Boardwalk Hall didn’t have a security plan for that
They would be in and out quickly if everything went down the way Porter said it would. They had to head across town to change cars and dump their clothes, then drive back to the Tropicana and pretend to be like every other guest going to the concert, but none of that was a problem. Nobody would look for them inside Boardwalk Hall, especially if they were last seen disappearing down the boardwalk.
They would hide in plain sight at the scene of the crime while the cops chased ghosts.
Archer shook out another Camel.
But it all came back to Ray – he was the one outside the room; the guy who had to make sure there were no security guards around while Archer and Porter took down the cashiers and stole the cash. The guy responsible for making sure they got away. It was only five minutes. But five minutes could turn into a lifetime if something went wrong.
Five minutes in the hands of an idiot could be fatal.
Archer checked the clip in his forty-five; he didn’t like the knot that gripped his insides. He ran his fingers through his hair then lit another Camel to pass the time, hoping it would calm the uneasiness in his gut.
He stared at his watch and counted the minutes as they dropped away from the hour.
They entered Boardwalk Hall through a service entrance with fake IDs, wearing dark phone company jackets over black tees, forty-fives and thirty-eights tucked in the waistbands of their pants. Lightweight canvas bags stuck inside their jackets. Wayfarers hid their eyes as they separated and made their way towards the cash room deep inside the bowels of the Hall. The money was in a concrete room behind an unmarked door, down a long corridor beneath the arena. Nobody outside and a lone security guard inside, with three clerks counting the bills and wrapping them in bands. Porter knew nothing happened until an hour before the doors opened and teams of armed guards showed up to wheel the money to the concession stands.
They planned to keep their ski masks and guns hidden until they hit the room. As long as they didn’t do anything that called attention to themselves it would be okay.
“Guards don’t pay attention if you don’t do anything out of the ordinary,” Porter told them.
“Why’s that?” Ray asked.
“Because they’re like cops,” he said. “They’re trained to look for little things that don’t add up. If you’re driving down the road, doing the speed limit in a clean car, most times a cop never notices. But if a guy is doing twenty over the limit, in a car with a busted tail light, the cops are all over him.”
“What’s that mean?” Ray asked.
“It means you don’t take unnecessary risks,” Archer said, “or do something stupid.”
Ray didn’t say another word.
The only thing that changed was who went inside the room and who stood guard by the door – Archer wanted Porter outside while he and Ray worked inside. Porter knew the routines better than anyone; he would know if something was wrong, and that was more important than the extra money they shoved in their bags.
“That’s not how we planned it,” Porter protested.
Archer shrugged.
“Just makes more sense,” he said. “The outside man’s the guy who needs to be sharp and on top of his game.”
“What’s that mean?” Ray asked indignantly.
“Don’t mean nothing,” Archer said.
“That mean you think I’m stupid?” Ray said. “Don’t think I’m smart enough?”
Archer let a grin ease across his face and shook his head. “Just means Porter’s the best one to do the job,” he said. “He worked there. Knows how the place works. Knows what to look for. Little things like that make a difference.”
“Little things like that can keep us from getting caught.”
Archer was first through the door – when he got inside, he knew it was the kind of score he always dreamed about. Large stacks of bills were spread across a long table and the drawers beneath it were filled with more cash and coins. Bundles of bills were banded together – thousands of dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Like heroin to a junkie. An older woman, late fifties with tanned, weathered skin and frosted streaks running though a bad dye job sat quietly stacking packets of bills by denomination. Two other women, younger and pale, fed bills into a currency counter that sorted the money then spit it out in a rapid stream. They wrote down numbers on long sheets in a log book, placing the bills in piles when they came out of the machine. A lone security guard, late forties, heavyset, with thinning salt and pepper colored hair, stood impassively in the corner. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed lazily against his chest.
All four looked up in surprise as two masked men stepped into the room.
Archer raced across the room and slammed the barrel of his forty-five across the guard’s face – blood gushed from his nose and mouth before he dropped to his knees. The guard’s Glock never left its holster. Archer slid behind him and brought down his forty-five on the back of guard’s head, sending him to the floor. When he was face-down Archer kicked him in the ribs for good measure.
“Don’t nobody say a fucking word,” he said.
Ray pulled out his thirty-eight and swept it back and forth across the room.
Archer pointed his gun at the woman. “Get down on the floor,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“What’s going on?” another woman asked.
“Quiet,” Archer said.
“What are you doing?”
Archer backhanded her across the face.
The blow knocked her to the floor. She curled into a ball next to the security guard as blood spurted from her mouth and tears burst from her eyes. “Not another word,” Archer warned.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Ray said.
Ray dropped a canvas bag on the table and pulled out a roll of duct tape; taping their mouths shut then quickly binding their hands and feet. Archer pulled out his own canvas bag and tossed it on the table. Leveling the gun at the two workers on the floor he used his free hand to shovel bills into the bag. The security guard stirred until Archer buried another foot in his midsection. When Ray finished taping the women he turned his attention to the lady whimpering on the floor. Blood streamed from her nose and he gently wiped away what he could before covering her mouth in tape.
“How’s it going?” Porter whispered from outside the room.
Ray eyed Archer cautiously. “All’s good.”
“Keep an eye on the clock,” Porter told them.
“Just pay attention out there,” Archer barked. “You keep your eyes open.”
Porter turned away, his back to the door, knowing they didn’t have time to waste. The way the guards rotated patrols gave them no more than six or seven minutes before someone passed through the corridor.
Archer looked at Ray. “Finish packing the bills,” he said. “I’m checking the drawers.”
“What for?”
“More cash.”
“There’s no time,” Ray said, panicking.
Archer shrugged. “Couple more seconds won’t hurt.”
“That’s not how we planned this,” Ray said.
Archer stepped over the gagged woman beneath the table, yanking open a drawer. Inside there were rows of bills, sorted in different denominations – twenties and fifties and even some hundred dollar bundles. At least an extra twenty or thirty thousand.
“That’s not part of the plan,” Ray hissed.
“It won’t make a difference,” Archer said.
By the time Archer filled the other bag at least another minute had passed.
Porter cracked open the door, whispering, “Hurry the fuck up!”
It was then that Jimmy Waters came hurrying down the stairs through the fire exit into the corridor. When he opened the door he saw Porter and knew something didn’t feel right. It looked wrong. He could feel it. In one quick motion Waters slid his Glock from its holster and aimed it at Porter.