December 5th, 1981
An old withered hand grips a wad of money; the other hand opens a metal file, ready to store the owner’s earnings. Suddenly, from behind, a shadowy figure appears.

December 19th, 1981
“How long has it been since that last old woman was robbed; what was her name?” Sergeant Wilkins asked.
Patrol officer Ron Snow looked up from his desk, his sunken, blue eyes peering out from behind high, Cherokee cheek bones. “It’s been two weeks sergeant, and her name is Edna Meyers.”
“Any luck on finding who is responsible?”
“No, she said someone hit her from behind, never saw who did it.”
“It’s pathetic when some idiot has to pick on an old person, take what little they draw on social security,” Wilkins said, pulling his sagging gun-belt up and over a heavy paunch.
“Yeah, I know. I can’t believe she kept her money at home,” Snow replied.
“Well, some people just don’t like banks, especially those like Edna. She was around when the banks closed their doors in 1929. Anyway, do your best to get whoever did this before another one gets robbed. We’ve got someone out there preying on these old people and they’ll try it again.”

Snow sighed, putting together the last page of his report on Edna Meyers. “I’m doing the best I can sarge. You know how it goes, a lot of other complaints to do. It would help if that damned city manager would let us hire two more people.”

Wilkins took a sip from the personally inscribed coffee cup he held. “I know. Just do what you can.”

January 10th, 1982 – 9:00 P.M.
“Is that her?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Don’t look like anyone with money to me.”
“That’s why she’s got it dummy, no one believes she has any. She’s just playing it smart is all.”

Tom Barstow and Will Avery, two of Bangor’s lowlife, watched as Clara Austin placed a cardboard box in the trunk of her car. A large head of brown wilted lettuce fell from the box and onto the street. Clara slowly bent at the waist and picked the leafy item up, throwing it back in the box.

“Yeah, well anyone who digs through the trash hasn’t got a pot to piss in as far as I’m concerned,” Will said, snorting loudly: then spitting a huge green gob of snot onto the pavement.

Tom, looking down in disgust at the foul secretion close to his right foot, stepped to his left. Looking back up, he said, “I’ve seen her at the bank cashing her ‘crazy’ check. Ned Jennings said he’d heard she owned property somewhere out-of-state and squirrels the money away.”

Tom, thirty-five and married with three children, lived off welfare, his days spent sleeping and watching TV: sometimes fishing. Nights saw him hanging out on the streets of Bangor, drinking and doing drugs. Will wasn’t married, but lived with a woman with four children: her welfare checks assured he’d eat well: they also supplied his booze. Both men picked up a few bucks on the side for their drug habits by committing petty thefts.

“So how do we get it from her hands to ours?” Will asked, raising a brown paper bag and taking a drink from the cold beverage inside.
“I’m working on it,” Tom shot back. “I think she may keep a few bucks from her social security in the bank, but she probably keeps most of in that shack she calls a home. I’ll do some snooping and get back with you.”

January 17th – 8:00 P.M.
Tom and Will sat in his living room. On the top of a nearby coffee table, next to a glass ashtray overflowing with butts, several letters of correspondence lay: all to Clara Austin. Picking one up and straightening it out from its crumpled state, Tom handed it to Will. “Take a look at this.”

Will, sitting his beer down, took the paper between his fingers and rested it on his knee. After reading a few lines, he said, “Son-of-a-bitch!”
“Exactly,” Tom replied. “I told you that old bitch has a lot more money than she puts on.”
“Where’d you get these?” Will asked, picking up a second sheet.
“I asked Marty the other day if he needed some help picking up trash. I made myself a couple of bucks, and it gave me a chance to look through her rubbish.”

Will’s face lit up in brainless admiration, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Great! When do we do it?”
“Slow down dip-shit! We can either go in while she’s home or catch her gone. If we wait till she’s gone we’ll have to search for the money. If she’s home, I’ll convince her to tell us where it is,” Tom said, a gleam in his eye as he withdrew a large hunting knife.

Will sank back into a dirty and torn cushion, a furrow lining his brow. “Ah man, let’s not be talking of killing. The cops don’t give up so easily on that.”
Tom slammed his beer down onto the end table, splashing some of its contents onto its top: adding to its many other unnatural blemishes. “All right Einstein, what’s your plan?”

Will’s facial muscles contracted, bringing his dark eyebrows close together. He vacantly stared at a large hole in the filthy carpet near his feet. Suddenly he looked up at Tom, his eyes wide. “How about if I… No, that wouldn’t work.”
“Look. We’re not going to kill the old bitch. We’ll wear masks so she won’t be able to tell who we are. I’ll just make her tell us where it is and leave her tied up while we get away.”
“Yeah, that’ll work,” said Will, a smile exposing his rotted front teeth.

January 20th – 11:00 P.M.
Clara Austin lived alone, four miles out from the city of Bangor. The graveled road which passed her small home gave access to just one other residence: three-quarters of a mile away. When the sun went down, the only light to fight the darkness was that coming from Clara’s windows. Directly across the street from Clara’s home was a large apple orchard: between a row of trees sat a dark Pontiac, inside Tom and Will stared at the yellow light coming from Clara’s house.

Tom held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “It looks like she’s doing dishes,” Tom said.
Will, sitting quietly in the darkened car, rolled a freshly pulled booger from his nose. Manipulating it so it rested on his index fingernail, he flicked it toward Tom. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh nothing. Just thinking,” Will replied.

Keeping the glasses to his eyes Tom said, “that would be a first.”
Will thought for a minute, then said, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing man. Just be cool,” replied Tom, shooting Will a condescending look.
“So what are you gonna do with your portion of the old bitch’s riches?” asked Will.

Tom, turning his head slowly, peered through the binoculars once again. “I’m not spending too much to begin with, and neither are you shithead. Best way to get caught is to start making people suspicious; believe me, if they see either of us buying fancy shit the cops will show up on our doorsteps.”

Will rolled his eyes, while searching his nasal cavities for another green slug to fling. “Good thinking Tom. That’s why you’re the boss.”
“Damned straight,” Tom said. “You’d get our ass caught. Besides, I’m the one figured out the old woman wasn’t using the bank for most of her money: then she goes around digging in trash bins and shit making it look as if she’s nearly penniless.”
“Yeah, well, those stupid Bangor cops couldn’t solve anything, so don’t be saying I’d get our ass caught.”
“I’d say you were right there, except for that new one. What’s his name?”
“Ron Snow,” Will spat out.
“Yeah, well I wish he’d go somewhere else and work. He popped me good when he caught me in Pickens’ place. I’m still paying court costs on that one.” Tom replied.
“You think that’s bad. He knocked me upside of my head with his flashlight. I’ve got a nice scar from that one. It took seventeen stitches to close it up.” Will said, rubbing the side of his head.
“Why did he do that?”
“He claimed I was trying to kick his partner in the family jewels’.”

Clara’s house suddenly grew dark.
“I think she’s going to bed,” Tom said.
The two men sat for thirty-minutes before putting on their masks and quietly getting out of the car.
“You got that minilight?” said Tom.
A concentrated light beam struck Tom’s eyes, causing him to put his hand up.
“Yeah, I got it.” Will said, chuckling and snorting almost simultaneously.
“You dumb shit, turn that thing off.” Tom said, slapping at the light.

Tom, with Will right on his heels, slowly made his way through the darkness. An owl screeched from some nearby woods and Tom stopped abruptly as some nocturnal creature scurried through the grass to his left. Will stepped on the back of Tom’s right heel, then collided with him.
“Shit man, stay back a little will ya.” Tom said in disgust.
“Sorry,” Will said, in a whisper.

When the two arrived within a few yards of the house, Tom stopped: straining his hearing for any sound of movement. When minutes went by without a sound from inside, they made their way to the rear of the house. Tom removed a screwdriver from his rear pocket, as he grabbed the doorknob to the back door.

“Damn,” Tom said in surprise. “It’s not even locked.”
“Trusting old bitch,” Will whispered.
“Give me that light,” Tom said.
Tom took the small flashlight, cupped the head of it in his right palm and turned it on. The diffused light that escaped his fingers was slight: enough, however to make out any objects nearby. To the right, Tom could see an open closet: to its right, an opening with steps going down to the basement. In front of him, about fifteen feet away, was the window he’d watched Clara through: a sink directly underneath. To the left of the sink was the front door.
“Stay here for a minute,” Tom said, slowly walking toward a doorway another fifteen feet to his right.

The doorway led to a sparsely furnished living room. At the opposite end was another door.
“Come on,” Tom whispered. “I think her bedroom is down at the other end.”
As the two slowly made their way toward the bedroom door, they passed a sofa and chair, both looking new, but at the same time antique.
“Damn nice furniture for someone not having money,” Tom thought.

When the two men reached the bedroom door, they found it open. Tom listened carefully, hearing only the rhythmic sounds of someone sleeping. Using as much stealth as he could, Tom made his way to the right side of the room’s sole bed: leaving Will to watch at the door. Tom’s eyesight, now adjusted to the dark, could see Clara’s head resting on her pillow. With the flashlight off and now in his left hand, he withdrew a blue steel revolver from his waistband and bought the barrel down hard on the left side of Clara’s head. He heard a moan, but saw no movement.
“Turn that light on.”

Will searched the inner wall next to the door and found the light switch, flicking it up. A lone lightbulb, hanging by a frayed electrical cord in the middle of the ceiling, came on: splashing the room with weak yellow light.
“Get over here and give me a hand,” Tom said, pulling at Clara’s body.

Will looked at the revolver lying on the stand next to the bed. “Is that yours?”
“Hell yeah it’s mine.”
“I didn’t know you owned a gun.”
“Didn’t till a week ago.”
“Well… What did you have to hit her for?”
“To keep her from jumping around, so we can tie her up. Now quit asking questions and help me.”

The two men carried the limp body into the living room, turned on the light, and then used some masking tape Tom brought along to bind her to a chair.
“You didn’t kill her did you?”
“No, she’s just out cold. See, her chest just rose and fell. Go in the kitchen and get me a glass of cold water.”

“What the hell is that smell?” Will asked, grabbing for his nose.
Tom sniffed the air, “Probably all that rotten lettuce and crap she brings home.”
“Well I didn’t notice it when we first came in.”
“Just shut up and get me the water. I’d like to get this over with sometime tonight.”

Will went to the kitchen and returned a minute later with a tall glass of water. Tom dumped the cold liquid over Clara’s head. “Time to wake up you old bitch.”
Clara’s chin, resting on her chest, came up slowly. Her eyes opened; she first looked at Tom and then Will. She then struggled weakly against her bindings. “What do you want?” she asked in a weak voice.
“Where’s all the money? And don’t start by denying you have any, cause I know you do,” Tom said, pulling the revolver from his pants once more.
Clara looked from one man to the other, then at the gun. “It’s in the basement.”
“Let’s be a little more specific. Where in the basement and what’s it in?”
“It’s on a shelf with some canned food, in a cigar box. But I wouldn’t go down there if I were you”
“Yeah, right! Will, keep an eye on her while I check.”

Tom started for the basement then stopped and turned around. “Oh, and if I don’t find it where you said it’ll be, I’ll be back: then I’ll start by shooting each of your kneecaps off and working my way up until you tell me the truth.”
“It’s where I told you,” Clara said, hanging her head.

Tom made his way to the open doorway next to the closet. Using the flashlight, he slowly made his way down the steep set of steps. Finding a single light on a cord near the base of the steps, he turned it on: the light swung to and fro, casting shadows. Tom saw a large set of wood shelves in front of him, quart glass jars filling them: each tier of jars held some different type of fruit or vegetable. On the far right of the second shelf was an old faded cigar box. Tom smiled as he walked to it. Picking it up, he opened the lid. His eyes widened as he stared at several stacks of one-hundred dollar bills.
“Shit man! Hey Will,” Tom yelled over his shoulder. “We hit the mother load.”

Hearing footsteps on the stairs behind him he turned, saying, “I told you… What the hell?”
It was Clara, but yet not the same old woman he’d left upstairs. This one was young and beautiful, with huge white incisors hanging over her lower lip. A crimson flow dripped from her mouth and onto the steps. In her right hand, dangling like a rag doll, was all that was left of Will. He looked like someone had taken all his inner parts out, leaving nothing but a bag of loose skin over bones.

“You bitch,” Tom said, swinging the revolver into action. Six blasts, ear-shattering in the confined space. Six bullet holes appeared in Clara’s clothing. Casting Will’s wilted body to one side, Clara launched herself with the deftness of a Mountain Lion, the six bullets failing to have an effect. Tom’s last view was of piercing red eyes and an open mouth that seemed to give a view of hell itself.

February 4th – 10:00 A.M.
A few weeks later officer Ron Snow sat at his desk working on reports. Sergeant Wilkins poked his head into the doorway and asked, “Did you ever find out what happened to our friends, Tom and Will?”
“No. Found their car however, or Tom’s car I should say. It was at the bottom of a high bluff near South Haven. Hell of a mess, but neither man with it. Tom’s wife and Will’s girlfriend say they don’t have a clue as to where they went. I guess we’ll just file the report as pending. As far as I’m concerned it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Yeah, really, not exactly Bangor’s best,” Wilkins replied, taking a bite from a chocolate doughnut, then washing it down with steaming coffee.

July 10th 2006 City of Chicago
Two hooligans watch as an old woman named Clara Austin slowly gets into her car.
“So she’s got money hid at her place huh?” one of the men asks the other.