you were out of town on that job. She
thought you would have been back a long time ago.”
“I got
held over.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have mattered, Eddie.
I wouldn’t want you to think that.”
“I don’t
think that,” I told her.
S ometimes, we have to wait around for
a few days before we do a job. So we can be close when the time comes. Laying
in the cut, J.C. calls it.
Once, when we were alone, J.C. told me
there was another reason. Nobody gets told the whole plan until we’re all
together. After that, nobody leaves, so there’s no chance of anybody
talking.
This one time, there were four of us in on it. Gus always
works with J.C. He’s an old guy; older than J.C. “Gus was in the
war. Not that desert vacation,” he told me. “The real one. In the
fucking jungle.”
Gus looks all soft, flabby even, on his face.
His hair is rust-colored, thin on top, but he combs it over from the side and
you can’t really tell unless he turns a certain way. Most of the time, he
wears a cap.
“Gus can make things go boom,” J.C. said, the
first time he introduced us.
“Virgil was studying on how to do
that,” I said. “So we could blow this safe we were going
to—”
“Virgil was an amateur,” J.C. said.
“Just like that dumb cowboy brother of his. Gus is an artist.”
I didn’t say anything. I don’t like it when J.C. says things
about Tim or Virgil, but I never let him see how I feel. I’m trying to be
a professional.
“Guys like that, they never think about anything
longer than tomorrow,” J.C. said. He was watching my face. I wondered if
J.C. could read my mind, like Gus is always saying he can. “Their idea of
planning a job is figuring out which way to turn at the first corner. Cowboys,
they never last.”
“It wasn’t Tim’s
fault,” I said. I wished I could have stayed quiet, but I felt like a
chicken was pecking at my nerves.
“He didn’t plan it
out,” J.C. said, like a preacher from the Bible. Not like you
couldn’t argue with
him
; like you couldn’t argue with the
truth.
I wondered how J.C. ended up in prison himself, being that he
could plan so perfect and all, but I never asked him.
I know Virgil
would have.
B esides Gus, on this job we had another
guy. Kaiser. His work was muscle. This was the first job I had ever been on
with him.
He was a biker, or something like that. It was hard to
tell from his tattoos; he had so many they got all smudged together, especially
on his arms.
Kaiser was always looking at his own arms, like he wanted
to make sure they were still there.
J.C. was going over everything with
us again. He always says, you can’t stick to the plan if you don’t
know
the plan.
“Speaking of plans, what do we need a
wheelman for?” Kaiser said. “This isn’t no bank we’re
doing.”
“You never know,” J.C. said. “You never
know when you’re going to need a getaway man. And a driver like Eddie,
that’s the best insurance you can buy.”
“Driving’s driving,” Kaiser said. “I got a dozen
brothers who can haul ass.”
“Driving’s not the same
as sticking,” J.C. told him. “No matter what happens, Eddie will
always be there when we come out.”
“Fuck, he’ll be
the
only
one there, way out in the boonies in the middle of the
night.”
“I know what this is all about,” J.C. laughed
at him. “For a Nazi, you’re a real little Jew, huh? Forget it, pal.
It’s equal shares all around, like I said it was going to be.”
“Equal? You’re taking half off the top before we split
anything.”
“That’s for the planning,” J.C.
said. “The other half’s for the execution. You know how it’s
done. Your work, it takes a couple-few hours. But the setup, my piece,
I’ve been working on it for months, already.”
“What
do
you
have to say, Gus?” Kaiser asked him.
“Me?” G us told him. “I don’t have anything to say.
You didn’t want to come in on this with us,
thought you would have been back a long time ago.”
“I got
held over.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have mattered, Eddie.
I wouldn’t want you to think that.”
“I don’t
think that,” I told her.
S ometimes, we have to wait around for
a few days before we do a job. So we can be close when the time comes. Laying
in the cut, J.C. calls it.
Once, when we were alone, J.C. told me
there was another reason. Nobody gets told the whole plan until we’re all
together. After that, nobody leaves, so there’s no chance of anybody
talking.
This one time, there were four of us in on it. Gus always
works with J.C. He’s an old guy; older than J.C. “Gus was in the
war. Not that desert vacation,” he told me. “The real one. In the
fucking jungle.”
Gus looks all soft, flabby even, on his face.
His hair is rust-colored, thin on top, but he combs it over from the side and
you can’t really tell unless he turns a certain way. Most of the time, he
wears a cap.
“Gus can make things go boom,” J.C. said, the
first time he introduced us.
“Virgil was studying on how to do
that,” I said. “So we could blow this safe we were going
to—”
“Virgil was an amateur,” J.C. said.
“Just like that dumb cowboy brother of his. Gus is an artist.”
I didn’t say anything. I don’t like it when J.C. says things
about Tim or Virgil, but I never let him see how I feel. I’m trying to be
a professional.
“Guys like that, they never think about anything
longer than tomorrow,” J.C. said. He was watching my face. I wondered if
J.C. could read my mind, like Gus is always saying he can. “Their idea of
planning a job is figuring out which way to turn at the first corner. Cowboys,
they never last.”
“It wasn’t Tim’s
fault,” I said. I wished I could have stayed quiet, but I felt like a
chicken was pecking at my nerves.
“He didn’t plan it
out,” J.C. said, like a preacher from the Bible. Not like you
couldn’t argue with
him
; like you couldn’t argue with the
truth.
I wondered how J.C. ended up in prison himself, being that he
could plan so perfect and all, but I never asked him.
I know Virgil
would have.
B esides Gus, on this job we had another
guy. Kaiser. His work was muscle. This was the first job I had ever been on
with him.
He was a biker, or something like that. It was hard to
tell from his tattoos; he had so many they got all smudged together, especially
on his arms.
Kaiser was always looking at his own arms, like he wanted
to make sure they were still there.
J.C. was going over everything with
us again. He always says, you can’t stick to the plan if you don’t
know
the plan.
“Speaking of plans, what do we need a
wheelman for?” Kaiser said. “This isn’t no bank we’re
doing.”
“You never know,” J.C. said. “You never
know when you’re going to need a getaway man. And a driver like Eddie,
that’s the best insurance you can buy.”
“Driving’s driving,” Kaiser said. “I got a dozen
brothers who can haul ass.”
“Driving’s not the same
as sticking,” J.C. told him. “No matter what happens, Eddie will
always be there when we come out.”
“Fuck, he’ll be
the
only
one there, way out in the boonies in the middle of the
night.”
“I know what this is all about,” J.C. laughed
at him. “For a Nazi, you’re a real little Jew, huh? Forget it, pal.
It’s equal shares all around, like I said it was going to be.”
“Equal? You’re taking half off the top before we split
anything.”
“That’s for the planning,” J.C.
said. “The other half’s for the execution. You know how it’s
done. Your work, it takes a couple-few hours. But the setup, my piece,
I’ve been working on it for months, already.”
“What
do
you
have to say, Gus?” Kaiser asked him.
“Me?” G us told him. “I don’t have anything to say.
You didn’t want to come in on this with us,
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