Middle Management

Tony knew his morning was off to a bad start when only an hour into his shift, a man pulled a gun from his pants and ordered everyone in the bank to get on the ground.

Three more men followed suit, dragging their hoods up over their Dodgers baseball caps and half-screaming, half-spitting threats at the trembling staff and clientele. A pop cover of a Christmas song played over the speakers.

Tony shifted uncomfortably beneath his desk, clenching his little black book of bank policies and regulations. The situation wasn’t ideal. But the handbook accounted for this sort of thing—the tellers will hand over the money, the gunmen will leave, and then Tony will call the police.

“Um, Mr. Johnson?” a strained voice whispered. “I have a problem.”

Tony glanced behind him, finding Fatima kneeling awkwardly next to the desk. “Do you think it can wait?”

“No, Mr. Johnson,” she said, more insistent. “This cannot wait.”

A wave of dread washed over him when Fatima pressed a hand over her distended stomach. Despite the commendation he received last month for managerial preparedness, he was in no way equipped to deliver a baby on the bank floor in the middle of an armed robbery.

“Okay, okay,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Just breathe deep, soothing breaths. We’ll get out of here soon, okay?”

Her wide brown eyes blinked owlishly. “How can you say that? I need an ambulance now!”

“Hey, who's talking over there?”

Tony and Fatima paled. A gunman was walking toward them.

He sneered, bulldozing over the whimpering crowd. Tattooed on his neck was an image of a skull wearing a headdress, and Tony thought this to be an odd choice for someone who clearly had no Native American ancestry.

“Are you deaf?” the gunman said. “Didn’t I say that talkers get shot?”

Tony swallowed and slowly raised his hand.

The gunman stared at him. “What?”

Inhaling, Tony said in one quick stream, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid we have a bit of a medical situation on our hands that needs addressing and since I’m sure you’re all nice young men who have fallen under difficult circumstances and had no choice but to turn to a life of crime then I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that we need to get the receptionist to a hospital—”

The cold muzzle of a gun pressed up against Tony’s forehead, causing his mouth to dry. Fatima released a strangled shriek.

“How about ya try that again, old man,” said the robber, his eyes narrowing.

Tony gestured to Fatima. “She’s having a baby. Right now.”

“She’s—oh, shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

The gunman scratched the back of his head with the butt of his gun, uncertainty flashing over his face. Tony held his breath.

It was during these few tense moments that Fatima doubled over in pain. She swayed, holding her stomach with a groan. This scene was enough to speed up the gunman’s decision on the matter, and he swore colorfully before spinning on his heel and dashing to the other gunman at the register.

“We gotta hurry, man. There’s a pregnant lady who’s not gonna be all that pregnant soon. I’m not hurting no pregnant lady.”

Stuffing wads of cash into a dirty backpack, the other gunman hissed, “We’re not done yet, Gary. Didn’t get enough yet.”

“We emptied the registers. It’s enough.”

“And I’m telling you,” the other gunman glared, “that it’s not enough.”

The teller stationed beside the register trembled while the gunmen argued, yelping when Gary plucked him by the scruff of his collar and drew him up eye-level.

Gary’s lips curled back. “There’s more in the back, right? How much is back there?”

Junior, the teller, only shook his head violently and stammered, “Th-th-there’s—I’m not, um, I’m not the one who, um, does—”

Tony raised his hand.

Gary stared at him. “What now?”

“I’m the only one with vault access,” Tony explained. “I can get you in, but we need to hurry, please. This is not a sanitary place for childbirth.”

Right on cue, Fatima moaned and clutched her stomach. Sweat gleamed in the black tresses of her hair. The gunmen exchanged anxious looks.

In one fluid motion, Gary dropped Junior and aimed the gun’s barrel at Tony. “Lead the way, Mr. Manager.”

Contrary to popular belief, most banks weren’t chock-full of cash. Withdrawal requests exceeding $50,000 required a minimum of two business days and special service order—all a matter of risk reduction, the black book clearly stated. What kinds of risk? Credit. Liquidity. Operational.

Armed robbery.

Upper management had long since chosen to ignore such standard protocols. Their wealthy clientele in the hills, after all, wanted the option to withdraw their cash whenever they wanted to.

Tony dialed the six digit code and scanned his employee ID, triggering the high pitched entrance chime.

“I’m gonna Scrooge McDuck this haul,” said the other gunman. He shouldered past Tony and immediately began shoving fistfuls of cash into his backpack.

Gary hummed his agreement. “Cash bathtub, full stop.”

Their mutual expressions of glee froze at the tell-tale sound of a cresting wail. As they scrambled to their feet, the gunman standing guard rushed in and stopped in the vault’s doorway, his face pock-marked and flushed.

“Cops are coming,” the gunman panted.

A string of curses followed.

“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” said the other gunman. He grabbed his baseball cap and threw it against the wall, revealing a mess of red hair. “What now?”

Gary ran a hand over his meaty face, eyes wild. “We’ve got hostages. Can’t touch us when we’ve got hostages.”

Tony dug his nails into the spine of his little black book. Nothing in it covered this situation. A remarkable oversight, all things considered. The more they argued, the more desperate the armed gunmen grew. And desperate people were the most dangerous people in the world.

Clearing his throat, Tony said, “There’s a window in the staff bathroom.”

Three heads swiveled toward him. “So?” said the pock-marked gunman.

“You can escape through it now while you still can. I doubt the police have surrounded the building yet.”

Gary sneered. “We wouldn’t make it past the backlot. Nice try, manager.”

“You can if they think you’re still holding me hostage. If you act like nothing’s out of the ordinary.”

They stilled, the words sinking in.

“That might work,” the red-haired gunman murmured.

Gary stepped up and loomed over Tony, close enough for Tony to see the pores in his nose. “And why would you do that, huh? What’s in it for you?”

“I get to see my son and his wife for the holidays,” Tony said quietly. “Fatima can safely have her baby. I don’t have to get shot for a bank that doesn’t follow its own rules.”

The howl of the police siren drew closer. With it, the harsh drumming in Tony’s chest quickened.

Gary watched him for several agonizing seconds before he finally said, “Go get Billy. We’re going out the window.”

Everything after that was straightforward. Tony directed them to the bathroom, the red-haired gunman smashed the window’s glass with his elbow, and one by one the gunmen left the bank carrying an obscene amount of money.

The moment they departed, Tony released a shaky breath and collapsed to the floor. He closed his eyes. Counted the minutes. Perhaps the men had a getaway car nearby. Perhaps the police caught them and Tony’s blood pressure spiked for nothing.

He gave it ten minutes before walking out to the main floor. When he announced their liberation, a relieved chaos snapped to life and several people burst into tears. Others ran out the door. Fatima was helped to her feet by two kind bystanders, each holding her hand as they led her outside.

Tony filed a police report, thanking the officer who draped a shock blanket over his shoulders. That was nice, he thought. They didn’t do that last time.

The corporate office sent out a mass email the next day reporting that they would finance any counseling services the staff required as a result of the incident, but they did not respond to Tony’s request for a review of the branch’s standard operating procedures. He hadn’t really expected them to.

Weeks went by, and Tony did his best to transform the armed robbery into an interesting anecdote to tell at parties.

Tony stepped out of his apartment the Saturday after Christmas in his pajamas. He sipped a cup of peppermint coffee, admiring the cars passing on the street. Decembers never truly got cold in Los Angeles, but he enjoyed the morning chill nonetheless.

When he turned to go back inside, he paused. A manila envelope was leaned up against the wall, right next to his door. That was odd. He wasn’t expecting any packages.

Picking up the envelope and flipping it over, the word thanks was written in large, scraggly letters across the front. Tony’s stomach turned. Quickly stepping into his apartment, he slammed the door behind him and tore open the envelope.

Bundles of cash laid inside.

Crisp hundred dollar bills, stacked and bound together. The wheels in Tony’s head screeched to halt at the sight. Dumping the bills on the kitchen counter, he counted out the cash. Then he recounted three more times.

There was $20,000 in total.

Briefly, Tony considered consulting his little black book for guidance. Maybe the black book could provide an ethical solution to the problem of receiving a lump sum of stolen money. Maybe there was an ethical way to return the money to the bank.

But then again.

There probably wasn’t one.