Lonnie’s a little younger than me, but he’s got potential. I like taking guys like that under my wing, showing them the ropes, and mixing a bunch of metaphors while I’m proving that crime does pay – if you’re smart enough to lay things out ahead of time. And me and Lonnie had this one mapped out to the nines. Here’s the deal:
One time I was headed toward Binghamton to visit my Aunt Edna after fishing the Susquehanna River down near Langdon. I got off I-81 in Kirkwood looking for gas and found this place out in the boonies on Ostrum Road. It was one of those gas station/convenience store/liquor store kind of deals. And I remember thinking it was so remote you could stick the place up and be long gone before anybody, like the cops, could even find it. That’s when I started hatching the plan.
Last week, I told Lonnie about the place and said I figure we can knock it over no problem. Then all we gotta do is beat feet out to I-81, head north, clear Syracuse, and be in Ottawa before those hicks in Kirkwood can even get out an APB, right? Foolproof. We chill in Canada till the heat dies down, and we’re golden. Lonnie loved it right away. I was kind of enamored of it myself.
Lonnie’s kind of a gearhead. He drives this souped-up 1969 Chevelle SS. I can’t figure out why a dude born in 1980 would know or care about a car like that. But I have to admit it’s cool. He loves telling me about the 325 HP, 396 mill under the hood, the 400 Turbo, and the 3:31 Posi rear end. If I knew what he was talking about, I think I’d be impressed. Since I don’t, I just think it’s kind of funny. Lonnie doesn’t care. It makes him feel smart in a macho sort of way. Plus, I gotta give the kid credit: he’s fanatical about the thing. It goes in the garage in October and doesn’t see the light of day until April. Then Lonnie’s cleaning and waxing it till he puts it on the road in May. The rest of the year, he bangs around in his crash unit, which is a 1992 Olds Ciera. I think that bomb’s at least as funny as the Chevelle but for completely different reasons.
Anyway, when I told Lonnie I wanted to use the Chevelle for the caper, he was all juiced up. He loves all those Transporter movies. And he claims to have watched the bridge-jump scene in Hooper about a million times. Knowing Lonnie, I don’t doubt it. As soon as I laid the idea on him about using the Chevelle for the heist, he started telling me how we were going to be fishtailing around the pumps, peeling out of the parking lot, and tearing up the pavement on Ostrum Road all the way to I-81. He whooped like a Banshee, started gesturing like a deaf Italian on speed, and started saying, almost at the top of his lungs: “I’m tellin’ you right now, Phil. If there’s any cops on 81 between Kirkwood and Ottawa, they may as well just tend to their freakin’ donuts. They won’t have time to wipe the sugar off their kissers, even if they see us comin’!” He shook his head a few times like he couldn’t believe the ridiculousness of trying to catch us in a police cruiser. Then he dropped into a crouch and started polishing the Chevelle’s mag wheels.
We waited until late Monday night. We figured it would be pretty quiet. The weekend would be over, but most of the beer drinkers wouldn’t need to re-stock till at least Tuesday. And since the dump sells more beer than gas, we knew there wasn’t likely to be anyone filling up that night. Nevertheless, we pulled up kinda slow, just to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises. Sure enough, the parking lot was empty. Through the front window, we could see the clerk sitting behind the counter stuffing quarters into paper rolls. Since he wasn’t a big dude, I decided to go in alone. But I carried my fishing knife, just in case I had to show the guy I meant business, or trim a hangnail or something. I walked in real slow, sauntered up to the dude, pulled out my knife like I was distracted by it, and said, “I’m bettin’ that if you put all the cash in that register into a bag – includin’ them quarters you got rolled up so nice – then hand me the bag, nothin’ll happen to ya. You wanna take that bet?” The guy went as white as a sheet and started shoveling cash for all he was worth. He was trembing so bad I thought he’d chip his teeth. But I didn’t wait around to find out.
I bolted out the front door. Lonnie had the passenger-side door open for me. I dived in headfirst yelling, “Tromp on it, Man! Let’s roll!” Lonnie lit up those tires like Big Daddy Don Garlits, fishtailed once around the parking lot just because he had to, and hit Ostrum Road already doing 75. The dude in the store must have called 911 before I was even in the car because we passed a state cop going the other way toward the store with his lights flashing and his siren wailing. I turned around to see him slam on his brakes and bang a u-turn. But his headlights did nothing but recede until he was out of sight. We hit the I-81 on-ramp doing 90. And as soon as Lonnie merged through the right-lane traffic, he nailed it, pinning my back to the seat and making me feel like John Glenn at lift-off. That freakin’ Chevelle kept accelerating for a full quarter-mile. Then it coughed once, bucked, and died. Lonnie coasted back across the right lane and onto the shoulder.
All I could say to him was, “Dude. It was the perfect plan.”
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