Clementine falls and blood just dumps out of her, mostly on Glory.
The casino men put bullets in the counter; the tellers are screaming as Faith hunches along behind it. This way, she thinks, yeah, keep turning–
Charity kills one; the other dives away when his gun clicks. Faith gets his bag and half the bricks falls out of it, who cares, she shoves Charity out the door as the alarm begins howling.
Together they scramble into the car Angel’s already got running. Faith looks down at the bag: stacks of blank green paper.
“Glory,” she whispers. “Glory sold us out.”
Tuesday night, Charity’s place. Clementine scrubs off in the bathroom while Glory smooths plaster over Faith’s nose. Margaritas and Bob Seger; penny poker.
“There’s still Vaseline in my eyebrows.” Angel grimaces and raises a dime.
“No,” says Glory, “they just feel weird afterward. I’ve made a million of these, they’re perfect for the job. They’ll melt in water.”
“And I won’t have pantyhose over my eyes,” says Charity. “See a quarter, raise a quarter, call.”
Angel drops queens over eights.
“You weren’t bluffing!” Charity stares. “You had to be–”
“Nobody sees through this, sweetie.” Angel grins and rakes in the change.
They cross at the light, wearing sweaters and jeans, dyed ponytails under ball caps–no leather catsuits. Their masks are still damp.
In the lobby, Glory flips on the old incandescent sign, the bank’s public all-clear signal. She unlocks the door. There’s a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s only twenty of, Glory,” frowns her boss. “We don’t open until the Palms boys make their drop, remember?”
Glory smiles.
Then they’re in. Faith hits the guard in the throat. Charity shoots out the cameras. Angel and Clementine cover the tellers, caught in shock near the door.
“Nobody touch anything,” Glory purrs.
“C’mon, big boy,” says Faith. She’s grinning; he’s red. She slaps him again. “Want to try something?” Slap.
“You’re wasting time,” mutters Clementine.
“Not every day–” says Faith, turning, and the teller swings an awkward punch.
“HEY!” snaps Angel.
“You fucking,” snarls Faith, but her shot’s wild. He grabs his hand and screams. Sudden blood, noise and the drop men walk in. 7:49–they’re early. Two long duffels on a dolly.
Faith feels Angel tackling her behind the counter just as she registers their guns. Why do they have guns? Something’s wrong. She knows, then, that they won’t be alone.
7:32 and the drugstore’s not open yet. Angel thumps her head on the glass door. “Of all the days to start,” she sighs.
“There’s a… a diner down the block,” Faith says, squinting. “I bet they have one of those machines in the restroom.”
“Good call. You guys want to wait at the corner?”
“Yeah. Need some change?” says Charity, digging in a pocket.
Angel laughs. “I won all your money last night, remember?”
Inside, she ducks back toward LADS ‘N’ LASSES. She unhooks the payphone, drops in Charity’s fifty cents and dials. She counts to five and hangs up.
“That’s not what you told us at the scene,” says Pujols sharply.
“I said I’ll tell you everything I knew,” says Glory. She’s pale and dull. “I am.”
“Then let’s start with their names.”
“Never knew them,” Glory repeats. “Angel, Faith, Charity and Clementine? Google those, dipshit.”
“Relax, Glory,” says McNamara. “Officer Pujols is a little overeager. You want a cigarette?” Her eyes are a warm hazel.
“If I can put it out in your face,” says Glory, in the same tone. “Just ask me the questions, you fucking sow.” She keeps her hands in her lap, one in the other.