"Is this your first robbery?"
"What?"
"Is this your first..."
"I heard you the first time. What are you, stalling for the cops?"
"Nope. I haven't called ‘em. Haven't pushed the panic button, either. I'm seriously violating company policy right now, so return the favor and answer my question."
For several seconds I only heard the mild rumbling of his car's engine.
"No, this isn't my first."
"Interesting. You sound more nervous than a pro would sound, I think."
"Have you been robbed a lot?"
"Once. It wasn't here. It was at the Gas ‘Er Up in Waxahachie. Which reminds me. Do you have a gun?"
I was treated to a long pause.
"Of course I do."
"What kind?"
"A big one."
"What kind of big one?"
"You know, the big kind."
".357? .45?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah what?"
"What you said."
"So you've got two guns?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you said ‘What you said’ and what I said was ‘.357 and .45,’ which would indicate two different calibers of gun."
"I meant the first one."
".357?"
"Yeah."
"Long barrel, or short?"
He coughed.
"I don't have all night to talk about the gun. I just want the money now."
I decided to let him hang for a while and didn't say anything. Seconds passed.
"Hello?” he said at last.
"Oh,” I said. “I didn't know you were still there. Have you decided what you want to order?"
"The money. Now."
I went silent again. Working the midnight-to-six I could go hours—especially if I was working with Luther—without having anyone interesting to talk to.
"Do you do this for a living?” I asked. “The robbery thing, I mean."
"It's more like a way to supplement my income."
"Cool. Been doing it long?"
"Couple months."
"How many heists have you pulled?"
"Heists?"
"You know, stickups. Holdups. Bag jobs."
"A few."
"But you don't really enjoy it, do you? I can hear it in your voice."
"Can I just get the money now?"
"Well,” I said. “I'm not sure I can officially consider this a robbery since you didn't come inside."
"You already pointed out that the dining room is closed, so that's not possible."
"Yes, but protocols are protocols."
"If I pulled around and showed you my gun would that make it official?"
"Show me your .45, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Caught you in a lie. You said earlier you had a .357."
"That's what I meant."
A would-be robber and a liar. It was disheartening what this country was coming to.
"Better you stay right where you are for now,” I said.
He laughed. “You called the cops, didn't you!"
"Hear sirens? See flashing lights?"
He went quiet, as if he was earnestly listening and looking.
"No."
"Well there you go, then."
If the speaker system had been just a touch more sensitive I'm sure I could have heard him thinking.
"Why haven't you called?"
"I was bored before you came along,” I answered. “Plus I don't think you're a real robber. A real robber would have walked into the dining room—"
"—which I couldn't do since it's closed—"
"—or driven straight to the window and flashed that big .357 or .45 at me."
"I could do that."
"Then do it. I'll wait here."
He cleared his throat but didn't say anything. More thinking going on, probably.
"If I come to the window you'll see my face. I don't want any witnesses."
"So put on your ski mask. Or your pantyhose. Or whatever you brought."
"Pantyhose? I'm not gay."
"Never said you were. Pantyhose has been a staple in the armed robber's toolkit for decades. Which you'd know if you were serious about this life of crime you're pretending to lead."
"I'm not pretending."
"You're robbing—supposedly—a drive-thru at two thirty in the morning. How much money do you think is even in the register at this time of night? Were you thinking this was going to be your big haul for the year? We're talking less than fifty bucks right now."
"That's it?"
"It's two thirty in the morning! Does it look like we're busy? Have you noticed that no one's honking their horn behind you, wondering what's taking so long? Have you noticed that no one has pulled up behind you? These are clues, my friend. Take note."
"Fifty bucks is better than nothing."
"Ya think? Look, if you do insist on taking the money, I'm gonna have to call the cops. I'll get fired if I don't, and I kinda need this job. You'll get caught. Robbers almost always do. You're in felony territory here, buckaroo. Doesn't matter how much you get away with or whether or not you really even have a gun. It's enough for me to believe that you have a gun."
"But you don't really believe I have a gun."
"I'm starting to doubt my doubts about that,” I said.
"So you're saying maybe I'm the real deal."
"Real deal would be a stretch, considering your poor performance to date. So let's say I'm starting to think that, despite the poor performance you've demonstrated thus far, you really do intend commit a robbery here."
"Cool,” he said.
Strangely, I felt proud of him for the new confidence I heard in his unfamiliar, scratchy, and distant voice, but I wasn't one to coddle a would-be felon.
"Not cool,” I replied. “We're talking about fifty bucks here; fifty bucks that'll buy you at least a year with the state. Do the math and for once tonight don't be stupid."
"I'm not stupid."
"I didn't say you were. I said you were being stupid. There's a difference. What's your name, anyway? I can't believe I haven't asked."
"Is it company policy to ask robbers what their names are?"
It was my turn to laugh.
"As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I'm supposed to get at least your first name. If I can get your last name I get a bonus."
"So if I give you my last name could we split your bonus?"
"You haven't even given me your first name yet."
"It's Greg."
"For real?"
"For real."
"Greg,” I said. I said it a few more times, too, trying on for size. “It doesn't sound like a robber's name. It's more like a waiter's name, as in, ‘Hi, I'm Greg, and I'll be your server tonight.’”
"So maybe I'll change my name."
"Only if you're still thinking about continuing with this silly career move. Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Duh. Still thinking about continuing with this silly career move."
"I'm keeping my options open."
"Oh, a wise man. What's your last name, by the way?"
"Just call me Greg."
"But my bonus..."
"You only get that if I'm really robbing the place, right?"
"Technically."
"So maybe I'm not really robbing the place."
"So maybe I just want to know."
"So maybe I just don't want to tell you."
"But if you don't, from now on, every Greg I meet, I'm going to wonder if he's you. I'll be on edge, thinking maybe he's packing heat and looking for a drive-thru to knock over. Having to lug around that kind of worry is no way to live a life—"
"Sorry. It's just gonna have to be your fate."
"Bastard."
"Been called worse."
"I'm sure your mom didn't really mean it."
He went back into silent mode. Maybe I'd insulted him with the reference to his mother
. For half a minute all I heard was the rumbling of his car's engine. Then the rumbling abruptly stopped.
"Shoot,” he said, breaking the silence. He restarted the engine, but it died almost immediately. He tried to restart it again, but this time all it did was crank, and then it stopped doing even that.
"Dammit!” he shouted.
"Watch the potty mouth,” I said. “This is a family restaurant."
"Sorry,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “I ran out of gas."
"You were going to commit a robbery on an empty tank?"
"I didn't think it would take this long. I figured I'd gas up afterward."
"So,” I said, sorting it out in my mind. “You have no gun, no mask of any sort, and no gas."
"I never said I didn't have a gun."
"But we both know you don't. So let it go. Do you need a bigger sign that you're not cut out for this line of work?"
"Anything you do, you get better at it by doing it more."
"But when your getaway car doesn't have any gas you won't have the chance to do it anymore. Think for a second."
He did think for a second. About sixty seconds, actually.
"I'm just gonna go,” he said.
I heard his car door open.
"Need a push?” I asked.
"No, I got it,” he said. “I'm going to push it backward so we won't see each other."
"Smart,” I said.
I heard him straining to push to the car.
"Did you put it in neutral and release the parking brake?"
He didn't say anything, but I heard the transmission clank, followed by a grunt and the crispy sound of the tires rolling on the concrete, away from the speaker.
Copyright © 2010 David Dietrich
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: MONEY by Jas. R. Petrin
When Little Donny Johnson stepped in through the front door of the Rob Roy, Beemer took one look at him, gave the bar a needless flick with his damp cloth, and said, “Oh yeah. Here we go."
He slumped back in his usual manner behind the till, shoulders propped against the doors of the beer fridge, hairy arms crossed over his ample gut. Benny, who sat gently swirling his Scotch rocks around, glanced at the door and lifted his eyebrows.
Little D. J., the guy into his early seventies, came along the aisle wearing his pointy black shoes, looking like an aging featherweight boxer in his white Tee with the sleeves rolled up.
He clambered onto the barstool next to Benny and said, “How you guys doing? Gonna be a hot one."
Beemer told Benny, frowning, “When he says somethin’ like, ‘gonna be a hot one,’ I'm thinking, wait now, is he talking about the weather? I have to ask myself that because you never know with this guy."
"Matters a fact,” Little D. J. said, “I am talking about the weather. But I could be talking about something else. The weather isn't the only thing that could be hot around here."
"What'd I tell you?” Beemer said.
Benny, curious, dropped a sideways glance at Little D. J. “What exactly are you referring to?"
"I thought you would never ask."
Little D. J. slipped a thin, shiny wallet out of the hip pocket of his jeans, opened it, and drew out a twenty—the only bill in it—as if he were going to order a drink. He laid the bill on the top of the bar, smoothed it with his fingers, and looked at them. “How many of these,” he said, “do you think would fit into a suitcase about twenny-six inches by twenny-eight, twelve inches deep? Any idea?"
"Must be a skill-testing question,” Beemer said.
"Or he's shopping for new luggage."
"No, and no.” Little D. J. laid his hand on the twenty. “Well, maybe the first one there, the skill-testing question. I mean, if you ever had a suitcase stuffed with twenty-dollar bills, you might have some idea what the answer is."
"Usually,” Beemer said, “when I stuff a suitcase fulla twenties—say I'm out shopping for a new car, an airplane, or something—I just sorta eyeball it, I don't really count it. I mean, so I'm out a few grand. Jeez."
"When I need to carry that kinda dough around,” Benny said, “I generally shove it into a couple of shopping bags."
"You guys are needling me, right?” Little D. J. shrugged, seemed about to order that drink, didn't, slipped the twenty back into his cheek-shaped wallet. “You're not interested in a suitcase fulla dough, you only got to say so. No problem here. I can easy find a couple of other guys."
He made as if to slip off the barstool, and Benny laid a restraining hand on his arm. He made a sign to Beemer to give Little D. J. a beer, and said, “You don't mind me asking, what suitcase full of dough are you talking about? You got me wondering about that now."
Little D. J. nodded. “The one Jimmy Sticks is looking for. It's at the Holiday Inn there across the harbor, room 528."
* * * *
Beemer threw a wary glance around the room at his clientele, leaned in close, and softened his voice.
"You're saying Jimmy Sticks is involved? Jimmy Sticks wants this suitcase you're talking about?"
Little D. J. nodded. “He wants somebody to scoop it for him, and for that he's ready to pay five large.” He winked. “Only Jimmy don't know what's really in it. At least, I'm pretty sure he don't. What he thinks is in it, is what used to be in it. It's something else. Starts with H.” He winked. “From Afghanistan."
"Another riddle.” Benny swirled his drink.
Beemer, clearing his throat, suggested they talk about something else until after he closed the place and shifted the loogans out.
* * * *
Benny moved with D. J. around the dogleg of the bar to a more private spot. Dropping into a chair, Little D. J. kept his hand on his beer bottle as if he thought someone might take it away from him. “I dunno about you, but I could use some dough about now."
"Some dough would be nice,” Benny agreed.
"Things been tight for me. I been thinking how . . . I mean, thinking back to Westmorland, I did those three years? That was the best time I ever did. The place they got there, if you do time, that's where to do it. Westmorland there."
"Things must be tough if you're dreaming about prison."
"Place is set up, like, into these pods. Not cells or cell blocks, they call them pods. I was in one pod there, bunked with some Newfies, guys always playin’ cards, joking, and jawing—a really great buncha guys. The doors, they leave the doors open there. You can wander around, visit people."
"Sounds like a college dorm."
"Like that, I guess—except, of course, you can't leave when you want to. But you know what? It was clean. Place I'm living now, jeez. Last time that place saw a vacuum cleaner was when the crime scene guys went over it, you remember that woman killed that john with a lamp cord? Wired him up, plugged him in. Most excitement he ever had. But what I'm saying, man, that place is a dump. Cockroaches, silverfish, bedbugs—place is hopping like a National Geographic show every time the lights go out. He never told me about that, the landlord. People are always trying to screw you over."
Benny nodded. “Truth in advertising."
"He said it was a nice clean place, that guy."
"Airline tickets,” Benny said, “you notice? They put a price inna paper—this much. You go buy the ticket—double that."
"I dunno. I don't really fly much. But this place, you go to bed, switch the light out, then you hear this sorta faint rustling sound, all the little creepy-crawlies comin’ at you outta the woodwork."
"You couldn't pretend it was ocean surf, you're lying on a tropical beach or something?"
"No. No you can't. What you'd think, your mind working that way, is that all these crabs were creepin’ outta the water. Flesh-eating crabs. You couldn't close your eyes."
They studied their drinks.
"Man, I gotta get outta there,” Little D. J. said.
* * * *
Beemer glared the last of his customers out the door, threw the latch, turned down the lights, wa
lked around the place, and tidied up a little. When he was satisfied, he poured the dregs of the coffee machine into a giant mug, brought it to the table, and sat down. Big red letters on his mug said i like coffee THIS much.
He looked at D. J. “I know I'm gonna hate myself in the morning, but what's all this you're telling us?"
Little D. J. squared himself to the table and propped his skinny wrists on the edge in front of him. There were shaky-looking tats on his bony knuckles, applied with a straight pin and the ink from a ballpoint pen by somebody with the delirium tremens. One said pruno and the other said jump. Liver spots starting to edge them out.
"Here's what it is. Listen. A guy, apparently a guy down in Africa—"
"Africa?"
"Hey, it's a global economy, right? This guy down in Africa has got a market there for Afghanistan horse. All the big shots down there, his country, want it. Another guy, a Canadian stuffed shirt, an official there in Kabul, Kandahar—I dunno where he is exactly—can ship it home practically by the crate, no questions asked, nobody's got a clue. He used to push it across the line into Maine somehow, but he can't do that now, the border's so tight. So somehow he hooks up with the African guy."
"Okay,” Beemer said.
"Now, the Canadian is in with some other guys, they're all big rollers there in Ottawa. Him and the African guy—real high up down there, his own country—they come up with a very slick wheeze. The African—he's some kinda minister—will put in a major order for merchandise here. And buddy will hide the H in the shipment."
"Could still be a problem, customs,” Benny said.
"That's the beauty of it. It's the merchandise. Something shipped under special protections, nobody's gonna look too hard at it."
"And that is..."
"Dough."
Little D. J. sat back.
"Dough as in dough?” Benny asked, “or dough as in—"
"Money,” Little D. J. said impatiently, his aging face starting to take on a glow. “Cash. Dibs. Dosh. The old ready. And it's all brand new bills. Bank notes this guy in Africa has legally ordered for his country."
"Wait a minute,” Beemer said, frowning, “dough is something that comes from the mint."
"Coins come from the mint. Notes here come from the Canadian Banknote Company, and they make them for other countries, too, not just this one. Which is something I didn't know until this guy I was talking to explained it to me."
AHMM, May 2010 Page 10
