Listen instead!

The kid wasn’t exactly the sharpest blade in the drawer, but he was fast. I’ll give him that much.
+++++The way he handled that stolen Mustang gave me more than a hunch it wasn’t his first time behind the wheel of a getaway ride. That confident smirk never left his face, even while the ass end of the car kicked wildly to the right as the front defied all laws of physics to point itself in the opposite direction. The way he drove gave new meaning to the souped-up ride’s iconic moniker.
+++++I have no idea where he boosted the thing. Not sure I want to know. All I know is that it wasn’t the wisest choice in getaway vehicles. Cherry red, bumper to bumper flash and chrome. A traffic stop just waiting to happen. I guess Arlen should have been a bit more specific when he told his young nephew to us pinch a set of wheels for the job. I guess I should have done the same when I told him to find us a wheel man.
+++++I wrapped my arthritic hands tight around the oh shit handle as the rear tire kissed the curb and caught air. The jolt damn near put us all through the roof, but it never fazed the kid one bit. He just tipped his head back and let out a high-spirited “whoop, whoop” before popping a smoke in his mouth and lighting it with the hand not holding the wheel.
+++++“You really think you oughta be doing that right now?” I asked, hanging on for dear life long after the Mustang turned the corner and tore into the straightaway.
+++++“Don’t you sweat it, old-timer. I got this all under control,” the kid mouthed around his now smoldering cigarette. “Besides, my mama knows I smoke. She even gave me a note. It’s all good.”
+++++I release my death grip on the strap overhead and grope for the cylindrical tank propped between my feet. Mindful of the length of tubing connecting it to my nostrils I one-hand it in a manner that would wow any gym rat a quarter my age. Tapping it with the portable police scanner in my other hand, I hissed, “You know what this is, you little dumbfuck? This here’s pure fuckin’ oxygen. Flammable as hell, this stuff. Unless you want the entire south side of town to find out the hard way what your mama already knows, I’d suggest flipping that cancer stick out the damn window now.”
+++++“Don’t have to be such a dick about it.” For the first time that day the smile fell off the kid’s lips. He eyed me with a new found contempt, but took my advice just the same.
+++++Through the side mirror I noticed a rooster tail of sparks trailing behind us. Somewhere under us the muffler carressed the surface of the street. The mailbox boy wonder plowed down right after Arlen and Clute jumped in the back with the cash likely had something to do with that. I ain’t gonna lie. Seeing that got me more nervous than the kid’s Marlboro. More jittery that the sound of the sirens in the distance. All this and we hadn’t even put more than a few blocks between us and the bank yet.
+++++There was an eerie whistling coming from the backseat. Could have been the hole punched through the back glass by the slug of lead that created it. Maybe it was the one in Clute’s neck, made by that very same lucky shot. By lucky, I mean octogenarian rent-a-cop that followed behind Clute and Arlen as they staged their less than hasty retreat from the Miner’s Community Credit Union. Those bags of cash must have weighed more than Alrlen did soaking wet. The old feller was either a crack shot back in his prime or he just got, well, lucky the day he drew a bead on the back end of our getaway car.
+++++The round he fired took the scenic route through Clute’s neck before it stopped for the night in the dashboard to the left of the fancy radio system. What it left in its wake was a red splatter all over my side of the interior and a bloody mess in the backseat. To make matters worse, one of the tellers had slipped in a dye pack that detonated in one of the bags a few seconds after Clute took one for the team. Now, you’d think that the blue dye and Clute’s blood would have mixed together to form a nice shade of purple. That is how it works right? Blue and red? Even with all the cancerous bits and coal dust coursing through our veins, the three of us still bleed just as red. Apparently it don’t work that way, because the interior of the Mustang just ended up looking like one of those tie dye shirts that are all the rage with the longhairs these days.
+++++Beyond the city limits in our steadily failing muscle car I found myself doing the math. A three way split is better than fourths. Clute was a lifelong bachelor with no kin to speak of. Our shit insurance package from the mining company, which also owned the bank we just knocked off, could deal with the mountain of medical bills he had been under. Arlen and I would see that he got a proper burial, but the rest of his cut would go back into the community chest. Or so I thought.
+++++I didn’t even think to put up a fight when the kid stopped along the narrow dirt road in the middle of nowhere. When he stepped around to my side of the car and reached in for the bags, minus the blue one of course. I just sat in my seat and watched him take off on foot through the weedy field, alone.
+++++He was fast. I’ll give him that much.

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Craig Furchtenicht

Craig Furchtenicht lives in rural Iowa with his lovely wife, Henrietta. He works by day as a mechanical technician for a large toothbrush manufacturer. At night he busies himself by pounding out disturbingly absurd words on his laptop. He also enjoys gardening, rock hunting and cheering on his beloved Hawkeyes. His works include the rural noir thriller Dimebag Bandits and the short story collection Night Speed Zero. His story Alphabet Man is featured in the book Twelve Mad Men.

Latest posts by Craig Furchtenicht (see all)

• Entry 5 – The Black Lung Crew - November 30, 2015
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