“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.
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.
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.
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.”