The Getaway Driver

A taxi driver is chosen as the getaway car for a pair of bank robbers, but he outwits them.

The Getaway Driver

[Started June 22, 2015, and finished July 5, 2015, with amendments 10 July 2015]

For several months already, most of the drivers at Canon Cabs were aware that, in order to make it easier to evade detection and recognition by using the same getaway car every time, a ring of robbers were using the service’s taxis to leave the scene of their robberies, using a randomizer to select one of the more than fifty drivers in the service. It was assumed that Emilio Rodriguez, the boss, was collecting a premium each time, but most cabbies didn’t want talk about it. Finally, one Thursday afternoon, I got the call: it was my turn to serve.

From a block and a half away I watched the two goons enter the bank by its main entrance, exactly at 4:30, as expected. I switched the meter on, eyes never leaving the bank door: that was the agreement between the robbers and the taxi service--on duty as soon as the caper started, the boss had told me. A little bonus for the lucky driver. I was ready.

My escape route had been planned ahead of time. Each time it was different, and randomly chosen from a list of a hundred different tracks. The robbers' own team would meet them at the endpoint, where they would disembark (having paid the fare moments ahead of time) and switch to their unmarked vehicle; within seconds, I would continue speeding around for a time, to throw off any unwanted followers, and then meander back to the taxi company. That was the standard plan, and so far it had worked just fine for seven robberies.

The most recent heist had foundered temporarily, though, due to a slight lack of training and foresight. When casing the property the security system had been under repair. As a result, there was one more camera operating during the robbery than the team had been aware of, near the chosen exit door, off a back corridor. Gurse Hartor had had a sudden allergic reaction, and, coughing, had taken his mask off briefly when he thought he was in the clear; his image had been all over the news and in the POs. Gurse was still grumbling through months of the strictest quarantine. Desk work didn't suit him. But that's the way this racket worked sometimes.

Today, heavily bundled up so as to be barely recognizable, he'd be at the organization's escape van. I didn't know about him at the time, no one had discussed the job in detail aside from the snaky escape route, which was by now hardwired into me. I'd been keeping a sort of photo and video journal of today's operation on that day, though, the better to learn from later on.

I idled, listening to Pierce Brosnan trying to sing of his emotions to Meryl Streep, and sometimes nearly managing to. I figured he really needed a bit of S.O.S. But so did my fares, Powell and Rudd. My fare clock had already passed the seven-dollar mark and they were still in there. Regardless, I would wait--but it seemed likely that some conflict or disruption had occurred. Perhaps someone had been hurt. There was no sign of an alarm or of people panicking, the doors were still open, and there were no sirens approaching, as far as could be heard. I tentatively had reached the conclusion that there was some other reason for the delay. I could not simply give up, on my own accord. I had to wait for orders. Not only on account of the boss, who'd be put out that I'd missed collecting my special fare (and, for all I knew, a separate commission of his own), or out of conscience, because the robbers could be stranded on the street without a getaway car.

I'm not the type to let such considerations determine my decisions. I am not sentimental nor easily flustered. It was simply that I had my instructions. I would follow them to the letter, unless newer orders came in to countermand them. That is my nature.

Right now, assuming that nothing had gone seriously wrong, I was awaiting the signal. The Canon Community Bank (Fletcher Street Branch) always had its shades drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows visible from my vantage point at this time in the afternoon; Powell had got ahold of one of those novelty key-rings with a laser pointer--this one could project pictures and patterns, depending on the attachment. Sure enough, a minute later ($8.55 on the meter), a red triangle appeared on the screen for a few seconds, then it flashed three more times. The boys were ready to roll, and I slid into gear and approached the alley from which they would emerge.

Motor running, I popped my trunk and waited by the door. The pair pelted out, swiftly as possible without being conspicuous. They dropped their heavy bags into the trunk, slammed it shut, and piled into the back seats. I pulled away as soon as they had their doors closed and set off on my prescribed route at once. None of us spoke until we were on the outskirts of town.

"Thanks for the lift," Powell smirked to me via the rear view mirror. "We almost there?"

"About four minutes, we'll be there," I answered. "Did you run into any problems? I expected you sooner."

Rudd snorted. "Nothing special."

Powell started chuckling as I made a sharp left onto Sampson. Rudd muttered, "Shut up, Loaf" with a note of warning that hid feelings of shame and embarrassment. But the laughter continued.

"What's the gag, if I may ask? I could use a good laugh."

Rudd started testily, "None of your business, cabby," but Powell cut him off.

"What? It's funny." He leaned his head into the gap between the front seats to tell me. "My distinguished friend and colleague here has a steady hand with a gun, but let me tell you..." He dissolved into laughter. Rudd hit him with his ski mask angrily.

"It wasn't my fault, you knucklehead. That teller didn't tie the bag right."

"I know, but you've got to admit..." He turned back to me. "It was like this. We'd already collected the bags, just about to head out of the lobby single file through the employees' door, when the cord to Hector's bag slips and unties. And wouldn't you know it, that crappity sugarplum fairy of a teller had put a bag of coins in last. You should have seen him, hands all full, trying to tilt and roll that bag so's it wouldn't drop to the floor. Some marble game, eh, Hec? Well, our hero tried to catch it with his teeth! And of course, that's when it topples right over the edge. What a damn' racket. I think I went nearly deaf for a second. Hey, Hec, did you get any coins down your shirt?"

"I did not," Rudd returned with dignity. "But I got one in my pants."

"How in the hell...?" Powell began.

"My pants *cuff*, I meant to say," Rudd insisted.

"Sure, pal, sure, an important distinction," Powell smiled at him fondly. "But anyways, there we were; we both sort of froze in our tracks, still single file, he was partway through the door and into the hallway, facing forwards, and I was there behind him, still in the lobby, goggle eyed, watching all these damn' silver dollars roll every which way, and by now all the customers and tellers and who-knows-what-all were staring at us, and this hammerhead here whispers, all inconspicuous like a dope, 'Just pick up the bag and let's go.'

"The hell with you, Powell, you know I can't hear high frequency sounds any more, after that time in the Coast Guard."

"I know it, I know it," Powell said soothingly, hoping that Rudd wasn't going to get really sore at him. "But anyhow, buddy," he said, turning back to me, "As if there was any way to, I mean, I'd've spent at least half an hour just scoopin' up those Kennedys and Eisenhowers, not to mention chasing them all over the damn marble floor, it's like ' 'Scuse me, miss, could I just ask you to lift your shoe up for a second so's I can get to this silver dollar I stole?' "

In frustration, Rudd grabbed the front of his friend's jacket and growled at him between his teeth. "I couldn't see ya, pissbreath! I was stuck in the friggin' hallway by then!"

Powell knew by Rudd's tone of voice that he was close to losing his temper. "I know, I know, sweetie. It wasn't your fault. All's I'm saying is, it was funny. No harm done, we lost, what, two hundred dollars, tops? It doesn't even matter. So anyway," he said, leaning against my shoulder again, "I only said, 'Just forget about it, everyone's watchin' us, the bag spilled everywhere; let's just get out of here. Go on, hurry.' I kind of gave him a nudge from behind, and then I shone out the signal real quick, and then we vamoosed." Powell leaned back in his seat, worn out from his exuberant narrative. "And I figure you know the rest."

I knew I had to gain their confidence. I leaned my elbow out the window and laughed as if heart-warmed by the byplay. "I'm not going to tell anyone, boys, but I'll tell you what, that's a damn funny story. Sort of wish I'd come along to watch the fun." I beamed back at them through the rear-view, and Powell returned the smile with an amicable nod of the head. Rudd was only slightly mollified, though.

"No, you don't," he graveled. "It wasn't nothing. I just dropped a damn bag that shouldn't even have been in there. Some fun! It wasn't nothing."

Powell was staring out my window, musing, and remembering the face of the teller they'd robbed today. "Say, Hec," started Powell. "I bet the teller did it on purpose, maybe, stuck the coins in last of all and then tied it too loose so it'd fall out and slow us up, d'you think?"

Rudd was distracted; his anger changed direction. "You know, I betcha that's right. I never did trust that guy, all his 'sir's and 'if you please's, he's a damn phony."

Powell was relieved, and nodded earnestly at his partner. "You figure so? Guy set us up?" Rudd didn't reply, but he was mulling it over and building up steam.

"Just our luck, hunh? I mean, getting that crud-bucket as our teller? Geez, talk about the luck of the draw..."

Rudd mumbled, "More like Russian roulette."

In his jocularity, Powell had slapped Rudd companionably on the chest, but now Powell was alert, curious. His hands fumbled at his pal's shirt. "What the devil are you up to, Leo?" Rudd demanded. "Look, I told you, never touch me like that unless we're alone!" Then he seemed to remember he and Powell weren't alone. "Hey...don't mind us, buddy. Do you?" I met Rudd's eyes in the mirror and gave a small shrug with my head. "I mean, after all, we're old buddies, we don't always fight like this, I'm just jumpy..." He tapered off, embarrassed, ashamed to still be justifying himself to a stranger, still afraid of what others would think of him. I had no feelings about it one way or the other, but I needed him to feel safe with me, at least for a while.

"Oh, now, I can't hate you boys. All of us do what we can to keep on moving forward, right? If this is what keeps food on your table, it's not for me to judge, that's for sure. And of course you've gotta do what keeps you happy, that's obvious. As for me, why, I'm a driver, that's all I've ever done. All my experience has been behind the wheel, and it keeps me up in comic books and pizza just fine. Uhura was the communications function, well, I'm the conveyance, the transportation function. I'm happy to carry folks around, rushing to, running from; it's all the same to me, one more trip, one more fare. I'm not fussy. Like the three billy goats gruff crossin' the bridge, trip trap, trip trap, that's me, and I'm as happy as a well maintained vehicle ought to be. I've got my gasoline and a place to park all to myself, I'm fine. We all do what we can, and I'm proud to serve, friends."

"Luck of the draw, Powell, we got ourselves a philosopher this time," commented Rudd. "Thank you, cabbie." Powell had reached his long fingers into Rudd's shirt breast pocket and pulled out a shiny, new half dollar coin.

"Hey, Rudd, happy birthday!" Powell laughed, holding it up so we could both see it gleaming. "Tell you what, keep it, Hec, I'll never tell the boss. Think what he would say if he found you’d kept even a silver half dollar to yourself.” Automatically, images of Rudd and Powell’s employer popped into both their heads, in suitable states of rage. I filed these images in the appropriate folder. They matched up with the figure supplied by other suspects earlier: Vance Carpenter, by the evidence, was the ringleader of the robbery gang. Good to know. I sent this corroboration to the chief, smile never faltering.

Powell was still excited about the shiny coin he’d found in Rudd’s breast pocket. “It can be your new good luck piece, eh?" He reached back to Rudd and dropped the fifty cent piece back down into the pocket, giving its hiding place a couple of reassuring pats and smiling into Rudd's face hopefully, wondering if this would calm him down.

I smiled beneficently at the pair and pulled over to the shoulder opposite a big black van. "Well, here we are, boys. It's been a pleasure. That's $17.50, please." I turned around to grin at Rudd, gesturing at his shirt pocket. "But keep the change, know what I mean?" Releasing the atmosphere of tension in the cab, Rudd grinned at me and gave a hearty laugh, looking at his partner and patting him on the forearm. Then he turned back to me.

"Tell you what, driver, just take this, and get yourself a porterhouse steak tonight, on me," Rudd said, clapping me on the shoulder and squeezing it. He'd just slipped at twenty dollar bill into my uniform picket; I retrieved it so I could see it properly, and gave a low, appreciative whistle as they clambered out my right side passenger door. Other men were emerging stealthily from the parked van as I popped open my trunk; soon the heavy bags had started their transfer to the van.

As Rudd and Powell sauntered across the road, partners who were doing a lot better now than they had been a few minutes before, I rolled down the passenger's side front window. "Hey, fellows?" Powell gave his friend's neck a little squeeze and strolled back over to me. He offered his hand to shake, saying "Thanks, boyo, maybe we'll see each other again." He was relaxed, full of waves of peace, satisfaction, and especially of relief. I knew I'd earned his appreciation; he was thinking about how, if I'd not been there, Rudd would probably have launched them into an argument that would have lasted all night, at least. I shook Powell's hand warmly and gave him a few nods of the head to show I understood.

"Say, I need to talk to your buddy for a moment, can you help?" I asked, giving him one last, firm shake.

"Sure, pal. Hey, lucky half dollar, driver needs a word," Powell called. Rudd turned away from the van's driver's window and rumbled back over to my window as Powell went back to help the others finish up.

Rudd leaned over to talk to me through the window gap, hands on the sill. "Yeah, what is it, cabbie?"

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. I just wanted to say thanks for that tip, and I hope you boys get all you deserve." I extended my hand and he automatically reached inside the cab to return the favor. "I've got a little tip for you, too, squire: keep your peepers open for coppers from heaven, know what I mean?" I pursed my lips significantly and nodded at Rudd's breast pocket. He glanced down and nodded in understanding, smirking at me; he did not, however, understand my full meaning yet.

As I shook his hand, I didn't even need to look over as the paint nozzles emerged from my my sideboards on the passenger-side doors and took aim. That had always been easy for me. The flechettes also poked out of my hubcaps. This was the easiest part of the caper. 

*POOM*! 

Indelible paint balls shot out, bursting and splatting all over each of the other criminals' faces, van, and clothing. Simultaneously, my sharpened window pane closed to clench at Rudd's upper arm tightly and painfully. The pain looked blue and white to me, like a blue jay flying by. I saw his eyes widen in surprise and fear, felt his frustration overtake him at not being able to turn around and see what was happening to cause his cohorts' cries of alarm. The felons' pain and bewilderment, unclear at that distance but still potent, gusted past my chassis like a Lexus driving through a fog-bank. Naturally, I had full recordings and images of the entire caper, the ride, and the passengers of the van already uploading to the PD mainframe.

Rudd's anxiety increased as I eased down on the accelerator, down the road again--and then it trebled when my siren started whining through the dusk. He yanked and tugged his arm, but could not pull free as I sped up. He tried running beside the car, not an easy task in his odd position. He was doing pretty well, skipping and bounding, until I sped up again to 40. The taxi meter now read $19.05. We passed my backups, heading out to the van, which wasn't about to go too far due to its two pierced tires. I smiled through the gap at Rudd and accelerated yet again, to 50. The felon started ramming the glass with his left fist; he had a revolver on his belt holster (I myself only have upholstery, no holster), but he could not reach it the way I had him pinioned. The glass, of course, wouldn't have shattered, even if he had shot at it. The department's not that foolish.

I upped my speed again to 55, which is not just a good idea, but also the law; the man was now only trying to keep his feet up off the tarmac, as I was moving too quickly for him to run. His eyes implored me to slow down, or to help in any way. He feared for his life, for his arm. He was afraid of a heart attack. Too late now to take up a gradual exercise plan. I extended my hand and he grasped at it as if it were a lifesaver on the whitewater rapids. This released some of the stress on his arm, which was now dripping blood over my window.

I decided he'd had enough; no use bringing in a dead man. I extended the standing platform, which he found after it prodded his ankles and shoes. There was nothing for it but to accept the help, even from his false comrade, and stand on the platform, waiting to be released to the authorities. Sensible enough under the right circumstances, was Rudd.

As he realized he could support his full weight on the platform, his emotions suddenly shifted: from a numbing relief at his unexpected physical safety, he raced to horror as he pictured his humiliation, his old mother's disappointment in him, and last, what sort of welcome the other cons would afford him on his arrival at jail; this final image was pieced together from several personal memories, bits of old cell block movies, and stories from some of his former cohorts.

That was when I switched on the rotating red and blue lights hidden within my taxi light on the roof.

Rudd's despair was considerable, and his emotional breakdown and tears were understandable. He was a small town crook, a bank robber who'd been caught along with Gurse Hartor (he had been coated a lovely, vivid shade of pink a moment earlier) and the others, all of whom would be furious at him, clinging in the twilight and light rain to my side door, visible to all, the bright LEDs shining into his eyes.

I pulled the twenty dollar bill out of my pocket and placed it into Rudd's hand. "This is yours, I think, Mr. Rudd. I can't feel right about keeping it, under the circumstances. Hang on, sir; we'll be arriving at Stover police headquarters in seven and a half minutes. I am Officer Cabb of the Stover Police Force, license number XNT-451. You are under arrest for robbing the Canon Community Bank today at 4:34 PM today. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney...."

At that moment, rumbling over the Vance Street Bridge, Rudd realized just how much trouble he was in; I could see him as he saw himself: a failure, an honors student gone bad, a disappointment to both his parents (his father was beyond forgiving him), lied to by any number of people on both sides of the law, myself included; a rube, a dupe, a fool, doomed, and soon it would get a hell of a lot worse. And right now, he was held prisoner by a moving cop car that was reading him his Miranda rights, the rest of his high frequency hearing being scraped away by the din of my siren.

And finally it hit him. Rudd evaluated my hand's grip, the steely strength of my fingers, my slightly monotone voice (not my best feature). My bony but bulky shoulder. And as he looked again, stooping low to see through my window gap, I obligingly switched on my map light.

Yes. No legs. My torso is built right into the seat.

Rudd's eyes lit up in wonder and fear, and he added his own howl to the yowling of my siren.

Yes, his breakdown was eminently understandable; of course, I'd have known how disrupted his feelings and thoughts had become, even if he'd possessed stoic self-control of his emotions and expression. We howled and hurtled through the deepening night, Rudd in his agony and me in my dutiful passivity, both of us soon to be parked where we belonged.

I could have heckled Rudd about how his poor old Ma (he always called her thus, not 'Mom') would feel when she found out, but there was no reason to be malicious or cruel. The robber was caught; he'd find justice waiting for him. 

I had time to muse. I'd probably have fared no better than him, if it had been me in his position, and if I could've experienced emotions of my own.  

Author's Note

I'm seeing this as the starting chapter for a book of episodes about Cabb.