Free Bank Robbers by C. Clark Criscuolo Page A

done.”
    â€œWhatever,” Teresa grumbled.
    The woman handed her a piece of paper. “This is the address; it’s right across the avenue and two blocks down.”
    â€œAll right,” Teresa said and took the paper. She stared at the woman “Eh, this isn’t the thing that hurts, is it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThank God for small favors,” Teresa grumbled and walked away.
    *   *   *
    A RTHUR had lingered over lunch an extra forty minutes. Just walking back into the dark hole at the back of the store made his chest hard and tense.
    Christ, he’d seen mushroom farms with more light and less dampness than his office, so he’d opted to sit up front for a while. He answered some phone calls; then his mind went back to the hang-up the night before.
    He looked at his watch. It was two-thirty.
    If it was someone interested in buying under the table, he’d bet he’d call back at around the same time of day. In just about two hours.
    And if he didn’t get a call then, it was the Feds, tapping his line again, and he was going to be ticked off.
    *   *   *
    P LANNING to rob a bank was getting expensive.
    Dottie’d already laid out over a hundred dollars, and she didn’t even have a gun yet.
    At least her hair looked good. Yes, the kid had been scary-looking, but he had really worked hard, and her hair was still not baby-soft, but it was softer than it had been, and light red, and cut to her chin with soft bangs.
    She walked slowly across Third Street, to the one store where she knew she could buy a cheap dress. She didn’t want to go there, but she’d already spent way too much money.
    As she got to the door of the shop she wavered. Maybe she could alter one of the size-fourteen dresses into something presentable? Maybe if she bought a nice belt? No, that wasn’t going to work, and she knew it. All she felt she could reasonably spend on a dress was sixty dollars, and that was thirty more than she felt she ought to, what with the fifty dollars she’d given to Teresa plus the fifty for the haircut, and she still owed Teresa twenty dollars.
    Dottie stood in front of the tiny thrift shop. Reduced to this—buying used clothes. She opened the door and unenthusiastically went to the racks of suits and dresses.
    In twenty minutes, Dottie was standing in front of a full-length mirror at the back of the store, staring hard at herself.
    It was shocking.
    She was wearing a pink Chanel-type suit that fit as if it had been made for her. It didn’t look as though it had been worn before. She turned sideways, staring at her hips and her waist, how the skirt slimmed her stomach and emphasized her long legs. How the color made her face almost glow.
    She looked pretty. She really looked pretty, she thought, stunned. She just stood still, staring at the reflection of a woman she hadn’t seen in at least ten years. A small smile began to draw across her lips as she looked at the suit, and herself all fixed up, the way she had liked to look. She’d always taken pains with her appearance. She’d forgotten what it was like to take care of herself like this. After all the ugliness of the past year, she never thought she’d stand in front of a mirror again and like the person who was staring back at her.
    Jesus, did she need this.
    â€œAre you going to take that?” a voice sounded behind her, and without taking her eyes off her reflection Dottie watched herself nod.
    *   *   *
    T ERESA finished dressing and took her bag and walked into the waiting room.
    She’d wasted the whole damn day on this nonsense. It was almost five o’clock. This clinic was really soaking Medicaid, she thought. This was the third time in two weeks they’d given her a mammogram, taken X rays, taken blood, and poked and prodded, and now this crap of a sonogram.
    At least the sonogram didn’t hurt, she was thankful