Crimewave Page 8

  The Diner

  The fucking kid has no idea what he’s doing, that’s for sure. The way he holds his gun below his chest, like fucking John Dillinger or something...hell, kid, you’ve got an iron, make sure people can see what you’re leading with.

  In spite of his shitty gunplay, I gotta admit I like the kid’s style. He’s a sneering bastard with a chip on his shoulder...I see a lot of myself at that age in him, and I guess that’s why I like him. Of course, I looked a hell of a lot better back when I was his age, ten years or so ago. He’s short, five eight on a good day, lanky as fuck, maybe because of smack or meth...shit I never, ever, ever touch. A double whiskey and a pack of Camels are my only vices. He’s decked out in a rotting sweatshirt and a pair of blue canvas pants he probably didn’t even bother changing out of when he got off his third shift at whatever garage, factory, industrial hellhole he punched the clock at. I always like to make a good impression on the people I’m holding up, so I always wear a suit whenever I do a job. Nobody expects that the guy in the suit and sunglasses is going to pull a gun on you until you’re looking straight down the barrel of the thing and you’ve got nowhere to go.

  “The money, right now goddamnit! Everybody else on the floor!” He says, and finally lifts the damn gun up to bring it into play. No use carrying a gun unless you’re going to use it, or at least convince people you’d be just crazy enough to.

  Everyone in the diner does the dance they’ve learned from the movies when something like this goes down: they hit the floor, the women screech and the men go to their knees, one eye on the criminal, all of them sneering and grumbling but none have enough balls to actually be a man and try to take this kid down. Everyone thinks they’d be a hero in this kind of situation, think they’d get the jump on the guy when he turns his back for a second, but I’ve done enough holdups like this to tell you that it never happens. All that time spent watching the news about holdups and saying “I’d just tackle the guy and save everyone’s life” is worthless, because when the chips are down and some guy’s pointing real steel at that waitress’ face, the only people who jump up and try to be heroes are the ones you hear about in the obituaries. They’re the people that turn a simple hold-up into a double homicide.

  Even though I don’t really have to, since unlike everyone else around here I could take this kid down if I wanted to, I go to the ground, too, shifting my .45 from the waistband of my pants to the inside pocket of my jacket. The last thing I need tonight is to blow my balls off just because this idiot decided to order me around. I’ll play his game...I wanna see how he plans to get out of all of this.

  He does have one thing going for him, though...I’m not sure if the kid did his homework and scouted the room before he decided to make his move, but nobody in the diner looks like a cop. That’s pretty rare at these 24-hour places, diners usually cater to cops, giving them free coffee when they come in during their 3AM patrol. It beefs up their security for free, plus the cops fucking love getting free stuff just for wearing the badge. But, tonight, there’s not a pig in sight, not even plainclothes, so either the kid is more observant than I’m giving him credit for, or he’s just another fucking tweaker who may get lucky once or twice, but’ll end up taking two in the belly once he holds up the wrong donut shop. Either way, he’s not going down tonight... not by a cop’s bullet.

  The kid waves the gun at Sarah, the waitress with the big doe eyes and the golden blonde hair, the one I’d been eyeing all night with the ass and tits I just couldn’t ignore, so much so that I made sure she bent way over the six times she filled my coffee cup tonight. It’s a shame she’s the one who just happens to be closest to the register. She’s shaking as she looks down the barrel.

  “The money, bitch. Now!” He tenses his trigger finger. Amateur move...the kind of stuff makes bodies pile up. The gun doesn’t go off this time, Sarah must be lucky, but I don’t know how many more of his outbursts are going to go off without a hitch.

  “O--OK...don’t...” Sarah winces, seeing her life flash before her eyes, a life that she’s probably disappointed she’s leading, thinking she’s going to meet her maker at 3 A.M. in a diner two blocks from the interstate. “...don’t shoot, please. I have a daughter...”

  Well, that’s good to know, seeing that I’d planned on bedding her tonight, knowing she has a kid takes that off the table. Goddamn, such a missed opportunity.

  Enough with Sarah, though. Back to the kid holding up the store. He’s got a hunger in his eyes, which means he’s holding this place up out of need, not want...he sure as hell’s not doing it for respect for some gang, either. This early in his criminal career, he’s running on adrenaline and that means he could get sloppy real quick, putting a slug into anyone who moves. I’d have to put the guy down if he decided to do that, though...once the bullets start flying there’s no knowing what’ll happen next, whether he’ll be OK with just offing the waitress or if he’ll turn to the customers as well. Still, for right now, he’s keeping his cool. For right now.

  Sarah looks down at the cash register and pokes a few keys to make the drawer spring out, the change rattling and clinking around inside the tray. She gathers up the bills from under the plastic holders. “You want the coins?”

  Wrong thing to say, even though she meant it seriously. “The fuck did you say? You think I’m playing, bitch?” The kid brings the gun up and hammers it down onto the side of her head. Not enough to knock her out, just enough to put the scare in her, let her see some stars. She stumbles back a little and knocks over a thermos of milk, sending it spilling across the bar and dripping to the ground. It takes her a bit, but she gets back to the register. That a girl, just do what he says, this’ll be over soon and you’ll get to go back to your daughter.

  She goes back to the bills in the register and gathers them up. It’s a small stack, even if it were mostly twenties it couldn’t be more than three hundred. The kid takes the bills and looks down at them. This is the moment of truth, this is when he sees that all of his efforts, all the planning, all of this lead up to his big moment netted him a stash that will barely pay for the trouble. This is when restraint flies at the window, when a guy eyes the little stack of bills in his hand, this is when the bullets start flying from the guns of guys with no future in front of them.

  He grips the bills into his fist and shoves the wad into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s biting his lower lip, trying to decide what to do next.

  “You got a safe?”

  “No” the waitress holds her hand to the side of her head. The knock on her head is throbbing by now, she can’t even see straight, I’m sure. A small trickle of blood has slipped between her fingers and is now working its way down her arm “the...the owner makes a drop at midnight when he leaves.”

  “Fuck...” the kid says, and the panic sets in. He’s trapped now and knows that all of this hasn’t been worth it. He looks around the room at the huddled masses, everyone on their knees pointed toward him like he’s Jesus. Right now he’s the closest thing to God these people have...he can giveth life or rain down his wrath with the piece in his hand. I make eye contact with him for a split second, not enough to draw his attention to me, but just enough to size him up more. He’s not sure what he wants to do, he didn’t plan for this. He doesn’t want to leave the diner with a couple hundred bucks after putting on such a show, hell he probably spent half of that getting the gun he’s holding right now, but I don’t think he wants to rack up a body count either.

  He gets up on the bar, sweeping his gun across the flock. Everyone who had sat up a little while he was holding Sarah up cowers back into the fetal position. “Alright, you pieces of shit! Get your wallets and purses out real slow and throw them right there at the door. If you’ve got money, you better let me have it or you’re leaving in a body bag.”

  Good show, kid. You’re doing good, keep it up.

  Everyone complies. Nothing in their wallet is worth enough to them to take a bullet to the face. Outside of
the life of a kid or a spouse, very few things are. The guys reach into the back pockets of their pants and the women grab to the far side of the booths to pick up their purses. I do the same, throwing my wallet into the ring with everyone else’s. If I was carrying more I’d just keep the thing and let the kid try to come and get it from me, but tonight’s action at the horse track made sure I wasn’t going home with any cash.

  The kid’s call for collection has produces a hefty sum, tons more than what the register was holding. I see a few of the wallets are bulging with bills...it’s Friday night so it’s not surprising for everyone to be carrying around their paycheck. The dollar signs flash in the kid’s eyes as he sees the fat wallets and purses pile up. He’s salivating for the money like a fat kid who just snuck up on a chocolate crème pie. He’s going to have a profitable night after all.

  “I need a goddamned bag.” He snaps at Sarah. She complies, reaching under the bar and coming up with a big brown paper sack. He puts his gun back into his pocket, grabs the bag and jumps down from the bar, landing on his knees in front of the money pile. He scoops up the wallets and purses, and even when he’s squatting down with his gun in his pocket, nobody does anything. They have a perfect opportunity to just run him down and be done with this, but they all just sit there. I read something in a magazine once about this psychology thing called the bystander effect. Pretty much, the more people around that are able to do something about the situation the less chance there is that somebody will actually do it. Every fucking person just assumes someone else will have the balls to jump up and take the kid down, but not a single one of them is actually going to go for it, even though there’s no better time than now. I should be thanking the bystander effect, though, because it’s helped me pull off a lot of scores without someone trying to get in my face.

  With all the pieces gathered up, he runs out the door of the diner, one arm pushing the door open while the other arm cradles the overflowing bag.

  Nobody moves for about thirty seconds, except for the waitresses who all crowd around Sarah, one of them bringing a bag of ice and another a cold Coke. Before the rest of the customers get their bearings, I’m already out the door. I don’t want to deal with the cops when they come, and neither do the six warrants for my arrest in this state. Besides, I have some business to do.

  The humidity of the night hangs in the air and makes everything smell like dirt. I don’t think anyone in the diner noticed me leaving, they were too scared shitless to even glance my way, so there’s no chance they’ll think I’m an accomplice. I jump into my car and peel out as I leave the parking lot. I cruise the empty 3AM streets, looking down between the buildings until I see a pair of headlights blazing in the alley that separates a book store and a Starbucks. The kid couldn’t even get six blocks away before he wanted to inspect his loot. Probably the same kind of kid who wanted to open his Christmas presents right at midnight. Patience is a virtue, my friends, especially in crime.

  I park my car on the street at a meter. I get out and approach the kid’s car. It’s a pretty shitty ride, a mid-90s red Jetta with a rusted rear bumper. The muffler buzzes and hums with each hit of the bass in the music he’s blaring in the car. Fucking kid is doing just about everything he can to get found. I stand at the corner of the building for a little bit and observe him. I'm only about ten feet away, but I don’t worry about him seeing me because the money has done plenty to blind him, he’s giving all his attention to making contact with Andrew Jackson. He has a celebratory joint smoldering in his ash tray, and every few seconds he takes a hit on it, holds the smoke in for a couple of beats and then hacks out a cough on the release. He’s also got a six pack of Bud, well a four pack at this point since he already downed two of them. Talk about binge drinking. He’s making every mistake in the book right now, partying like a kid who slipped a hundred out of his dad’s wallet instead of a pro who should be running for the hills before the reds and blues start flashing. I never celebrate after a job until I know the coast is completely clear, which usually means I’m out of the state the crime took place in...kid’s got a lot to learn.

  I duck down behind the back bumper of the car and draw my .50 M1. Most guys like to carry a badass Desert Eagle, but the M1’s a hell of a lot lighter and not nearly as flashy... but it can still leave a hole the size of a large pizza in anything unlucky enough to be in front of it. I jump up from the bumper, using my hand as a springboard to get me across the side of the Jetta as quickly as possible, and in a tenth of a second I’m standing right beside him, M1 an inch from the driver’s side window. He sits there, emptying a wallet, pulling out a fifty and a few fives, then tosses the wallet into the back seat. He’s oblivious to my presence, maybe too buzzed or high to be aware of his surroundings, so I help him out by tapping the nose of the M1 against the window.

  He whips his attention from the bag of wallets and looks at me and my gun.

  “The window, down...now” I say, punctuating every word with a tap on the window.

  He slaps his hand down on the power window and reaches across the seat for his gun. It’s a standard punk piece, a .32 revolver probably dug out of some guy’s garage.

  “Motherfucker, I better--“

  “--Mine’s bigger, and I know how to use it” I say to him “now drop the gun and I won’t make the inside of this car match the paint. And turn that motherfucking radio down...the cops have probably gotten a noise complaint already for that shit.” I smile through the whole thing. He knows I’m the bigger fish in the pond right now and I’m doing him a great favor by not laying into him immediately. To be honest unless the kid fired on me I wouldn’t even want to waste the bullet. I want him to know I come in peace, even though my gun’s saying otherwise. The kid looks at me a little confused, but he wises up and puts the gun down onto the center console.

  “Whaddya want?” He says, sneering.

  “First, you have something of mine. It’s black alligator skin and it has some things very near and dear to my heart in it.”

  He spins around to the paper bag and fishes through the wallets. He pulls mine out, lucky for him it was one of the untouched ones because if he’d ripped apart my wallet, we’d need to have some words...or bullets.

  He hands me the wallet.

  “Thanks” I say. “Now I’ve got something for you.”

  “What? You a cop or something, gonna arrest me? You undercover? You got cuffs?” For fuck’s sake...for a kid who just took a hit of weed thirty seconds ago he’s edgy.

  “No, not a cop. The opposite actually”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I can see this is one of your first times doing something like this.”

  “Uh, well, you know...got my girl pregnant, can’t really support—“

  “I don’t want to hear your back story, kid...by the way, what’s your name?”

  “Danny. Yours?”

  “We’re not there yet, Danny.” He looks at me like I’d just slapped him across the face, and in a way I did. “No, listen, Danny...you want to make a habit of this stuff, knocking places over?”

  “I mean...yeah, I guess. Beats the hell out of stamping ball bearings on the third shift every day.”

  “Well, if you want to keep up this kind of lifestyle, you need to change. First off, don’t hit diners...you’ll get lit up by a cop nine times out of ten. You got really lucky this time, but I'll tell you right now that luck's not gonna last, I don't care how many rabbit feet you may be carrying around with you in that goddamned sweatshirt. And by the way, that sweatshirt...come on, show some respect to the people you're robbing, make yourself look good. Last, and I assure you most importantly, don’t park your fucking car a mile away from the place you just knocked over.” I push down on the window frame, giving the car a nice shake so I knew he was paying attention.

  “What do you know anyway? Why the fuck am I even listening to you?”

  “You remember that big job on Northfield Bank about three months ago?”

  “
Yeah”

  I pointed to my chest with my free hand. Smiled.

  “No fuckin’ around? That was you?”

  “Got me a solid twenty k for it after I split things with my driver.”

  “Alright, alright...well, man, I gotta say I got a lot of respect for anyone with the balls you got.”

  “Then listen up. You gotta go big or you’re gonna go down for something that’s not even worth it. It’s like horse racing...you ever bet on horses, Danny?”

  “Nah...”

  “Well, stay with me here, if you just bet on the odds-on favorite every time, sure you’ll win most of the time, but at the end of the day you never end up with a haul that’s really worth it. So you gotta take a risk, bet on the long shots to come in and make your day. Yeah, there’s a good fuckin’ chance you’ll lose your balls in the deal, but you’ve gotta pick your races and then when you cash in, you cash in huge, kid, huge.”

  “What’s that got to do with robbing diners?”

  I lean on the windowsill of the Jetta. Fucking kid doesn’t like my metaphors.

  “Alright then, what I’m saying is that the risk of knocking over small places is less, yeah, but you never come out with more than pocket change. You move a few rungs up the ladder, carry a bigger piece and build yourself a crew, start robbing banks and shit, and then it gets to be worth it”

  “...when you make it out alive.”

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  “And what’s so wrong with my piece? This is my grandpa’s gun...”

  “Lemme see it.”

  He hands it to me. I look down the sights and thumb the hammer.

  Then I put a slug right into his foot.

  Blood and bone fragments pepper the floormat, and he reaches down screaming a torrent of obscenities.

  Ever since I’d drawn my .50 I was wondering how I’d deal with the kid. It was too big a gun for close work like this. I didn’t want to leave a body for the cops to deal with, and shooting Danny in his pedal foot would keep him from coming after me.