Wanted by Kym Brunner Page A

find out which son of a bitch set me up, someone in his family will die as horrible a death as their kin bestowed on me.
    First things first. I need cash and I need it now. I drive up the road a mile or two looking for a store with lots of loot and nary a customer. I finally spy a filling station, which ought to be just perfect for my needs. I pull in and park right in front of the door so I can make a fast getaway. I turn around and check the back seat for Jack Daniel’s weapons, but don’t see a Tommy gun or a Browning Automatic Rifle in sight. What a total jelly bean, a good for nothing do-gooder.
    For a second, I get an inkling that maybe I should start over and try my hand at making a clean living. I can turn around and go back to Curly and his family. Hook up with that dame, Twinkle. Could be kinda nice not to have to be on the lam all the time. No one here in this town knows me for nothing. As far as they know, Clyde Champion Barrow is long gone. Sure would be nice not to have to worry about going to the Big House again. I rub my chin, thinking it over, wishing Bonnie was here. She’d jabber with me about this. Was always good for that.
    I sit up straighter and look around. What am I thinking? How can I go back and live with a family I don’t know? And make a decent wage doing what exactly? Farming’s too much work and I’m too set in my ways to learn a new skill. Damned if I want to work for no boss, neither. I ain’t gone farther in school than the sixth grade, so what else am I good at besides robbing?
    Nothing, that’s what.
    That’s when I glimpse a tire iron laying on the floor in the back. I know straightaway that this is a sign from God that I’m doing the right thing. I’ll head inside to case the joint first and then come back outside for my convincer. The tire iron’s no gun, but it sure oughta convince whoever’s behind the counter to give me all his money.
    A bell jingles over the door when I walk in, just like our place back home in Texas. As much as it pains me to not mind my manners, I don’t say “Howdy” to the dollface coming out. But she don’t even notice—walking past like I’m made of air. Her ignorance suits me fine. One less citizen to identify me later on. I keep my head down and walk clear through to the back end of the store. I want to have a gander around the joint before I rob it. I pretend to shop, but all the while, I’m checking the layout of the place. I take in the back door exit and then count eight customers that could get in my way. I’ll have to make sure the palookas leave before I do anything else. If more than five of ’em jump me, I could be in for a spot of bad luck.
    I’m amazed that they got a whole aisle filled with nothing but pretzels and potato chips. Hundreds of kinds and flavors, some I ain’t never even heard of before. I finally grab a bag of pretzels with a fancy blue wrapper and make my way to the front counter. When I get close to the register, I see a small movie screen up on the wall. It’s like the kind you see at a theater, ’cepting it’s a lot smaller. I watch for a moment, fascinated that you can see a movie picture for free, but I don’t recognize any of the actors. James Cagney’s not even in it, and he’s in just about everything. Of course, now that I ponder that idea, he’s got to be dead, too.
    I rub my hand across my hair to slick it back, when the man in the movie does the same. I try a few more actions—waving, grabbing a white box off the shelf, bobbing my head back and forth. Sure enough, I’m the leading man. I toss the pretzels on the newspaper rack and dart out of there fast. No way to weasel out of that robbery, not with solid proof staring me in the face. There’s got to be other stores to rob around these parts—ones without fancy movie cameras.
    I get in my car and start the engine, mad that everything