“The return of the Jackal? Law enforcement is baffled by a string of bank robberies in the Atlanta area leaving the calling card of the Jackal, the eighties bandit that’s still at large and wanted by the FBI. The thief—or thieves—targeted what were once described as the impenetrable vaults at the Wells Fargo branch downtown. Early reports estimate the robbers getting away with more than ten million in cash….”
Jonathan Banks shuts off the television with his remote and turns with a smile toward his life-long friends Rawlo, Tremaine, and Mishawn. “The Jackal. When was the last time you heard that name on the evening news?”
“Looong time,” Rawlo says, nodding with an equally large smile before tossing down his cards. “I fold.” He pushes back his chair and moans and groans as he unfolds his arthritic frame from the metal chair. “I’m going to go take a piss.”
“I fold too,” Mishawn says, tossing down his cards. “I never understood why we all agreed to being called the Jackal in the first place. There’s four of us. Shouldn’t it have been ‘the Jackals'?”
“I’ll call.” Tremaine pushes a couple of poker chips forward and looks downright pleased with his move. He looks up. “What? What’s going on?”
“TREMAINE.” Jonathan thumps the table and then points at Tremaine’s ear. “Turn up your hearing aid. We’re discussing something important.”
“Huh? Oh. Hold on. Let me turn up my hearing aid.”
Jonathan and Mishawn roll their eyes while Tremaine fiddles with the volume on his hearing aid.
“All right. Now what were you guys saying?”
“Why the hell do you always turn that damn thing down?” Jonathan snaps.
“My bad. My bad. I focus better when I don’t have to listen to all that trash talk Rawlo be spitting. Now what are we talking about?”
“The Jackal,” Jonathan says. “Our name was mentioned on the news.”
Tremaine’s brows dip. “What the hell for?”
“Some copycat robberies going on around town,” Mishawn says. “I guess we’re supposed to feel flattered.”
“What, you’re not?” Jonathan asks. “We finally got some people out there respecting how the real game is played. None of that smash-and-grab bullshit these young cats be doing nowadays. I mean, anybody can just run into a bank and point a gun. Where is the damn skill in that?”
Tremaine and Mishawn bob their heads in agreement.
“The game is man against machine. In our heyday, how many people got hurt?”
“None,” Mishawn answers.
“That’s right. Wasn’t no need to. We get in and get out. We got our money and they got insurance. Clean—no fuss, no muss. All we did was bruise a few egos who thought they were smarter than us.”
“True. True,” Tremaine says. “Those were the good old days.”
Rawlo stomps out of the bathroom still spraying the Lysol can. “Yo, Jonathan, you got some chips up in here? A nigga getting hungry.”
“Check the cabinets.” Jonathan shakes his head. “That muthafucka be putting a hurting on my grocery bill.”
Mishawn chuckles under his breath. “That’s why I never invite his four-hundred-pound ass over to my house. He’s like a human garbage disposal.”
They all get a good laugh at that.
“What’s so damn funny?” Rawlo asks, walking back over to the card table.
“Nothing,” Jonathan lies. “Whose turn is it?”
“YOURS!”
“All right. Damn.” Jonathan drops his hand. “Two pair. Aces high.”
“Shit.” Tremaine tosses down his cards. “Two pair. Jacks high.”
“Better luck next time.” Jonathan reaches out and drags all the chips back over to his side of the table.
“So who do you think it is?” Tremaine asks. They look at him, confused. “The new Jackal on TV. Who do you think it is?”
The boys all stretch back in their chairs. Rawlo’s chair makes a loud crack, and for a whole second they wait to see if it will dump him on his ass. When it doesn’t, his face splits into a wide smile.
“It could be anyone,” Jonathan finally answers. “It’s not like we have our ears on the street like we used to.”
“True,” Tremaine concedes. “Not like the good old days.” A palpable silence drifts over the table. “I kind of miss it.”
Everyone’s head bobs just as the doorbell rings. Jonathan huffs out a long breath and gets up from the table, but his face lights up when he answers the door.
“ROBYN!” He throws open his arms, and his baby girl walks into his embrace with a wide smile.
“It’s Jordan now. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
He groans and waves off her comment. “As many times as I’ve told you that you can be Jordan with your stepfather. You’re Robyn when you’re with me. Now come on in here.” He gestures her into his small apartment and then closes the door behind her. “Your grandmother’s name was Robyn.”
“I know. I know.” She waltzes farther into the cramped apartment and spots her play uncles at their usual poker table. “Hey, guys.”
“HELLO, ROBYN!”
She cocks her head at them, and they all snicker. “You told them to do that,” she accuses her father.
“I did no such thing.” Jonathan waves her off, pecks her on the cheek, and then returns to his poker game. “So what brings you by?”
“The news,” she answers honestly. “Everyone is buzzing about this latest robbery by someone—or a group of people—calling themselves the Jackal.”
Jonathan turns a smug face toward his friends. “You don’t say?”
Jordan walks over to the table and props a hand on her hips. “Don’t play crazy. One thing older people do is watch the news.”
Mishawn clears his throat. “We … might have heard something about it.” He shrugs. “We didn’t pay it no mind or nothing.”
“Nope,” the other men chorus at the table.
She eyeballs them. “Didn’t pay it any mind?”
Four gray heads shake.
Seeing how hard she’s studying them, Jonathan cracks up. “What? Surely you don’t think we’re running around town robbing banks again, do you?”
The four buddies crack up.
“We’d have to change our names to the AARP bandits.” Mishawn chuckles. His weak eyes are four times their normal size behind his thick bifocals.
“No worries,” Jonathan says, winking at his daughter. “Your old man is still on his best behavior.”
“Good.” She leans over and places a kiss against his cheek and then turns back toward the door. “I gotta head on to work. I just came by to check on you.” She turns, and on the back of her black jacket are the bright yellow letters DEA.
All the men at the table groan as if they can’t believe that someone they love and care about is actually a part of law enforcement.
“It could’ve been worse,” Jonathan whispers. “She could’ve been FBI.”
“You ain’t never lied,” Rawlo says, shaking his head.
“You’re still coming to the barbeque this weekend, right?” Jonathan asks his daughter.
“If I don’t get called into duty, I’ll be here.”
Jonathan hops back up and follows her to the door. “Um … you know you can extend that invitation to your mom?” His eyes light up. “I mean, since she and your stepdaddy are separated now. No sense in her just sitting at home alone.”
Jordan smiles and shakes her head. “I’ll ask her.”
“That’s my girl.” He leans in and plants a kiss against her cheek. “See you this weekend.” He closes the door behind her and returns to the table, clapping and rubbing his hands together. “It’s just a matter of time now, boys.”
“Why not? You’ve just been waiting twenty-five years to get back with her momma.”
“Yeah. Wasn’t she the reason we retired in the first place?” Mishawn asks. “You thought you were going to win her back.”
“I am going to win her back.” He shrugs. “It’s just taking a little longer than I thought. Just you wait and see.”