what she was talking about?” Wes asked, vacant eyes staring off at the flat-roofed building fifty yards from them.
“She knows the owner,” Sean said. “In the biblical sense.”
“What?”
“She knows enough. Should be over fifty thousand in the safe. Cash.”
“If not?”
“We deal with it.” Sean lit up a cigarette. “But we need thatcash. Having thirty guns doesn’t mean a thing if we don’t have cash to live on.”
For a few minutes, they just sat there, Sean smoking his cigarette and thinking. He asked Wes to try Kurt again on the cell phone. Still no answer.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Wes said.
“Max is the owner and the manager. He’s a little guy. Just wave a gun and we’ll be fine.”
“I’ve got my forty-four magnum,” Wes said of the handpicked gun he had swiped at the Harman’s store.
The sight of it alone, with its Dirty Harry long barrel, was enough to scare the love of God into anybody who stared into it.
“Let’s try not to use that tonight,” Sean said. “Unless you need to shoot a buffalo or something.”
Wes laughed. They talked for a few more minutes about the plan, having to change a few things since the other guys weren’t there. It really was just a two-man job anyway. Sean hoped the others would show up right when they were exiting with cash and goods in hand.
“Can I order a beer?” Wes asked.
“You can order anything you want.”
“How about we take some bottles with us?”
“Take whatever you want.”
Sean felt like a father telling his son which Christmas present he could open. The thought amused him.
Sitting at the bar with Wes, Sean could see only three people in the restaurant. The bartender was a type his mother had always called “healthy looking,” which meant the guy was fat, with ruddy cheeks and a moist forehead that probably stayed that way all the time. He had a dumb grin on his face and crooked teeth that flashed in the dimly lit room. Sean wondered if he’d managed to slip a drink here and there during his shift or if that slightly giddy expression was just the Texan coming out in him. Sean thought Texans were their own breed, their own culture and mind-set. He just couldn’t exactly pinpoint what that culture and mind-set was.
An older man, maybe in his sixties, sat at the end of the bar talking to the chunky bartender. He was almost bald, the skin so tight and leathery on his face that his eyes bulged out. He wore a heavy checkered shirt and jeans even though it was around eighty degrees outside. No sweat on his forehead. He looked totally out of it, not even worth thinking about.
The man polishing off a steak at the corner table was the one that worried Sean. He was another stocky fellow, but solid-looking instead of flabby. His arms didn’t bulge with muscle the way Wes’s did, but Sean wouldn’t want to arm wrestle the guy or get in a fight with him. He had a clean-shaven square face and his hair was cut short.
I gotta do that
. Sean thought of his long locks pulled back in a ponytail.
The guy looked to be having his dinner after getting off work. Probably shift work, this late at night. Was he carrying? Sean glanced over casually, checking to make sure the guy didn’t have a piece against his thigh. He didn’t think so.
The steak eater just worked on his dinner and ignored Wes and Sean as they sat and nursed their beers for five minutes more. Then Sean looked at Wes and finally gave him a nod.
“Now?”
“Just stay put,” Sean said, taking out his Glock 31 pistol.
“Hey, buddy,” he said to the bartender.
The guy walked over with an empty glass in his hand. “Want another one?”
“No,” Sean said calmly, shaking his head. He pointed the gun at the bartender’s substantial abdomen. “All right, look. We’re going to rob you guys, and if you don’t do anything stupid, you’ll live to see tomorrow. Got it?”
The bartender froze and his mouth hung open. Wes stood up and waved his handgun in the
“She knows the owner,” Sean said. “In the biblical sense.”
“What?”
“She knows enough. Should be over fifty thousand in the safe. Cash.”
“If not?”
“We deal with it.” Sean lit up a cigarette. “But we need thatcash. Having thirty guns doesn’t mean a thing if we don’t have cash to live on.”
For a few minutes, they just sat there, Sean smoking his cigarette and thinking. He asked Wes to try Kurt again on the cell phone. Still no answer.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Wes said.
“Max is the owner and the manager. He’s a little guy. Just wave a gun and we’ll be fine.”
“I’ve got my forty-four magnum,” Wes said of the handpicked gun he had swiped at the Harman’s store.
The sight of it alone, with its Dirty Harry long barrel, was enough to scare the love of God into anybody who stared into it.
“Let’s try not to use that tonight,” Sean said. “Unless you need to shoot a buffalo or something.”
Wes laughed. They talked for a few more minutes about the plan, having to change a few things since the other guys weren’t there. It really was just a two-man job anyway. Sean hoped the others would show up right when they were exiting with cash and goods in hand.
“Can I order a beer?” Wes asked.
“You can order anything you want.”
“How about we take some bottles with us?”
“Take whatever you want.”
Sean felt like a father telling his son which Christmas present he could open. The thought amused him.
Sitting at the bar with Wes, Sean could see only three people in the restaurant. The bartender was a type his mother had always called “healthy looking,” which meant the guy was fat, with ruddy cheeks and a moist forehead that probably stayed that way all the time. He had a dumb grin on his face and crooked teeth that flashed in the dimly lit room. Sean wondered if he’d managed to slip a drink here and there during his shift or if that slightly giddy expression was just the Texan coming out in him. Sean thought Texans were their own breed, their own culture and mind-set. He just couldn’t exactly pinpoint what that culture and mind-set was.
An older man, maybe in his sixties, sat at the end of the bar talking to the chunky bartender. He was almost bald, the skin so tight and leathery on his face that his eyes bulged out. He wore a heavy checkered shirt and jeans even though it was around eighty degrees outside. No sweat on his forehead. He looked totally out of it, not even worth thinking about.
The man polishing off a steak at the corner table was the one that worried Sean. He was another stocky fellow, but solid-looking instead of flabby. His arms didn’t bulge with muscle the way Wes’s did, but Sean wouldn’t want to arm wrestle the guy or get in a fight with him. He had a clean-shaven square face and his hair was cut short.
I gotta do that
. Sean thought of his long locks pulled back in a ponytail.
The guy looked to be having his dinner after getting off work. Probably shift work, this late at night. Was he carrying? Sean glanced over casually, checking to make sure the guy didn’t have a piece against his thigh. He didn’t think so.
The steak eater just worked on his dinner and ignored Wes and Sean as they sat and nursed their beers for five minutes more. Then Sean looked at Wes and finally gave him a nod.
“Now?”
“Just stay put,” Sean said, taking out his Glock 31 pistol.
“Hey, buddy,” he said to the bartender.
The guy walked over with an empty glass in his hand. “Want another one?”
“No,” Sean said calmly, shaking his head. He pointed the gun at the bartender’s substantial abdomen. “All right, look. We’re going to rob you guys, and if you don’t do anything stupid, you’ll live to see tomorrow. Got it?”
The bartender froze and his mouth hung open. Wes stood up and waved his handgun in the
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