Black Dogs

by Jason Buhrmester

  When Dave grabbed another guitar to jam with Frenchy, me and Alex peeked into the back office. A metal door stood out along the rear wall.

  “That must lead to the alley,” I said.

  “No alarm. Looks like that's our way in.”

  “Drill out the hinges?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Shit, man,” I said. “We don't know how to do that. This is tougher than anything we've ever pulled. And if we fuck it up, we're dead men. Backwoods Billy will kill all of us.”

  “I think we should ask Danny to help.”

  “Danny? He can't cross the street without getting arrested. No. That's a horrible idea. I'm never working with him again.”

  “I'm telling you, he could do this. And we'll be there to make sure he doesn't fuck it up.”

  It was a stupid idea but I didn't have a better one.

  “All right. But you have to talk him into it. And don't tell him anything about Zeppelin. Just tell him we're doing this to rip off the guitar.”

  “When?” Alex asked.

  “Might as well do it tonight.”

  Me and Alex never noticed Dave walking up behind us.

  “You guys looking for the Fifty-eight?” Dave asked.

  We both jumped. Dave grabbed a guitar case from behind a desk and we followed him back out into the store. The clasps on the Gibson case snapped open and Dave lifted the lid. The guitar was gorgeous. Oranges and reds and yellows swirled in the finish, and the silver pick-ups reflected light around the room.

  “Gibson used to make the Les Paul in a gold color,” Dave explained. “The Fifty-eight was the first year in the sunburst finish.”

  “That's such a sweet guitar, man.” Keith nodded. “How much you selling it for?”

  Dave laughed.

  “Only seventeen hundred of these exist in the entire world. The guy who buys this beauty better come in here with a pretty big goddamn checkbook.”

  “Shit. I don't even have a checking account,” Keith said with a shrug.

  As we left Dave called out behind us. He held up the guitar.

  “You sure none of you guys wanna take this?” He smiled.

  Alex looked back.

  “Not right now, man.”

  NINE

  YOUR POCKETS. DUMP ANYTHING THAT MAKES NOISE. NO LOOSE CHANGE. NO KEYS. DON'T EVEN BOTHER WITH A WALLET. YOU DON'T NEED IT. IF IT FALLS OUT, YOU'RE FUCKED. NEVER CARRY IDENTIFICATION. MAKE UP A FAKE NAME AND USE THE SAME ONE EVERY TIME. SOMETHING EASY TO REMEMBER. ONE YOU KNOW YOU WON'T FUMBLE. I'M JOHN OSBOURNE, OZZY OSBOURNE'S REAL NAME.

  Second, get a story. One that gets rid of cops fucking pronto. Nothing that might make them want to help you. You didn't lose your dog. Your car didn't break down. And it can't be something they can trace. You didn't just get out of a movie. You didn't just get off work. What are you doing out this late? You went for a walk to clear your head after a fight on the phone with a girlfriend. You didn't bother to bring your wallet.

  Stick to the plan regardless of what falls in your lap. Don't risk going after something else no matter how tempting. Get what you came for and get out. One time, while Alex was climbing out of a house, I spotted a large bag in the backseat of the car. It looked like a camera bag or a small piece of luggage with cash or traveler's checks inside. A neighbor heard me break the window and called the cops. We barely got away. What was in the bag? Diapers.

  Always plan on running. Double-tie your shoes. Don't wear clothes that make noise. That means no windbreakers. And be careful with hoods. They look suspicious. If you wear a hooded sweatshirt, make it a zip-up. Hoods make great handles for cops to grab when you're running. If you're lucky, you can unzip and leave him holding your hood and nothing else. If you do run, hit the backyards, not the streets. And don't worry about anyone else. You're on your own when they show. Pick a direction and run.

  Almost a year had passed since the last time I was involved with anything like this but I still remembered the rules. Well, they weren't rules. Just simple shit that Alex and I worked out over the years. I went over them in my head as we sat around the kitchen table at Keith's house waiting on Danny. He was already half an hour late.

  “I don't see why I have to come,” Frenchy said.

  “To make sure we get the right guitar,” Alex argued.

  “I already showed you which guitar.”

  “All that shit looks the same to me. Especially in the dark. Just point it out.”

  The front door creaked open and Danny slipped through. He tiptoed loudly across the living room. Me and Alex looked at each other and tried not to laugh. Danny sprung into the kitchen wearing a black sweatshirt, camouflage pants, black boots and a black stocking cap. He grabbed Keith in a head-lock before Keith realized he was there.

  “Whoa, boy!” Danny yelled. “You'd have been a dead man.”

  “Let go of me, asshole,” Keith yelled, pulling on Danny's arm.

  “You pussies are going to have to be sharper than that tonight,” Danny told us. He wrestled with Keith. The kitchen chair fell with a crash.

  “You see how quiet I was? You guys never heard me coming. I coulda killed ya. Learned that from an ex-Navy SEAL I met in the joint.”

  “We all heard you walk in, dumbass,” Keith grunted.

  “Yeah. You say that now.”

  Keith struggled to pry Danny's arm from around his neck. Danny let go with a shove, sending Keith flailing across the kitchen. Danny stood with his hands on his hips, a grin across his face. He straightened his stocking cap.

  “Great outfit, G.I. Joe,” I said.

  Alex and Keith laughed. Danny leaned over the table.

  “Fuck you, Patrick. You're learning from a master tonight. Let's go, kids!”

  Danny turned and charged toward the front door. His clunky boot hooked in the carpeting and he stumbled across the living room. The door slammed and seconds later my car horn honked twice. We all looked at each other.

  “Get a move on,” he yelled.

  On the way out I caught Alex's eye and shook my head.

  “He'll be fine,” he said to me. “Besides, he's the best at this shit. You know that.”

  “I'm pretty sure we could handle it better if we didn't have to babysit his dumb ass.”

  “I'll keep an eye on him.”

  We didn't talk on the way to the pawnshop. Sabbath's “Electric Funeral” played on the radio. One of the evilest riffs ever written. Everyone stared out the windows. When we got close, Danny told me to pull over at a gas station. The building was locked up for the night and the dark parking lot sat empty.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I asked. I worried he planned to rob the gas station too.

  “Alex, get out,” he said, pointing into the blackness of the gravel lot.

  “What the fuck for?” Alex answered.

  “Get your ass over there and call the pawnshop.”

  “Why the fuck would he do that?” I stammered. Goddamn it, I thought, I knew I shouldn't have let Alex talk me into this. This idiot was going to get us all arrested. “We're going to the pawnshop. Why the hell would he call there?”

  “He's going to call it then leave the phone off the fucking hook. That way it keeps ringing.”

  “What's the fucking point of that?” Alex said. “They're closed.”

  Danny took a long drag on his cigarette then blew smoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “If the phone's still ringing when we get there, we know no one's inside and it's safe to go in.”

  That made sense. Everyone relaxed a bit. It sounded pretty smart, actually, and when Alex climbed back into the car and told us it was still ringing I felt a bit more confident that we might actually pull this off.

  Haven Street Pawnshop sat in the darkness of a tiny parking lot. Cars streamed past on the street out front. I shut off the headlights and pulled up into the alley. I found a parking spot just far enough away from the rear door not to raise suspicion. The phone was still ringing inside.

  At th
e back door to the store, Danny handed Keith a bright red crowbar then leaned against the hood of my car. Keith fumbled the bar, nearly dropping it, and Frenchy lunged forward to catch it before it clattered to the ground.

  “Damn it, Keith,” Danny hissed. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

  “Sorry,” Keith mumbled.

  Danny pushed his face into Keith's.

  “You nervous or something?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Danny stepped closer, causing Keith to move backward toward the door behind him.

  “What are you so nervous about?” Danny asked.

  “I'm not really that nervous. My hands are just sweaty.”

  “Which is it, man? Are you nervous or are your hands just sweaty?” Danny moved closer to Keith. “How do I know you aren't an undercover cop?”

  “For fuck's sake, Danny,” I groaned. “You've known Keith his whole damn life. Let's get this over with.”

  “No!” Danny said, not taking his eyes off Keith. “We need to find out what he's hiding.”

  “Keith,” I said, cutting Danny off. “Open that fucking door.”

  The metal door fit tight into the frame and Keith struggled to wedge the jimmy bar in. Danny wrestled the bar from Keith's hands then twisted it into place. He stepped back, looked at Keith and pointed at the bar. Keith grabbed the bar with both hands and threw his weight backward when his grip, sweaty with nerves, slipped from the bar. He stumbled backward in slow motion before collapsing on the gravel parking lot in a tangle of limbs and dirty hair.

  Alex choked back a stoner giggle and I covered my mouth to keep from erupting. Keith groaned softly, lying facedown in the gravel. He rolled over on his back and wiped tiny rocks from his bleeding elbow. Alex stood over him laughing. He kicked Keith lightly in the ribs and told him to get up. Frenchy looked up and down the alley, searching for an excuse to run.

  “All right, you morons,” Danny said. “Let's just do this and get out of here.”

  The crowbar dangled from the door frame where it was wedged in the paint. Danny grabbed the end with both hands and pried the door a few inches away from the frame, then twisted the bar to hold it open. He walked over to my car, leaned in the window to pop the trunk, then pulled the car-jack from inside. He stepped forward and wedged the edge of the jack into the opening. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as his arms pumped up and down on the handle. The jack rose, separating the heavy steel door from the frame with a loud groan until the frame shattered and the door sprung backward.

  Frenchy peered nervously around the open doorway and into the dark store until Danny shoved him out of the way. Danny strode through the shattered door frame into the rear office and around an oversized desk covered with papers and folders.

  “Let's go.”

  Streetlights lit the store floor and reflected off the glass display cases. The neat rows of guitars looked like tombstones spread out in front of us. We stood against the back wall and took it all in. Danny let out a soft whistle.

  “Let's just get the guitar and get out of here,” Frenchy said.

  “What's the hurry, Frenchy?” Alex asked.

  “No. Fuck you, Alex. We're getting this guitar and getting the fuck out.”

  Alex cupped his hands and lit a cigarette. He turned his head and let out a thick cloud then poked at Frenchy with the glowing cigarette as he spoke.

  “All I'm saying is you helped us out with this thing. It's only fair that you get something for yourself too. Grab a guitar. Shit, man, as long as we're here.”

  Frenchy wrestled with the idea. The struggle didn't last long.

  “Yeah. Maybe I will. You guys did drag me into this.”

  “Me and Frenchy will grab the guitar. You guys watch the alley.” I pulled Frenchy into the darkness before anyone could argue.

  While Frenchy picked out a guitar, I prowled the store looking for the ‘58 Les Paul. It wasn't on a stand with the other guitars or behind the keyboards. I was inspecting a stack of guitar cases on the floor by the power tools when Alex snuck up behind me.

  “Looking for this?” he asked. He held the black hard-shell guitar case with the '58 Les Paul inside. “I found it sitting in the back office.”

  “Sweet.” I sighed. “Where are Danny and Keith? You can't let Danny out of your sight. He'll fuck this up.”

  “Don't worry. They're out back loading the car.”

  “Loading the car with what?” I snapped.

  “The safe from the back room. Danny thought we should take it. There's probably a ton of cash in there.”

  “Jesus, man,” I growled. “We just came for the guitar. Now you guys are stealing the fucking safe?”

  I hurried toward the back office and found Keith drinking a beer and rummaging through a tiny refrigerator next to the desk. He poked his head over the door and bit into a chicken drumstick.

  “Keith! What the fuck? You're supposed to be watching the fucking alley.”

  “I got hungry.”

  A mangled chicken leg hung out of his mouth.

  “That's really gross, man. You have no idea how old that is.”

  “Is thwat blad?” he chewed.

  “Yeah, it's bad. You're gonna get sick.”

  He shrugged and swallowed.

  “Aw, shit! Look what I found.” Danny giggled from behind Keith.

  Keith turned toward Danny then spun back around and slammed into me. He dropped his chicken leg and shoved to get past me and out the back door into the alley. Danny stood behind him pointing a pistol at me.

  “Put that shit away, man,” I said as I backed up.

  “Yeah, Danny,” Alex said, holding up his hands. “Don't fuck around. We're getting out of here.”

  Danny grinned. He leveled the barrel toward the wall.

  “Enough bullshit, Danny,” I said. “Put it down.”

  “Fuck you, Patrick. What are you gonna do about it?”

  “All right. All right,” Alex said, taking Danny's arm. “Take it easy. Let's get in the car. Patrick, you grab Frenchy.”

  Frenchy stood in the darkness strumming an electric guitar. Even unplugged I could make out the chords to “Ruby Tuesday” ringing across the silent store.

  “Is that the one you want?” I asked him.

  “I'm not sure. I really like this Fender but as long as it's free I might as well get something really expensive. Or maybe I should take an acoustic?”

  “Grab three guitars. I don't care. Let's just get out of here.”

  Frenchy started to move. His face looked strange, lit by red and blue lights.

  Shit. Red and blue lights.

  “Fuck! Cops!” I yelled.

  Frenchy dropped the guitar and sprinted toward the back door. The front door rattled open and flashlights filled the store. A voice boomed out behind me: “Freeze right there, asshole!”

  I bolted across the back office, doing my best to dodge the swirling flashlights. I slammed the heavy security door to the office behind me and dropped the security bar. Fists pounded against the steel door as I sprinted out the back and into the alley.

  The glowing red taillights of my car looked miles away. The metal edges of the safe jutted from my trunk and the back end of the car sagged with the weight. A knotted shoestring held the trunk lid closed.

  Danny sat behind the wheel with his arm across the seat and his head turned looking back at me. Alex sat in the passenger seat talking to Danny. Even without hearing him I knew what he was saying: “Wait.” The car revved and my hands fumbled for the door handle as Danny floored the gas pedal, spraying a rooster tail of gravel. Frenchy and Keith stared out the back window as the car tore down the alley away from me. I waved my arms over my head hoping they would stop. Red and blue lights rounded the corner behind me.

  I picked a direction and ran.

  TEN

  UP SHIRTLESS AND SWEATING. SOMETHING STABBED INTO MY SIDE AND I ROLLED OVER, PEELED A BOTTLE CAP OFF MY SKIN AND HURLED IT TOWARD THE CORNE
R. A HAND KNOCKED ON MY BEDROOM DOOR.

  “Patrick. Are you up?” my mother asked from the other side.

  “I'm up,” I moaned, straightening my twisted boxer shorts. I opened the door. She wore bright yellow shorts and a flowered top, and held a spatula in her hand.

  “I made breakfast,” she said. “Are you going to join us?”

  Her eyes trailed down my face and across my bare chest. My stomach dropped when I remembered the tattoo I'd gotten in New York City. I slumped against the door frame to hide it and faked a yawn, but she had already spotted it.

  “What have you done?” she said. Her lipsticked mouth hung open.

  “It's nothing.”

  “No. It's something, mister. It's terrible. Why would you do that to your body?”

  “Okay. It's something.”

  “Don't get smart with me,” she mumbled. The angry tone chugged to a halt in her throat and she suddenly seemed less threatening. The anger downshifted into something else but I wasn't sure what.

  “Your father is going to have a heart attack if he sees this,” she whispered. Her wide eyes met mine. We were suddenly partners in a horrible crime.

  “Here he comes. Get some clothes on.”

  She shoved me backward into my room and I lunged to pull the door closed as I fell over a pile of clothes and an old skateboard.

  My mother slipped me a knowing look as I sat down at the kitchen table. My father was talking about the fire department again. He was a fireman and being a fireman was his entire life. It went beyond dedication to straight brainwashing. He didn't know anything except being a fireman. Music. Movies. Sports. World affairs. Nothing. The only politics he followed were local and only because they might have affected the firehouse, like with a budget cut or new equipment being bought for another station in town before his.

  My sister and I were his only connection to the rest of the world. If a conversation turned to anything other than fire-fighting, he threw us out there like a goddamn lifeline. Talk about a new movie and he'd say that his daughter saw it and didn't like it. Bring up the World Series and he'd tell you how his lazy-ass son quit Little League.