The bullets couldn't pierce through steel doors. Jim knew that. But this knowledge didn't prevent him from emptying his magazine at the door in a fruitless attempt to free himself.
"These B-"
"Language please." It came from the other side of the vault. Jim growled at the cop.
They were stuck in here for almost half an hour and this guy hadn't so much as flinched.
This idiot sat on the floor, his upper body leaning against the lock boxes, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed relaxed. Nonchalant even. Jim could have killed him just for that.
"They will be too late to find us in here," he spat at the cop.
"Figures," was all the cop said.
"This safe is air tight. You get that? We will die in here," he nearly screamed at the man.
"Can we do that a little quieter?"
'This asshole seems to have the time of his life,' shot through Jim's head. "I don't want to die in here!"
"Should have thought about that before you ran off with some incapable crooks," said the cop. He started loosening the strips to his bullet proofed vest. "I mean, we had everything laid out for you. Only thing you needed to do, was to stretch out your hand and get the money. How hard can it be?"
"What are you talking about?" said Jim. Frustrated, he hit the door with his rifle heel. It didn't even leave a dent.
The cop looked up, surprised for the first time. "You don't know which money you tried to steal?" he started laughing. It sounded low, like a grumble, nearly painful.
"Shut up."
The cop's laughter turned into coughing, it seemed to last forever before he finally let his head fall back against one of the lockers. His brown hair curled ridiculously over his pale face.
"This bank belongs to Gianny," said the cop.
"Gianny?" repeated Jim without any recognition in his voice.
"Gianny Manzoni." The cop turned his head to look at Jim. "Cosa Nostra."
Jim felt his hands go numb. The Mob. They were stealing 23 million dollars of mob money. No, his "buddies" were stealing 23 million dollars of mob money. He was captured in a fucking safe with a fucking cop.
The fucking cop had started his coughing again.
"Stop that," ranted Jim.
"Can't help it," answered the cop. His vest dangled loosely around him as he turned his face to Jim. "From all the places where you freaking idiots could get me." He struggled for air.
Jim glared at him.
"Don't look at me like that. This safe has a ventilation system. You'll get out of here eventually." His mouth opened to a bloody smile.
Jim stood frozen in place.
Now it was equal who would find them. If the honorable society would get to them first, they would both be dead. If the cops found them, it would get him a couple of years for bank robbery. But to be found with a dead cop... A dead cop who had a bullet in his chest that matched the caliber of your rifle, well, that would earn you a trip to the electric chair.
Jim swore again.
"Language," repeated the cop, but he couldn't suppress a wince.
"Damn it," growled Jim and let himself fall on his butt, leaning against the cold steal door.
"Why did they lock you in here?" asked the cop suddenly.
"The lord works in mysterious ways," snapped Jim.
The cop snarled, "Seems like your friends are gonna ditch you." Sweat had started to pool on his forehead.
"As long as you don't ditch me," answered Jim.
The strange cop's smile widened. "Me? No Sir."
Shooting from the outside had them both looking up.
"Hate to miss a party," said the cop.
It was Jim's turn to grin.
"Shall we bet?" said the cop.
"Bet about what?" asked Jim.
"How long they will take until somebody finds us." The cop wiggled his eyebrows.
"Are you insane?"
"Blame the blood loss," said the cop unaffected. "I say … about three hours. They need to get their car, and the money, and the hostages. It's complicated. Three hours."
Jim narrowed his eyes. "Okay. I'd say more. Someone will get himself shot. They will argue… I don't know. More than three hours."
"So it's a bet." The cop beamed.
"You're insane." This time it was a statement, not a question.
"Nope. I'm Riggs." The cop waved at him.
Jim snorted. "What the hell. I'm Jim."
"Hi Jim."
For some minutes, they sat in silence. The ragged breathing of the cop was the only thing that broke the quiet. After about fifteen minutes, the cop started to shiver.
He tried hard to suppress it, as far as Jim could tell.
Without thinking Jim shrugged out of his jacked. The cop nearly yelped when he dumped the heavy leather coat on him.
"What-"
"Don't get any blood on it," rumbled Jim, already on his way back to the door.
The cop made an inaudible sound. "Not so big and bad?" he said eventually.
"I have no bullets to put you out of your misery," answered Jim. It rewarded him with another bloody grin.
At the moment, this is a one shot. If you guys say it's worthwhile, I'll build a story for it.
Gianny Manzoni is a brilliant character from "Malavita"- an incredibly amusing and black book from Tonino Benacquista – if you ever have the possibility, read it.