The Midnight Dog of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

the cash register,” I pointed out, nodding at the shorter robber.
    â€œI did say that,” short guy admitted.
    We regarded each other. I had a couple inches and a lot of pounds on the taller guy, and even with guns they were both squinting nervously at me through the holes in their wool caps, looking more than a little intimidated. I liked that about them.
    â€œBecky, how much are our lucky killers going to make off with as a result of this crime spree?” I asked casually.
    She swallowed. “Maybe ninety-five dollars. Plus some change,” she told me.
    â€œSo you masterminds are willing to risk going to prison for murder to collect less than fifty bucks apiece,” I observed. “Pretty smart.”
    â€œMurder? We said no one was going to get hurt,” the shorter guy objected in a wounded tone.
    â€œUnless you don’t do exactly as we say,” the taller guy insisted stubbornly.
    â€œYou don’t have more money in the safe or something?” shorter guy asked hopefully.
    I smacked my forehead. “The safe! Becky,” I said to her, “we forgot about all the gold bullion in the safe!”
    â€œRuddy,” she replied worriedly. My campaign to keep her calm was not as effective as I would have liked. I wondered if it would help things if I punched a couple of ski masks in their disgustingly pink mouths. That would make
me
feel better, I knew.
    â€œCould I put my wineglass down?” Stasia inquired tremulously from her table.
    Both ruthless criminals turned in her direction and she visibly paled some more, turning nearly transparent.
    â€œYeah, whatever,” taller guy agreed.
    â€œCan I
drink
from mine?” Cora asked.
    â€œFine. We didn’t mean you couldn’t, like, move a little. You can still
breathe,
” tall guy said.
    Cora and Stasia gulped their glasses dry.
    â€œYou ladies like another round?” I suggested hopefully.
    â€œGod yes,
please,
” Cora blurted.
    â€œIt’s our first robbery,” Stasia explained apologetically. “We’re a little stressed.”
    I raised my eyebrows at the men in the stocking caps. “Okay by you guys?”
    â€œSure. Just keep pouring drinks during a stickup. Maybe play the jukebox and serve birthday cake,” tall guy jeered.
    I walked over to the bar.
    â€œHey! What the hell are you doing?” short guy demanded.
    â€œHe said I could serve drinks. You fellows care for a beer?” I reached out and snagged the bottle of pinot grigio.
    They stared at me, their eyes dark and wet in their masks. The short one licked his lips, his tongue making a brief appearance. It was ten times as revolting as the lips alone. “What you got on tap?” he asked finally.
    And with that familiar phrase, I placed the voice. I’d heard him ask the question in the bar before. “Kenny?” I said.
    The short guy went wooden.
    â€œKenny McDonald,” I elaborated. “I dated your sister in high school until she dumped me for that idiot with the nice car.”
    â€œJustin VanRoekel,” Kenny responded automatically.
    The taller guy glared at him and Kenny stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kenny snarled in correction, jabbing the shotgun in my direction.
    â€œBe more comfortable with your mask off, don’t you think?” I suggested affably. “Otherwise the foam will soak the wool. I’ll give you a sixteen-ouncer of Coors, that still your brand?” I poured Stasia and Cora their refills. The way the ladies attacked their wine suggested I should keep the bottle handy—maybe we should have robberies every night: they were apparently good for business.
    Kenny didn’t say anything, so I got him and his buddy each a mug of beer. Becky sat down then, sort of collapsing in her seat in a way that suggested she was starting to relax around the situation.
    â€œYou really think you would have shot me?” I