Free Hair-Trigger by Trevor Clark Page B

cigarette. Rowe was obviously fucking around because he liked the sound of his own voice, the narcissist. He’d go along with the conversation long enough to put a dent in some of his booze. “And I don’t really know Robert a whole lot, but he’s not the sharpest fucking tool in the drawer, is he? Look, I wouldn’t rob a bank—they’re too guarded and exposed. Something like a trust company or a utility company would be better, where people go in to pay their bills. And I’d go out of town, some place like Oshawa or Whitby.”
    â€œBanks are all right,” Rowe said. “I’ve done two of them here in the city.”
    Lofton looked at him. “All right, let me get this straight. You’re saying you’ve robbed two fucking banks. Is that ­correct?”
    â€œYes. Give me a cigarette.”
    Lofton felt around for the pack. “And when was this?”
    â€œOne in March, one in May. I don’t want to say where. I just used a note, and picked up twenty-eight hundred bucks and then thirty-five.”
    â€œWell, I know neither one of them was a Canada Trust,” Lofton said. “They never get robbed because of the way they have all the cash in an enclosed area. You ask them for change for five bucks, and they’ve still got to go back to a cage.”
    â€œRight. The store has an account at a branch on Bloor. For some reason all the wall cameras behind the tellers were taken out during renovations, except for one. It’s been like that for months.”
    â€œWell, they’re watching you. Believe it. Every time there’s a bank robbery, it’s always a Royal, a Bank of Montreal, Scotiabank or a CIBC or something, because they don’t have that setup—yet. And that’s not much of a payoff for the risk you were taking. Anyway, you don’t need more than one guy to do a bank if you want to stick to the note—”
    â€œI realize that,” Rowe said. “I want to empty all the cash drawers. I want to go in, get the customers on the floor, and get everything accessible.”
    â€œIf you’re going to go in strong, you’d need more than two guys then. And of course no safes, not with time-release locks.” Lofton raised his big bottle as he thought it over, and watched Rowe rummaging through his tapes. “Don’t put on any more of that hillbilly shit.”
    Rowe returned to his seat as some blues kicked in. “By the way, did I ever tell you I met Johnny Winter in New York?”
    Lofton squinted. “I think I’d remember that. When was this supposed to have happened?”
    â€œNineteen-ninety. A girlfriend and I went to a bar called Manny’s Car Wash to see a guy named Lazy Lester. On the way there, we had to get back out of a gypsy cab trying to charge a flat twenty bucks. Driver tried to tell me that it was a long way and that anyone would charge that much. Took a regular cab with a meter instead, and it was like six.” Rowe smiled. “Fucking New York.
    â€œAnyway, Lester, this older black guy, is taking pictures of all the babes in his audience with an instamatic hooked to his belt while his band was warming up the crowd. Oh, I should mention that the bar was packed, but we somehow lucked out with an empty table right in front of the stage.
    â€œSo I happened to turn around, and I’m amazed to see Winter sitting right behind me with a woman. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to come off like an idiot fan. Then Lazy Lester noticed him too and came over to talk to him. I saw him looking around and knew what he was thinking, so I said, ‘Excuse me, are you looking for someone to take a picture of you and Johnny?’ He said, ‘Yeah,’ so I borrowed his camera and took photos of them with their arms around each other. Of course, my camera was back in the fucking hotel room. Then I shook their hands. Winter headlined the first rock