"I'm telling you man, knocking over that bank is like grabbing a piece of tail. You do it in the dark, go in fast and you're home free. I was all over that place with my uncle when I was a kid. Not for me working construction in the hot sun. I'll take the easy money, lime in the shade and spit on anyone who tries to stop me."
Two hours before sunrise the old man seated himself in his aluminum framed lawn chair across the street from the St. Chris Community Bank in downtown Isabeya.
Frayed nylon webbing prickled his thighs as he cautiously sidestepped over the uneven cobblestones, angling the chair to face southwest. He relaxed his grib on the chair arms and settled back to wait; feet firmly planted on the sidewalk, hands loosely clasped in his lap.
He looked right toward the Anglican church three blocks up Kongens Gade, seeing strings of holiday lights crisscrossing the one-way street like an illuminated cat's cradle. The waning moon slipped closer to the church steeple...a solitary spotlight on a street devoid of traffic.
The old man shivered in the cool morning air, wishing he'd thought to wear his nylon windbreaker.
Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong.
The Anglican church bell sonorously tolled the hour. Not long now, he said softly to himself, rubbing his arms to keep warm.