Stan hadn't wanted any of this. Not the debt, not the diagnosis, and certainly not the doctor’s urgent advice to move his dad to a major medical facility to perform a much-needed surgery. He loved his father more than he loved anything else. Well, maybe just a little more than his girlfriend, Sheila.
His father, Henry, was a good person to him. He had been very quiet about his life, what he had done before marrying, and his frequent travel. Even more so, when his wife, Stan’s mother, ran away with another man. That gave Henry a constitution that appeared to have been damaged by time. Since then, he periodically said to Stan, “Be very careful when choosing a woman, son.” Stan didn’t fully understand what that meant since his dad was very stoic and never offered details, but he had an idea.
Stan’s girlfriend, Sheila, was a kind soul—gentle, thoughtful, and disarmingly beautiful. Her perfect curves and effortless charm drew instant and constant attention from every single man in the small, one-bank town.
But Sheila had a rival of sorts: her nearly identical sister, Erika—a woman who wielded her beauty like a weapon to get exactly what she wanted. Though the sisters shared the same face, seductive curves, and magnetic presence, one glaring difference set them apart: Erika lived to spend money—especially other people’s.
She was generous too, often showering Sheila with gifts. But to Stan, that generosity felt like a warning. He couldn’t shake the worry that Erika’s lavish lifestyle might rub off on Sheila—that her indulgence could become a habit Sheila would one day adopt. No matter how hard he tried, Stan couldn’t keep up with the flood of surprises flowing from Erika’s hand.
Nor could he stop himself from feeling how lucky he was to have one of the twins as his girlfriend. She moved like liquid silk through any room she entered, and she wasn’t just beautiful, she was engineered to disarm. When they were alone, and she came anywhere near him, she would start whispering, pulling him closer under the pretext of being heard. Her body: soft skin, firm, and insistent seemed to beckon a response. It went beyond addiction. He was convinced he’d fallen for a goddess whose true talents didn’t reveal themselves until she was between the sheets, Sheila moved like she’d been born in them.
His father’s condition came on suddenly. One day he was working on his car, the next, he was in a clinic bed, suffering from chest pains caused by metal particles lodged too close to his heart. The doctors couldn’t explain how the metal got there, and Henry wasn’t telling them either.
He had begun bleeding internally, and the local physicians warned there wasn’t much time. He needed to be transferred to a better-equipped hospital...not just for more experienced doctors, but because it was the only chance to access penicillin.
It was 1940, and small towns weren’t included in the earliest waves of distribution.
But how would they pay for it? They never had any money. Not ever. The income Henry and Stan brought in would barely cover rent, gas, food, and electricity. Henry was a handyman, who had a talent for word work. Now that income was gone. Thankfully, Sheila would volunteer to visit with Henry, which allowed Stan to keep working at the local press, making books, magazines, posters, and fliers. He was proficient at work and could create relief plates, draw, set print, or repair at the level of a genius savant. There was nothing he couldn’t carve, draw, or modify, and it impressed his boss. A talent that the boss took advantage of as the work piled up beyond daytime hours. The logical solution was the added responsibility to close shop after long hours.
But no matter how hard he worked, there wasn’t enough money to fix his father’s situation, and the looming death was like a noose over Stan’s daily activities. He was getting desperate.
Then, one day while depositing his money in the bank, he noticed that there were several uneven white duffle bags of something stacked up in the corner. It was a hot summer, irritating to most everyone in the bank. There was no escaping how the constant heat wore down even the most energetic.
“What do you want me to do?” said the normally tranquil clerk to the bank manager. She was whispering, but Stan could hear. “We have to move this old money to the burn facility in the big city, and you haven’t allowed us to set it up for months!”
“We’ll stack it up behind the bathroom, there is sufficient storage there,” directed the manager, cleaning off the sweat from his brow.
Stan took in the situation and saw a possible solution—risky, yes, but if he was bold enough, it might just work.
The bank door closed silently behind him as he hurried out. A wild idea was forming, something tangled between morality and financial desperation, and he needed to talk it through with someone.
The only person that made sense was Sheila. But where was she? --------------------------------------
“How are you doing Mr. Henry?” whispered Sheila as he awoke. “Are you comfortable?” Henry was in such pain that focusing on answering was a torture he didn’t want to endure. Why
is she here and not my son? He thought.
“Where is Stan?”
“He’s at work or maybe the bank, Henry.”
“I hope he isn’t trying to borrow money.”
“But you need a surgeon’s attention. And soon,” Sheila said. Her voice was flat, emotionless. She just wanted to leave—and in her eyes, he saw something else.
Everyone seemed in a rush to get him into surgery, but he knew it was already too late. Then he caught it—anxiety flickering across Sheila’s face and calculating movement in her gaze. Suddenly, he knew he had to see his son before time ran out.
When Stan entered the clinic and reached his father’s room, he saw Sheila rising to leave. He stepped back. He needed to speak with her alone. And it couldn’t wait, not until after the visit. Besides, he still had to return to the printing shop.
“Hi sweetheart,” Sheila said quickly and kissed him on the cheek. She had such a sweet voice, and it calmed him instantly.
“Let’s go get some soda and ice cream,” as he guided her toward one of their favorite soda-jerks. She loved root beer.
With a pen in hand, he slowly drew the bottom floor of the bank. To protect any spies from seeing what he was doing, he labeled the unfolded napkin Main House.
“What’s that? A new house?”
“No, it’s the bank,” he whispered. Stan was getting used to the addiction of her overall beauty and charm and how it blurred his acknowledgment of the obvious dim lights in her head.
But he knew he could only pull this off if she were part of the plan. He needed a distraction.
“Listen, Sheila. I must save my father, but the only way I can do this is to commit a crime.” He finished drawing the floor plan of the bank and started to sketch several bags behind the bathroom area. It took nearly an hour to conjure up a simple plan. Sheila seemed to understand.
“You need me to wear that red dress you like so much? But I thought you said it is too provocative and made me look like a tramp?”
“Yes, I know. But like I explained, this time you’d only be wearing it for a short while—just long enough to get everyone in the front of the bank focused on you. That way, I can slip into the building, get near the vault without anyone noticing, and escape with a couple of the money bags while you hold their attention. If you sense they’re starting to get back to work, just fake a fainting spell. Collapse right there on the floor.”
A couple more light bulbs flickered on in her mind. But after her last visit with Henry, this new information was simply too much to process. Once they finalized their plan, they parted ways— Stan returned to the clinic, and Sheila headed home. She had to tell her sister. Erika always had instant ideas and could guide her through anything that left her feeling uncertain.
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“Hello dad. How do you feel?”
“Son, I have something to tell you. Please sit down.”
The clinic smelled of bleach. A low hum buzzed from the overhead light, casting a sickly yellow glow on the thin blanket drawn over Henry’s frame. Tubes snaked from his arm and nose, but none of it mattered anymore.
Henry could feel it—the cold creep of steel grinding closer to his heart with every faltering beat. The shrapnel had made its choice and so had time...his enemies had found him and were on their way. He had to get Stan away from this forgotten town. He should have done it a long time ago.
He turned his head slowly, wincing as he tried to shift his body from the pain. His eyes were heavy but sharp, fixed on his son sitting in the cracked vinyl chair at his bedside.
“It’s almost over,” Henry rasped, his voice barely more than a breath. “Doc says maybe a few days. Maybe a week. Feels like fire in my chest—slow and deliberate, like someone screwin’ a nail into the meat. And I heard him say I’m too weak to move.”
He paused, gathering what strength he could for a clear message he only wanted to say once. “Listen. You need to know something before I check out. Behind the refrigerator at the house... hidden in the wall there’s a leather satchel. It full of money—old bills, but they look new. They are clean. I was savin’ it for our escape from this town. But now it is too late. They have found me. My past life has caught up with me and we won’t survive what comes into town. It will wipe us out.”
Stan was near speechless. What!? “Where did it come from? Who is coming?” Stan’s voice squeaked.
Henry’s gaze drifted toward the outside view through the window for a second, then at the misplaced clinic door next to it. “You can’t trust Sheila,” he continued, voice firm despite the weakness in his body. “Or her sister. I know they’ve got the same face, but don’t let the curves and sweet talk fool you. One lies for sport, the other for survival; and you won’t know which is which ‘til your pockets are turned inside out.”
His body stiffened as he endured a half minute of coughing spasms. Blood was starting to tint his teeth. “Take the Packard in the shed. It’s got a full tank and a clean plate. Drive until this town is nothing but a smear in the rearview. You don’t owe this place a damn thing. Don’t let its peacefulness lure you in like it did me.”
His grip loosened, eyes fluttering, but a faint smile cracked across his lips. “I know you want to fight my advice, but even if I could survive the surgery, my past has caught up with me.”
“Who’s coming? When? Why?” he whispered, unsure if his dad was delirious, or dying with secrets too heavy to carry any longer.
Stan felt the rising fear of all the unknowns his father had just laid bare:
A case full of money.
Assassins on the way.
Don’t trust the girls.
Get out...
Stan sat back, still stunned. His pulse thumped in his ears. They had lived being broke for years. He remembered hospital bills going unpaid, rust collecting on the Oldsmobile, the pantry stocked with nothing but dented cans. And now—now—he’s hearing there is money hidden behind a kitchen appliance all along?
Stan’s jaw clenched.
He stood slowly, staring down at him, his chest tight and breath unsteady—torn between sorrow and a rising anger that felt like betrayal. Tears welled up, blurring his vision as the weight of it all pressed down.
“Why didn’t you use it, dad?” he murmured, voice cracking. “How could you let it end like this? When you had a way out... when we both did?”
But he already knew. Somewhere deep, he knew. Henry didn’t say it outright, but the meaning was clear: the money was stolen. Stan pictured the Luxury Packard in the shed, always kept under a tarp, battery disconnected, as if waiting for a getaway that never came.
Stan’s thoughts were spinning. The surgery could raise eyebrows. Maybe even headlines. A man with nothing suddenly paying for a procedure with expensive doctors in the big city? The town would’ve sniffed around. And the police, they could connect the dots he didn’t even know existed. How much of his dad’s advice was worth following?
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Sheila rushed into her house. Erika saw her familiar confused face and knew something new had happened.
“Hello Sheila darling, how are you?”
“I just don’t know where to start,” Sheila said, swallowing hard. “Stan wants our help. Well, he
wants my help to rob some old money bags from the bank!”
Then she went on to explain the napkin Stan had drawn on, and how and where he planned to
enter the bank during the diversion.
Sheila immediately grasped the plan and saw that it was solid. She intended to secure a share of it for both her and her twin sister.
“And you won’t believe what I have pieced together during all my visits with Henry.” Sheila burst out. Then, she tried to retract it. “Oh, never mind.”
But Erika knew her sister and reacted quickly. “What did you hear sister? This could be important!”
Blushing at Erika’s sudden intensity, she replied, “Well, you know that I have watched over Henry for weeks.” She told her that Henry talks in his sleep, especially a few minutes after drifting off. Over several nights, Sheila heard Henry mutter about money hidden in the kitchen. And how no one could ever know, and that he planned to head west, but only when no one was watching.
Erika could feel a plan of her own churning with every second. It was getting late. Stan should be getting off work. “Put on something pretty, sister. Let’s get over to Stan’s house and see where he needs our help. He can’t do this without us!”
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Stan stepped into the clinic hallway, his feet moving without thought. A cold sweat broke across his skin, and his legs weakened beneath him. Panic was creeping in, slow and insistent. His world felt like it was tilting sideways.
He didn’t stop to speak to the nurses or sign anything.
Outside, the evening air had turned cool and dry. He climbed into the old Oldsmobile and drove home, his mind burning.
Behind the fridge? How?
One thing was already certain: nothing about his father’s life, or pending death, was what it seemed. The only one who could tell him, his father, was as stoic as ever.
When he finally wrenched the refrigerator away from the wall, a cloud of dust coughed up from the floor. Ants and cockroaches scattered. His hands shook slightly as he pried at the loose paneling behind it—just like his dad said, a black leather case, tucked into a hollow space in the wall like it had been waiting patiently for years. Stan pulled it free and set it on the kitchen table. He loosened the old leather straps and spread the satchel mouth wide open and caught his breath. Stacks of cash. Neat. Tightly bundled. Crisp, fresh bills that looked like they’d come straight from a vault.
He sat down to think. He couldn’t just start throwing money around or boldly using the money to save his father. Besides, his dad was very clear about the arrival of people hunting for him. Maybe even for this money. Then, he thought about the bank. There wouldn’t be any need to do the bank robbery, but how would he explain this new twist to Sheila. Would she understand? Could she handle it?
Stan sat in the silence of the kitchen, staring at the open case of cash like it might blink first. His heart was pounding now—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous: hope.
Then, like a lightning bolt, a couple of ideas came to him. He quickly put the money away and headed to work, he had to move quickly on his plans yet keep doing what he was paid to do to avoid suspicion. Stay cool, he kept thinking to himself. What would his dad do?
When fully emersed in his hard-at-work mode, ideas came at a good pace. He would finish up tonight and then pass by Sheila’s house to discuss their future.
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“Sheila, are you home?” Stan said while knocking on the screen door. It was dark and cool.
“She’s napping,” lied Erika as she opened the door. “She went looking for you, but you weren’t home. How are you doing, Stan? Would you like some lemonade?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine.” Just then, a provocatively dressed Sheila entered the living room, showing more than usual, and walked up close to Stan. He could almost feel his IQ take a step back.
“Wow, sweetheart, you look beautiful.” Stuttered Stan. He was certainly taken off guard. What were they up to?
“We’ve been talking...” Erika’s bright, perfectly strait teeth were part of a practiced smile. “And think your bank plan needs a bit more refining. You know that we go everywhere, together.”
Stan could feel his unnoticeable perspiration. He had lost control of this part of his plans but had to roll with it.
“Sure,” Stan said, “I was wondering how to incorporate both of you, but didn’t know how to make it work.”
Erika eased into her next phase. “We would love to help your father.” Then, she placed more into the expanded partnership and suggested they all spend more time together in the next few days.
“Where do you plan to hide before we get to the bank?”
“On the second floor above the diner. I have access and it has a clear view of the bank. I intend to hide there all night.”
In an unthinking way Sheila blurted out, “We could also help clean your house or kitchen. Perhaps cook you some meals.”
Neither were known for known for their culinary skills. Stan suspected that somehow Sheila had figured out about the money. And now, Erika was blushing slightly.
“I am very grateful for that help. Uh, would you like to bring me the food at my work, or maybe I could stop by here after work, if you want?” Stan was testing his theory...do they really know about the money? Maybe dad was talking in his sleep, again.
“That won’t be necessary,” Erika took control, “We would prefer to help you in your own house. Besides, we are a good team in a kitchen, just look at our own here. Always clean.”
And never used, Stan observed. They know.
Another part of his plans was slipping sideways. He had to adjust and act quickly.
“Sure, I would appreciate some home cooked meals.” He then guided the conversation back to the bank robbery.
“Let’s do this Friday afternoon. That’s when the bank’s busiest—more clients, more distractions, and the boss is pulled in every direction the last hours before closing. Everyone will notice you two walk in. Keep their attention with whatever drama you can manage. Once I see you’ve entered, I’ll move to the back of the bank, get in and out in three minutes, then slip back to my hiding place. I’ll stay there until midnight.”
He had two nights to secure what was left of his plan.
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Friday was scorching hot. Perfect. It was nearly two o’clock.
Five minutes to go. But where were the ladies?
By the time two-thirty rolled around, his heart sank like a stone. The bank would close at three. Maybe his dad had been right about them all along. But the doubt wouldn’t let go. Had they really betrayed him?
His mind raced, but he knew one thing for sure: he couldn’t break cover. Not yet. Staying hidden until dark was the only part of the plan he still controlled, and right now, control was slipping through his fingers.
It was a long seven-mile hike to his car at the house. The front door was open. The refrigerator had been swung away from the wall. As he crouched down, he could see that the money was gone. He walked briskly to the shed. The Packard was gone as well. Sadness overwhelmed him. He had lost so much. His mom. The girlfriend he loved. And the only home he had known. He slowly walked back to the kitchen to grab what he needed, then went back to his room to grab his clothes. He found the keys to the Oldsmobile. He needed to keep moving. His focus was on the map he had memorized that would lead him westward. But first he needed to complete a few final steps of his plan.
As he drove east, about a hundred miles out, he spotted the Packard parked on the side of the road. He had drained all but a couple of gallons in the tank and had deliberately rigged the gas gauge to always read full.
Sheila and Erika wouldn’t have been stranded for long. They got what they wanted: some money and the freedom to head for the big cities on the East Coast.
He poured five gallons of gas into the Packard and primed the fuel pump the way his dad had taught him. The deep growl of the V-12 engine brought a flicker of satisfaction—he’d always loved that sound.
This part of his plan was finally coming together, stirring a fragile sense of hope despite the painful fog of losing Sheila.
Next stop: the hospital up north, where he had secretly moved his unconscious father. After the surgery, they could both head west.
He was tired, but happy. It took long nights and two consecutive all-nighters to pull this off. He didn’t know exactly what his dad did in the past, but it didn’t surprise him that along with the cash behind the refrigerator were money plates and a couple of reams of special paper.
While perfecting his counterfeiting process, Stan left only scraps of poorly printed fake bills in the satchel.
He was sure he could find another quiet town to hide his father. Money can sometimes buy peacefulness.
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