the general stands stock still, his nose an inch away from the earthen wall, studying it, squinting through the smoke of the cigarette pinched between his lips.
we are looking from inside the tunnel towards its mouth, where the professor stoops slightly to peer in, anxiously dry-washing his hands.
the men are sitting around the table, champagne glasses raised. on the table sits the money, stacked in orderly piles.
the men, having drunk deep, are setting down their glasses. pancake looks at his watch with some concern.
--boom! we cut to the cellar and pancake is shot out the tunnel like a human cannonball, trailing a comet-tail of dirt, dust, and debris that wafts what were neatly stacked bills up into the air.
the men are still frozen looking up toward the door. the muted cackle of church ladies.
mrs. munson is walking down the stairs.