while Rick was reaching for the shotgun. “Pricks” Lassiter mouthed. He yelled at the bodies. “The car was shithouse and you, Rick, I said tellers’ cash and that was it!” Rick moaned “ass-hole”, Lassiter shot him again and shouted, “Incompetent prick” “Mmm” he thought “killing is still as easy as when I was a Ranger.”
The holes behind the trees had already been dug a day before by Lassiter. Burying Rick and Simmo, Lassiter was filled with anger and shame. “To Hell with It!” he yelled aloud. He cleans the area by rubbing branches over the dirt, wiping out the bloodstains and footprints; the getaway car was well alight.
Lassiter’s Holden was parked behind another clump of trees. He places the cash in the spare wheel areas of the boot (trunk), covered it with the boot carpet, and drives out the opposite exit to the reserve. He enters the roadway slowly. “Phew, the coast is clear.”
“Must be cunning how I’ll use this money; think I’ll move to Dubbo and lie low”. He drives on and ponders. “Wonder what Dad would have said if he knew”. It’s sad for most P.T.S.D. sufferers – they have differing views of their fathers. “Snap out of it” he says softly “at least my retirement plan isn’t just a lottery ticket - armed holdups now” he chuckles.
Lassiter pulls up to Archie’s pawn shop in Rosehill, walks in and puts $25,000 on the counter. After a quick count, Archie says “Thanks Lassiter old pal, I knew you’d come good, any bets? Hear Manly’s team is hot tonight”. ”Nah”, was Lassiter’s only reply and he left.
Frank read his morning paper, the Sydney Morning Herald, and wondered if that North Ryde robbery was Lassiter’s doing. The Kings Cross meeting was the last Frank ever heard of his friend.
Meanwhile, Lassiter goes to his girlfriend’s place in Liverpool, south of central Sydney. “Wanna go for a walk?” Kathy asks. “No, have to go to Tassie to take up that job at Queenstown. I’ll send you the money for airfare”. Kathy stares, wondering why he won’t take her now but afraid to ask.
Her skirt rises above her thighs and Lassiter stirs. “Just one more time then.” Kathy obliges willingly “He’s gives a good naughty” she thinks. Finished, Lassiter showers and leaves, waves good-bye to a tearful woman, soon, like many encounters, to become a memory.
He starts that long drive to Dubbo, New South Wales, wondering when and where he’ll rob his second bank.
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Upcoming E-books from Frank Josey
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Life With My Father – Novel length, true story; How P.T.S.D. destroys a returned soldier, the taint of family abuse still exists in 2011
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