Thank You, Come Again

The Switchman

This was not the plan they’d agreed to over beers after last night’s club meeting. They were supposed to make a quick hit at the bank, jack a bus, go for a short joyride, and call it a day before law enforcement had time to get on their trail. It had sounded so simple. He should’ve known there’d be a hitch. Nothing had gone his way lately.

The Switchman wasn’t big on the idea of continuing on together, but Smokestack had the bank bag full of money shoved down tight inside his boxer briefs. The Switchman didn’t want to leave without getting his share, but no way was he sticking his hands down another man’s pants. Besides, if there was any truth to Smokestack’s stories of his seedy sexual exploits, any manner of sexually transmitted vermin could be living in the guy’s underpants.

How the Switchman and the Conductor had let the dumbass talk them into this crime spree was beyond him now. The two had been simply commiserating over their terminations, complaining about the injustice and unfairness of losing their jobs. All it had taken was Smokestack calling them a couple of pussies to agree to this misguided plan of vengeance.

In hindsight, the Switchman now felt he’d been a wimp for going along with this stupid plan. But it was too late for second thoughts now. What was done was done.

A telltale ding sounded as Smokestack pulled open the door of the convenience store. The Conductor followed him in, his rifle now hidden in a duffel bag. The Switchman was the last one through the door, lagging behind so he’d appear to be unassociated with the other two.

Surely the police had put out an all-points bulletin on the three of them. Being seen together could be dangerous. Of course they’d left their telltale hats and jackets on the bus. He doubted anyone had gotten a good enough look to identify any of them individually, but the combination of two young white guys with a middle-age black man could make them recognizable. Luckily, their sunglasses would not appear out of place given today’s cloudless sky. But he and the Conductor were still wearing gloves, and Smokestack still had on his pair of mismatched mittens. While covering their hands wouldn’t have raised suspicions in the recent cold weather, today was too warm for anyone to need gloves or mittens.

The Switchman knew he better go his separate way ASAP. He planned to humor Smokestack by buying a beer, downing the thing as quickly as possible, and splitting with his share of the bank’s funds. Frankly, the guy was getting on his nerves. He didn’t seem to have many brain cells to begin with, and smoking dope nonstop for the last decade hadn’t helped.

The Switchman cast a glance toward the checkout counter. The register was manned by a short, thin Asian man who appeared to weigh all of a hundred pounds. Not only was he small, he was old, too, his hair faded to a pewter shade. His face scrunched as he peered through his bifocals and fingered through the handful of change, counting out the coins he’d been handed by the blonde buying a pack of Camels. Thankfully, the clerk hadn’t looked up yet.

Smokestack opened the glass door of the refrigerated cooler, grabbed three oversize bottles of beer, and handed one to the Switchman and the other to the Conductor. The Switchman would have preferred a different brand, but no sense engaging in a debate when he wanted to remain inconspicuous and move things along ASAP.

The three headed toward the counter to pay for their beers, Smokestack leading the way. As they stepped up to the register, Smokestack stuck the top of the bottle into his mouth and used his teeth to twist off the cap. Certainly not what four out of five dentists would recommend. He spat the cap into his hand, tossed it into a nearby trash can, and proceeded to drain the entire bottle of beer right there at the counter.

The clerk frowned, his eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “You can’t drink that here. Don’t you see the sign?” He pointed up to a white sign on the wall behind him that read IT IS A CRIME (MISDEMEANOR) TO CONSUME LIQUOR OR BEER ON THESE PREMISES.

Smokestack raised his hands, his right one clutching the now-empty bottle. He let out a burbling beer-scented belch and said, “Sorry, man. I’m out of here.”

As he headed toward the door, the clerk yelled, “Hey! You have to pay for that!”

The Switchman quickly stepped up to the counter in an attempt at damage control. “I’ve got it.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

Smokestack turned around at the exit, moving backward to push the door open with his back. “Get me a couple of hot dogs, too. With ketchup. And a bag of barbecue chips. And some Oreos.”

Who did that jackass think he was? The king of England? Nonetheless, the Switchman grabbed a bag of chips and a package of cookies from a nearby display. He waited with forced patience while the clerk used metal tongs to fish two hot dogs off the rotisserie, dropped them into open buns in white paper containers, and retrieved a red squeeze bottle to draw a squiggly line of ketchup down the top of each steaming link.

The clerk placed the hot dogs on the counter, rang up the purchases, and squinted at the cash register display for the total. “Nineteen eighty-three.”

The Switchman handed the clerk a twenty, accepted his change, and even put the two pennies in the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny bowl on the counter. He turned and had made three steps toward the door when the clerk called after him.

“Sir! You forgot your beer!”

Agh! Way to be inconspicuous.

He looked back to see the clerk holding up the beer, now wrapped in a small brown paper sack. He held it out to him, the paper crinkling with the movement.

The Switchman fought the urge to run out the door and never look back. Instead, he took the beer from the man’s hand. “Thanks. I don’t know where my head is.”

But he did know.

It was up his butt.

Had been since the moment he’d agreed to this stupid crime spree.

Beers and food paid for, the Switchman and the Conductor hurried outside. Smokestack was nowhere to be seen. Dammit!

The Conductor heaved a frustrated huff. “Where the hell did that imbecile go?”

Chapter Sixteen

Schooled

Megan

As we climbed into my cruiser, Jackson’s cell phone rang with a call from the investigator from the fire department. She tapped the screen to accept the call and put the phone to her ear. “Whatcha got for us?”

Us, huh? I was flattered she was treating me as an important part of the investigation team rather than merely a chauffer, bodyguard, and dog handler.

She turned the mouthpiece upward so she could relay the information to me without speaking into the mic. “The video showed a guy in a frog hat setting the fire,” she whispered.

The unusual hat confirmed my suspicions. The men who’d held up the bank were, in fact, the same ones who’d set the fire.

Jackson swiveled the phone so that she could speak again with the investigator. “Can you send me the video clip?” She paused a moment. “Thanks.”

We waited a few seconds until—ping!—the clip finished its voyage through cyberspace and arrived at her phone. We watched on the small screen as a small man in a dark hooded sweatshirt, sunglasses, and a knit hat with bulbous eyes on top trotted up to the Dumpster. He placed an old-fashioned metal gasoline can on the ground at his feet and proceeded to wad up page after page of newspaper and toss them into the bin. When he ran out of paper, he picked up the gas can, unscrewed the top, and sloshed the petroleum over the side of the Dumpster, tossing the can in after it.

Darn. Any prints he’d left on the can would have been destroyed in the fire.

Turning his back, he pulled down his jeans, mooned the camera with his pasty ass, and crooked his head to eye the lens while he flipped us the bird.