Robbing Junior’s

It was just after two in the a.m. and I had promised Bo and Lorelei I could pick the lock.  I put the tension wrench in place and was working the pick over the tumblers when we both heard a scrape and Bo aimed the flashlight at the noise.  A scrap of litter drifted on a slight breeze.  Irritated, I tapped the keyhole on the back door of Junior’s restaurant to get Bo’s attention. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, aimed the light back on the lock, and I worked the pick cautiously until I felt a click. “There,” I whispered triumphantly, though I knew I wasn’t finished.  I was still what I’d call an apprentice lock-picker.  I thought I felt another tumbler slip, but there were at least three.

“What’s taking so long?  I thought you knew how to do this?” he whispered.

“I’m getting it.”  I tugged at the tension wrench.

“Let me try,” he argued, and tried to push me aside.

A meth-head of skin and bones, I shoved him back easily.  “You have no idea how to do this,” I said, angry now; adrenaline sped my blood, an unwelcome rush when I needed a steady hand.  Panting, I worked the pick more aggressively but then I felt blessed relief as the tension wrench turned the lock.  Maybe being angry helped.  I twisted it and felt the dead bolt withdraw.  “There we go.”          

I pulled on my Mickey Mouse mask, the rubber band taut and frail, a last minute idea just in case.  I thought to take the pistol from Bo and stuck it awkwardly in my belt.  He stayed at the door, my lookout, panting to smoke crystal but under strict orders to be alert.  Lorelei was idling half a block down, headlights off. 

I stepped inside.  The mask was a bad idea, as I couldn’t see well through the eye-holes and I couldn’t wipe away sweat that was already stinging my eyes.  I saw a light on and froze when I heard a toilet flush and a door open.  It was Junior.  He wasn’t supposed to be here.   It was for the best I’d brought the pistol.  I pulled the bulky weapon, awkwardly heavy.  Junior exited the rest room, the aroma filling the hallway, and I slammed the door.  He turned his head, saw me, then he saw the pistol barrel, and his chubby, jowly face went slack.  “In your office,” I said.  He nodded slightly, but repeatedly, like a bobble-head doll, and I followed him limping down the narrow hallway, crowded with boxes of napkins, plastic ware and ketchup packets, and into his cramped office.  The lights were out and his hand went, out of habit, to the switch.  “No,” I ordered.  “Your desk light is enough for this.”

This all happened in my hometown, Aurora, Florida, which is starved for good paying robbery.  I’m Jason Helms, twenty-six, career felon.  My personal record of over twenty successful home break-ins was tripped up when I broke in, and was photographed at, a Davenport gas station.  Bo and I grew up here, my parents dead in a car wreck when I was fifteen.  Bo and I became friends after their death, after I quit the football team and found myself in Bo’s basement most nights, smoking weed.  He paid his bills by shoplifting and stealing from his parents, until his family changed the locks.  We found a trailer we could afford with our ill-gotten gains and called it home.  He graduated from the gateway drug to crystal, I stuck with pot and brew.

He and I had just finished a stretch, me for the Davenport blunder, he for trying to steal a UNICEF can from Junior’s, a local enterprise.  Junior Twiney, owner, detained his cousin in a sweaty bear hug, complete with taunts, until the police arrived.  “You little peckerwood,” he’d teased his writhing cousin. “You ain’t worth the t-p to wipe you off my ass.” 

On a cloudy Tuesday in May, we straddled bicycles in Junior’s parking lot, studying our target.  Smoking his next to last cigarette, Bo nursed his pride.  “Fat bastard held my head in his armpit waiting for the cops.  I can still smell his stink.  He keeps about ten grand in his safe.  I’ve seen it.  Ten-grand.  Man, what I could do with that.”  We were taking stock of our lives and were not satisfied, ex-cons without means, nineteen bucks between us after buying beer and a cupboard full of macaroni and cheese. 

  Junior had started his business seven years back with a marina and bait shop, then added the restaurant, his office in back, and he always had customers in one section or other, conspicuously successful in our sleepy burg.  The restaurant was not much to look at; a corrugated roof, cinder block walls, big Plexiglas windows, linoleum floor and booths of polyurethaned plywood; Junior hadn’t spent a dime on aesthetics.  There was a window to take orders, another to pick up food, rows of wooden booths in which to dine, and a scratchy public address to yell out numbers.  “Fifty-two, you’re up.  Fifty-two, burger and large fries, Diet Coke.  Fifty-two, it’s getting cold.”

The next day I loitered inside with a soft drink until a young girl, bussing tables, asked, “Can I get you anything else?”  I joined Bo across the street at the Salvation Army where he paced, studying the job. 

“I know five different ways to get in,” he announced.

“Five, huh?  Gimme one.”

“Easy.  We go inside and hide, and come out when he closes up.”

 I looked back at the restaurant.  “Where you planning to hide?  The only rooms with doors are his office and the rest room.  And I expect he checks them before he locks up.”

“Okay,” Bo conceded, eyes narrowing.  “Then we come bustin’ through the doors at closing time.  We empty his register –“

“There won’t be much in the register.  Most folks pay with cards.  As for the cash that accumulates, he empties his registers every hour.  You want what’s in his safe,” I counseled.  “And what, precisely, do you mean by ‘bustin’ through’?  Like we got guns?  We ain’t got guns and right now we can’t afford guns.”

“Do this,” he countered, and he pointed his index finger under his shirt, a ten year old’s game.

“Your idea needs work,” I advised him.

Ms. Pettyfine, a slender twig of sixty, retired school principal turned probation officer, matched ex-cons with jobs.  She worked out of a former equipment room at Aurora Town Hall.  The walls had holes and dents where shelves had been mounted.  “They’re going to change the sign on the door,” she explained.  “And maybe paint.  I asked to be down here.  Cain’t do stairs so well anymore and the elevator ain’t reliable.”  Both of us knew her from school and she lamented us with a look over the top of her reading glasses.  “Jason Helm, Bo Twiney, I remember you boys.  You might think I don’t, but I do.  You need to mend your ways.” 

“Yes, Ma’am,” we chorused, as weary of her as was she of us.

She opened a well-used manila folder.  “You need to find jobs, but not too far away because you have to report to your parole officer, who is me, once a week for the next eight weeks.  You got no car.  And the only business here that hires ex-cons is the fish-stick plant.”  She retrieved two copies of her referral forms, distorted from being copied a million times, signed her name, scribbled our names, and handed them over.  

We’d both worked at the fish-stick plant, six years back, minimum wage and a strict no-smoking policy, minimal breaks per eight hour shift.  I stank of it for a week after I’d quit, and vowed never again.  That job inspired my first break-in.  We took our referral slips with a ‘thank you, ma’am’, walked out into the sunny morning and watched the line grow at Junior’s order window.  Without options, we returned to work at the fish-stick plant. 

Biking home by Junior’s, as was my habit, I saw a ‘Help Wanted’ sign newly taped up in the Plexiglas window.  I came up with a plan: if I was working there, I’d figure the best way to the money.  I’d just bought my lock-picking tools and studied a Youtube video, the suggestion of a friend inside.  

I filled out the application with a borrowed pencil during the quiet spell in mid-afternoon, sitting in one of those uncomfortable booths – Junior wanted folks to eat and leave.  Hours available?  All of ‘em – I wanted this job.  I had ten minutes to look the place over again before Junior’s wife, Helga, appeared and snatched my application up.  She was a stern Prussian of a woman, with a hint of the old country accent.  A sturdy gal, over twenty but under fifty, she had blonde hair pulled taut, and a tattoo on her muscular forearm, something Asian.  “So, you’ve been incarcerated?”

“Yes, I’ve paid my debt.”  That was how Ms. Pettyfine suggested we answer that question. 

Helga was smoking in plain view of the ‘No Smoking’ sign, which was the first thing about her I liked.  Her pale blonde eyebrows rose slightly.  “For what were you in prison?”

“Breaking and entering.  It was a mistake.  I’m on the straight and narrow now.”   I’d practiced that line and could say it with a straight face.

Her face showed her struggle between my criminal history, her desperately needing help and me, as I later learned, being the only one who’d applied.  Her eyebrows furrowed, her thin lips pursed, then twisted to one side, then frowned.  “We work forty-eight hour week here.  Limited breaks.  Not paying you to smoke in men’s room.”

“I don’t smoke,” I lied.

 Finally she said, “Can you start tomorrow?”  I could.  “Okay, seven a.m., show up ready to work.”  

She wasn’t kidding, she hazed me that first day, a Tuesday, starting with hauling ice, cleaning the grease trap, emptying and hosing down garbage cans, and then I was pointed towards a backed-up toilet with gloves, plunger, brush and cleanser.  I was determined to endure with a smile, and I did.  After that my work was more bearable, mostly hauling food from the freezer to the grill and reloading soft drink canisters and napkin holders, mopping the floor and rotating toilet duty.  On Saturday, a busload of seniors briefly overwhelmed us, and she assigned me to the register after the briefest of training – “touch this, then this.  This for cards, this for cash.”  That someone was trusting me to handle money I wouldn’t have dreamt.  Turns out the seniors showed up every Saturday, en route to a casino ten miles further west.  Twenty minutes later the wave had washed over us.  “Good job,” said Helga, winded but pleased.  “We’re out of napkins and the Sierra Mist needs a new can.”  Her compliment, my first in recent memory, spun my head. 

The next day, Junior rolled up in his new, sky blue, Ford F-150.   He was a little taller than me, with black hair combed straight back, a huge gut and a drinker’s nose.  As he struggled to get out, I could see his right foot was bandaged.  “Hey, you’re Jason, right?  Gimme a hand,” he called.  “Just got back from the podiatrist.  He says it’s gout.  I say it’s just an infection, but it can’t take no weight.  Carry this?”  He handed me a briefcase, cheap grainy vinyl, and I followed him into his office.  “Right there,” he pointed to the top of his file cabinet.  “Perfect.  Thanks.  Oh, hold on,” he said, “shit, I can’t bend over.”  He held up a key from his ring.  “Open the safe, take out the money, drop it in here.”  He gave me a canvas deposit bag.

 My fingers trembled slightly turning the key, pulling the heavy door open.  I reverently pulled out five thick bundles of twenties, and tucked them in the bag.  The cash felt magical, I had contact fantasies about spending it.  Behind the cash I saw a pistol, a grey Gloch.  He pulled a slip from his desk drawer and scribbled on it, shoved it in the bag and locked it.  “Bank of America, right over there.  Here’s the deposit key,” he pulled a thick metal key off the ring.  “Drop it in, nothing to it.”  I stared at the money a moment, then walked across the hot blacktop in my sneakers, noting that even a lot of paper money didn’t weigh much.  Reaching the brick edifice, I turned the key in the deposit window, watched the gate open, set the bag in the drawer, and the gate closed.  Did I think of running with it?  Just for a moment.  Though I was squarely in Junior’s view the whole way, he couldn’t have given chase, but it was almost as exciting as being put behind the register.  Trust.  I was starting to like it there.  A shame I was going to rob them. 

Junior didn’t hang around much, Helga said, “he has a junkyard and a tattoo parlor,” though he had no ink.  “I told him to not be stupid,” she said.  “I got one,” she displayed her forearm, “for an old boyfriend, and got hepatitis.”  She didn’t seem to like Junior, she called him ‘fat ass’, pointedly noted that she’d kept her maiden name,  “Hoffman!” and preferred to tell me about the beauties of Heidelberg, where she’d grown up.  “I miss it so much.”  How she ended up with Junior in Aurora, I didn’t feel comfy asking; I sensed she’d leave him, but she opposed divorce on principle.

Helga employed eight people, and I tried to be friendly, but prison can stick to a guy.  An older woman named Marge wanted nothing to do with me, and the teen-aged girls who worked the order window smiled, but avoided me.  I understood, though it hurt a little.

Then I met Lorelei Mumford, who worked the grill and was in charge when Helga wasn’t there.  Thursday after lunch we bumped – we were bussing tables on opposite sides of the aisle.  “Hi, you’re Jason, right?”  Lorelei was cute, a bit plump, a little older than me, I think, with wavy red hair and a broad smile.  “I’m Lorelei.”

I had stolen furtive glances at her, which she likely knew.  I smiled back, suddenly self-conscious of my chipped front tooth, a souvenir of my only fight in high school, a bigger guy picking on Bo, we lost.  “Hi, Lorelei.  Pleased to meet you.  Yeah, I’m Jason.  Hot today, huh?”

“Sure is.  You married?”  I shook my head.  Her smile deepened a little, but I suspected she’d lose interest in me the more she knew.  She took a break, leaning against a booth, so I felt safe in doing the same.  “Where’d you work before?” she asked.

I nodded down the road.  “Fish-stick plant.  This place is nicer, though I do miss having a second day off.” 

She brushed her hair back.  “I worked in the office of the WalMart in Frostfree for seven years, the manager kept telling me I was management material.”  She exaggerated the words.  “Then he promoted some kid over me just because he’d gone to community college.  Pissed me off.  I just up and quit.  But, bills have to be paid.”  She shook her head slightly at the memory, I smiled to be pleasant.  “Yeah, two days off would be nice.  I can barely get my laundry done.  Haven’t so much as seen a good movie for three months.  On the plus side, working here I find I don’t buy many groceries.”  She winked, and I understood a sly joke that had eddied around me from the first day; contrary to Junior’s insistence, the staff ate free, Helga’s policy.

“He tried to get in my pants early on,” she said quietly, “first he offered me twenty bucks.”  Her eyes rolled. “Then he caught me alone in the ladies room one day, and kissed me.  Ugh!  He was looking for more than that but I put my knee where it could do the most good,” she said calmly.  “He’s left me be since.”  She invited me out for coffee at the end of our shift.  “That new coffee shop okay?  Change of scenery and all.”   She had an ancient Corolla, and I had to admit to my bicycle.  “No problem, sugar, throw it in the trunk.”  Fortunately her trunk was empty because her car was a mess, with a basket of laundry in the back seat and the results of a shopping trip to CVS - candy bar wrapper, half-consumed Dr. Pepper, pantyhose package.  I was starving, free food notwithstanding, Helga had worked me that day like the rented mule.  I ordered coffee and my tongue licked my lips over one of their sandwiches, but I knew I barely had the price of the coffee. 

“You’re looking at that chicken salad like it was the last meal on earth,” she teased me, then ordered it.  “We’ll share it.  You need to eat more.”  I ate most of it.

So she knew I had no money, nor a car, and then she drove me to the trailer, and we ended up talking in the car, then kissing and exploring.  It had been eight months since I’d touched a woman, and I’m not skilled, so I let Lorelei run the show.  Partly undressed, she finally pulled back.  “As much fun as this is, this isn’t the right place,” she said, panting but smiling. 

I nodded, pulling my worn-out t-shirt back on.  I saw Bo’s bike now leaning against the trailer and I thought I saw a shabby curtain parting.  “Plus my roommate’s home.”

“Next time, I’ll make us something at my place,” she suggested, smiling.  I kissed her good night and she said a breathy, “see you tomorrow, handsome.”  I got out, retrieved my bike and waved at her driving away, the cool night air refreshing.

“So, Jason Helm.”  Ms. Pettyfine opened my file at my weekly check-in and spent a silent minute reading.  “Are you drug free?” she asked, startling me.

“Uh, yes, ma’am.” 

“Y’all going to have to pee in a cup anyway,” she said, filling out a form.  “And are you associating with known felons?”

“Bo Twiney, he’s my housemate.”

She looked at me, slightly tested.  “Aside from Bo.”

“No, ma’am.”   My other friends had either moved to better pickings in Orlando or were incarcerated.

“Working at Junior’s?  How d’ya like it?”

I smiled.  “I like it.  A lot more than the fish-stick plant.”

She nodded.  “Best I can tell, you’re the first convict they’ve ever hired.  That’s good.  Don’t mess up.”   She turned over a sheet of paper.  “You did pretty well in computer programming, Miz Eley’s class, as I recall.”  She looked at me through those dusty lenses.  “Why don’t you try night school and learn more?” 

Why didn’t I learn more programming?  I remembered the drunk in the pickup who ran a red light and killed my parents.  I stopped attending school.  Seven different foster homes in two nightmarish years before Bo let me crash with him in his parents’ basement, smoking pot.  It seemed like a hundred years had passed.  “Feel like I’m a little old for startin’ over,” I said. 

“Not at twenty-six you ain’t,” she said, looking sad.  “Well, if you think you might want to try night school, I can help.”  She handed me a repurposed pill bottle and indicated the men’s room.  “Fill’er two-thirds.  Bring it right back.”  She readied a zip-lock baggie.

By late June, I knew Saturday was the busiest day of the week, and that Junior left two days of cash in the safe overnight.  Bo was still working at fish-stick land.  I was finding his dirty underwear everywhere, his dirty dishes stacked by the TV; he was missing work and was late on the rent and his hygiene was suffering. 

Meanwhile, Lorelei and I had become an item.  It may have helped that our first love-making actually turned into multiple rounds, me having been locked away from women.  Seeing her apartment, a studio in a building of doors that rented, some of them, by the hour, I understood that her standard of living was just slightly above my own.  I decided to confess.  “I got a plan, to rob Junior’s.”  I let that simmer in the air, stuffy with our passion.  “Curious?”  She smiled and nodded slyly, and I told her what I’d figured out. 

“I love it!  I’m in.  I think a fresh start’s what’s called for,” she said as we rested, spent but content.  “I only have a couple hundred saved, and that wouldn’t take us far.”  I liked the sound of us, without Bo being the other. 

The Friday night before, whilst feasting on Junior’s potato salad and hot dogs, I went over the plan in our trailer.  Bo was jealous of me and Lorelei.  “I know I can pick the lock on the back door, I did it yesterday as a test.”

“How about the safe?” Bo challenged me, which ticked me off; he certainly couldn’t open it.

I’d practiced on our trailer door and felt skilled.  “I bet I have it open in thirty seconds.  And our escape?” I looked at my girlfriend.

“I’m parked on the corner, lights out.  You call me when you’re ready,” Lorelei recited her role.  I turned on my new prepaid phone.  She dialed me and the phone buzzed.  “Now you’ve got my number,” she smiled and winked. 

“Did you get it?” I asked Bo.  He handed over a crumbled brown paper bag, and I retrieved an old, very used revolver.  I opened the cylinder.  “No bullets?”

“We owe Coco fifty for this.  He charges another twenty for bullets.  But if we go in without bullets, they can’t tag us with armed robbery,” he said smugly.

“I don’t plan on getting caught,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.  I was, however, impressed with his planning.

“So where we going after?” asked Bo, looking excited or anxious, with meth heads it’s hard to tell.

“Maybe out west,” said Lorelei, beaming at me.

Bo looked hurt then, realizing that we did not mean him.  “Think I’ll head north.  New York, maybe.  I ain’t never seen snow.”   He got up then and went into his room.  I heard him throwing things around, and he emerged with his pipe, sat in a kitchen chair and lit up.

“I asked you not to do that in front of me, it’s a parole violation,” I reminded him; he puffed a cloud in my face.  I left with Lorelei to spend the night at her place.   

Saturday was busy, gambling seniors and all.  Lorelei got a good look at the register and over shared French fries out back she promised, “He’s going to have at least five grand in that safe.  Sold a ton of gas, burgers and beer.  And those seniors, they don’t like paying with plastic.  Tonight’s the night, sugar.”

Junior’s safe was an ancient model that opened with a key, one I could theoretically pick, but given my struggles at his back door, and him being there, I delegated. “Open it,” I ordered, nodding towards his safe, and he struggled to kneel before it, falling flat then gathering himself up on one knee, and I could see his hands trembling with his crowded key-ring.  His thick fingers picked one well-worn silvery key but it wouldn’t even fit in the keyhole.  “Shit,” he panted, and picked another key.  It slid in but wouldn’t turn.

“Quit jerking around,” I ordered, and touched the back of his head with the barrel.  He selected two more that failed.  I pulled back the hammer until it clicked.  He picked through four more keys, managed to insert one and turn it and sighed in relief.  Then his shoulders slumped, he seemed to shrink a little, and I think then he realized that he was getting robbed.  He opened the safe and reached in.  I shoved him aside, as I knew he kept a pistol in there and I reached it first, and saw stacks and stacks of bills, much more than the last time.  Standing, I pulled a plastic garbage bag from my pants and gave it to him.  He dropped each bundle into the bag like it was a delicate flower, gently setting it in.  “Hurry up!” I heard myself panting. 

“That’s it,” he said, his voice high. 

He seemed to be melting into the floor.  That’s when Bo appeared in his Yosemite Sam mask, deserting his position. “Get it all,” he ordered, as though he was in charge. 

“We’ve got it all,” I said, and pushed him back towards the door.  “Let’s go.” 

Junior turned as he spoke.  “You’re making a big mistake, Jason.”

I froze.  “What did you say?”

He lowered his head; I think he hadn’t meant to admit he recognized me.  “I didn’t say nothin’.”

“So I guess you know who he is?” I pointed at Bo.

“Minute he opened his mouth,” said Junior, getting some of his spunk back.

My mouth went dry and sweat stung my eyes.  I pulled off the mask and threw it to the floor and rubbed and blinked my eyes clear. 

Bo tore off his mask, grinning.  “See who’s robbing you, cousin?”

Junior looked sickly. “Can I get a drink?  I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Half-empty on his desk was a bottle of Diet Pepsi.  I nodded to it.  “Help yourself.”  He struggled to reach the bottle, grasped it, fumbled the cap, and upended it, bubbles fizzing as he drained it.  Then he burped, deeply.  “Soda always does that to me-“

“Like I give a shit.” 

Looking back, we didn’t tie him up, we didn’t take his cell phone, we even left the door open.  We were, as Ms. Pettyfine might put it, still learning our trade.

The office was beginning to stink of Junior’s fear sweat.  I fished the cell phone from my right pocket.  “We’re done.”  I backed out of the room, juggling money and guns, pulling Bo with me like an overwhelmed young mother. 

Junior was panting, leaning against the desk and looking deathly pale.  I thought, should I call an ambulance?   Outside, the fresh air smelled cool and good.  Lorelei was waiting for us and we drove off.  I did not call an ambulance.  Driving away from a crime without police pursuit was a dream come true.  As the three of us fled at a very legal thirty-five miles per hour, from the back seat Bo pulled on my shoulder, excited.  “Let me see it.” 

I set the bulky guns on the floor, then fished in the garbage bag, felt a bundle of cash and gave it to him.  “Here’s a taste.”

Lorelei glanced at the money, eyebrows rising.  “Any problems?”

“Junior was there.”

“Shit.  Was there any trouble?” she asked, eyes on the road.

“The gun helped,” my roommate boasted.

“We should get off the road,” she suggested. “We’re not far from a hotel.”

We approached the sign announcing Crisp Creek.  A million years ago I’d fished here with my dad.  “Stop here,” I asked, stepped out into the sticky darkness with both guns, wiped them on my t-shirt and threw both in.  Plunk, plunk.  Inside they’d advised, dispose of your tools.

Our single room at the Disney Adventureland Hotel featured pastels of Snow White and dwarves on the walls.  I emptied the plastic bag on the desk, bundles of cash landing in a beautiful pile.  Bo was tasked with parking the car as far away as he could, and with some privacy, Lorelei and I enjoyed a little loving, but only a little; the cash was magnetic.

“That is a lot more than five grand,” Lorelei noticed first, picking up and fanning a bundle.  Bo returned and, despite us both warning him, promptly opened the mini-bar and downed a twelve dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon. 

She started counting money.  Seven minutes later; “We’ve got about two-hundred fifty thou,” she read the total in a hushed voice.

“Two-hundred-fifty-thousand?”  A pessimistic voice, my dad’s bequest, spoke.  “That can’t be right.” 

She recounted.  “Saturdays, selling gas to boats and night crawlers and beer and fish fries, with that line out the door, I figured five thou cash would be nice,” she said, expertly counting bills, snapping and stacking them.  “So much is electronic now…seventy-eighty-ninety, that’s a hundred and fifty thousand.”  Her lips moved and she counted large bills and made neat piles, and tapped keys on her cell phone.  “Two-hundred-fifty-two-thousand.”  She stood, took a deep breath, ran her hand through her curls, then backed away from the neat stacks of currency as if afraid of it.  “I’ve never broken the law before.”  She raised a hand as if testifying.  “That ain’t quite accurate.  If we forgive shoplifting a Dr. Pepper and pantyhose, I’ve never broken so much law before.” 

We opened a couple of tiny fifteen dollar bourbons to celebrate and tried to watch TV but every few minutes one of us got up and picked up a bundle of bills, fanning them, Bo sloppy kissing his.  The sky lightened and suddenly I felt exhausted from the night’s escapades.

“So here’s our problem, we got too much money,” Lorelei summarized.  “I know Junior handles money for the local bad boys.  Some of this, probably most, must be theirs.  We could give it back, or we hit the road and drive like the devil, or we hide the money,” she said. 

“I’m too tired to run, and no way in hell are we giving it back.  We’ll hide it.  Let’s get back to our trailer, I know just the place.”  

Back on the highway, Lorelei’s cell phone rang.  I picked it up.  “Hello?”

“That you, Jason?”

When frightened, my voice goes up.  “Hi, Junior.  I guess you’re feeling better?  No heart attack?”

“No thanks to you,” he grumped.  “You count that money?  Well, in case you ain’t figured it out, I’m a bookkeeper for some local businessmen who only deal in cash.”  He coughed, then said, “So, you were looking for fast money and now you’re in over your heads, right?  Understandable mistake.  Just bring it back, pronto, and this’ll just be between us.  What do you say?” He sounded a little too friendly.

Lorelei pulled over on the shoulder.  Another car passed us, rocking us in its wake.  “Junior?”

“Hey, Lorelei.”

“What if we don’t bring it back?” she asked, like she was on Jeopardy.

 “Let me make this real clear for you.  I make a weekly bank deposit for these businesses and I’m expected to make it today.  My boss, let’s call him Mr. White, gets an email when the deposit’s been made.  If he doesn’t get that email by five, he’ll send someone after me, and I guaran-damn-tee you I’ll give them a good description of who has the money.  You’ll never outrun him.”  Then he hung up.

 “Shit, shit, shit.  Should we give it back?”  I’d hoped for five grand, five comfy grand.  Giving back this awesome payday felt foolish, but I believed Junior.  How well could we hide?   

Bo was passed out, so we could speak freely.  “Maybe if we keep just a little that’ll be okay?  Should we get on a plane?  Or a bus?   A bus would be better.  How much gas we got?”

“Runnin’s no good, we’ll hide the money at your place,” she decided, reluctantly. 

At dawn, our trailer park looked sadder than usual, dented mailboxes and a lot of old, dirty aluminum, and our trailer was the oldest and dirtiest, with Bo’s broken window covered in cardboard (don’t ask) and junk mail litter between the mailbox and the door.  Lorelei watched as I rolled up the bag of money and casually walked to the garbage barrel.  I listened a moment for activity in neighboring trailers, all near enough to hear their TVs.  All seemed quiet at quarter to seven; though few of my neighbors worked, I guessed they were all sleeping in.  I lifted the lid and moved a knotted plastic bag of garbage, tucked the money in, set the garbage on it and let the lid fall.  “There,” I proudly said to my new girlfriend.

Lorelei smiled sadly and glanced around.  “Sugar, since that barrel doesn’t lock and you just did this in broad daylight, how about if I hide it?”  Looking back on it now, I realized at that point she was in charge, and I was happy to be relieved of command. 

I dug the bag out sullenly.  “Fine, you take it.”  She kissed me and set the bag in the back seat.  I yawned deeply.  “I could use a nap.”

She glanced at her watch, then beamed at me.  “Sugar, you’re late to work.  Let Helga know you’re on your way.”

“But I’m tired.”

“Call her.”

“She’ll have the cops waiting for me.”

“I’m betting not.”  She touched my nose with hers and I smelled her vanilla scent.  “I wouldn’t set you up, darling.”  I felt a heart-twang and thought, I’m in love.  And she’s smarter than me.

I called, with trepidation.  “Helga?  It’s Jason.”

“Jason?  Where are you?  Breakfast started ten minutes ago!”  She had given me a number of little kindnesses, from food to going home a little early on slow days to a pair of Reebok sneakers.  “I bought these off the Internet, wasn’t paying attention to size.  I think they fit you.”  And they did.  She and Junior were childless, and she had sort of adopted me.   

“Sorry.  I overslept.  I’m on my way.”  I put my phone away, amazed.

“I’m scheduled for noon.  We’ll hide in plain sight,” Lorelei joked.  It seemed insane to return to the crime scene, but no cops had pursued us, which put me in a different universe.   She drove off with the money and that felt wrong.  The council of elder crooks in jail had advised keep your eye on the cash.

I pedaled up twenty minutes later, not having showered or shaved.  Helga paused and frowned at me and then was all about business.  Lorelei showed up as scheduled at nine, looking prim, and took over the grill.  I emptied garbage cans, unpacked soft drink cups, and hauled burger patties, all the time thinking ‘last time I’m hauling burgers,’ or ‘last time I have to clean a garbage can’, making nasty tasks nostalgic.  I was exhausted, but Helga slipped me a huge plate of scrambled eggs and sausage at ten that refueled me.  Just as I was finishing, Junior’s truck rolled up and he stared at me a moment, then limped out and finger-waved me into his office.  I looked around but Lorelei had disappeared.

“Shut the door.”  Drained, I dropped into a folding chair he had for guests.  Junior didn’t look any better, sagging behind his desk, dressed in worn jeans and a MOPAR t-shirt, the same outfit he’d worn last night.  He lit a cigarette, drew a lungful and exhaled like a whale sounding.  “Surprised to see you here, but it was smart not to run.  Where’s the money?”

I felt a bit stupid then.  “I don’t know where it is now.” 

“So she fucked you over,” Junior sneered, leaning forward, resting his massive elbows on his desk.  He looked pasty and kept taking swigs from a Diet Pepsi.  “Who all was involved?   You and Lorelei and my halfwit cousin I know.  Helga?”

I shook my head.  “Helga was not involved.” 

“She hates my fuckin’ guts, so I have to wonder.”  He took another slug of soda and belched.  “So, Mr. White is expecting an email from the bank telling him that two hundred thousand has been deposited.  He expects that email before noon.”  He looked up at the Budweiser Lite clock on the wall.  “When he doesn’t get it, he will send a person here to kill all of us.”  He called out, “Lorelei!”  Then he asked me, “where’s my fucking gun?”    

“Fire!  FI-I-I-IRE!”  We heard Helga yell.  Junior jumped up, pushed past me to open the door and a wave of smoke swelled into the office.  A grease-fire had spread to the grease-spattered wall, then the ceiling.  Helga hefted a fire extinguisher and aimed it, but nothing came out, and the fire ignited a stack of drink cups.  “Dammit, Junior!”  Her tautly snugged hair now sporting bangs, she shouted orders.  “Turn off the propane!  Grab the register!”  I scampered out back and, though the heat was already intense, I turned off the gas.  It didn’t slow the fire none.

By the time firetrucks and police arrived, the restaurant was belching flame and black smoke roiled up into a clear sky, sending out heat so intense we had to keep moving back.  Just after the firemen started shooting water, the propane tank erupted, sending up a mushroom cloud; the heat and concussion staggered us, and firemen dropped hoses.  “I turned it off,” I swore to Helga, who gave me her disappointed look.  I think that’s when they did Junior, and tried to make it look like an accident.  All they ever found of him was a wedding band and the blackened finger wearing it, neatly severed. 

After the blast the cops pushed us a block away; the fire burned all day and Junior’s enterprise burned down to the pipes.  Helga had thought to drag out some soft drinks and a case of beer, which kept us occupied.  “Where is Junior?  Anybody seen him?” she asked as the sun set, sounding not so much concerned as irritated, and we shaded our eyes, scanning the crowd. 

I felt oddly sad watching Junior’s burn.  Lorelei snuggled up next to me as we watched the dying flames against the sunset.  “How’d it start?” I asked.

She smiled mischievously.  “Sorta my fault.  I saw you go into his office and thought it would be a good time to create a diversion.  We have grease fires all the time.  I turned the grill all the way up.” 

I kissed her forehead.  “It did the trick.  Say, where’s the money?” I asked, trying hard to sound casual.

“Not in there,” she joked.  “Believe it or not, it’s in the bank.”

With Junior presumed dead, our fear vanished.  Instead of our original plan of scramming out west toute suite, we registered as Mister and Misses at the Grand Floridian, which gave us both a thrill.  “I’ve dreamed of staying here,” she confessed, throwing herself joyfully on the king sized bed.  “Too bad Junior didn’t deposit more.  I could live here very happily.”

Lorelei had begun planning to rob Junior a week after she started there.  “Whenever he came by it was to meet men with jailhouse tats handing him brown bags.”  She’d heard he knew crooks, now she suspected he was their bookkeeper.  A bookkeeper herself, she snuck into his office and guessed his password – ‘123456’ – and found his ledger, listing hundreds of thousands of dollars deposited weekly over the past year.  She opened her own account at the Bank of America, preparing for a big deposit, when I came along and simplified the process.  When I told her how much he was depositing, she smiled.  “Like I thought, he was skimming.”

I was feeling relaxed with a glass of an ancient and expensive bourbon and asked, “Darlin’, if I hadn’t come along, how were you going to get into Junior’s safe?”

She was wearing new four-hundred-dollar sunglasses indoors.  Taking a long pull on her Long Island Iced Tea, she said, “I wasn’t planning to.  I was just going to steal the ledger files on his computer and sell them back to him.  I was still working out how to keep him from knowing it was me, so your way was faster.”  She was questioned a few days later by banking people about the generous deposit, and claimed an inheritance from relatives overseas.  “And then I paid federal taxes on it, which laundered it for sure.”  She frowned.  “The feds are greedy bastards.  And after my Uncle Adolf left me his loving inheritance,” she snickered, pretending a German accent.

Sixth day after, Ms. Pettyfine left me a phone message. “Jason, you missed a check-in this morning.  I know Junior’s burned down.  Bo failed his drug screen and he’s headed back inside.  You need to get in touch with me, pronto!”

I called her back from the bathroom, water running.  We seemed to be getting away with robbing Junior’s and I didn’t want Lorelei knowing about my parole.  “Yes, ma’am, it’s Jason Helm.”

“Jason?  Where are you?”

“Um, I’m in Orlando, staying with a friend, looking for work.” 

She sniffed, and I knew the lie hadn’t worked.  “Well, you need to come by and see me in twenty-four hours.  After that, I have to report you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  I thought, that buys me a day.  And no, clearly, I was not a great planner.

“We should move on,” I suggested to my love.  Next morning, as we headed north to Dolly World, she stopped at a Bank of America in Gainesville.  “I’m going to ask you to stay in the car.  I’ll be about half an hour.”  I listened to music on my new ipod until she returned and handed me a bank card.  “This here is yours,” she explained, with a motherly tone.  “First time you use it you set up a password.  I deposited ten thousand.  You can get up to $500 in cash at a time, and there’s no limit on a hotel room.  When you burn through that, I’ll put more money in the account.  Okay, Punkin?”  She pulled me in for a kiss, the best possible way to distract me.

I pulled away.  “Does this mean we’re splitting up?” I asked.  It wasn’t just about the money anymore.  I wanted to spend it with her.

“Goodness, no, I just thought you needed your own money.” 

Distrust roiled my gut.  “How much is left?” I couldn’t help asking.

She frowned at me.  “You saying you don’t trust me?”

“No, no, I trust you,” I said quickly, repeatedly, convincingly.  I didn’t quite trust her, never did, but this was how it had played out. 

Two days later, Ms. Pettyfine left a message.  “I’m sorry, Jason, but I have to report you.  If you’ve found a job in Orlando, call me, we can fix this.”  I was sorry to disappoint her, again. 

We enjoyed the honeymoon suite at Dolly World, which almost tied the Grand Floridian as Lorelei’s favorite.  We were living the good life, luxurious hotel rooms and toys and good food and good liquor, which was pretty much how I’d pictured living after a successful job. 

Another sip of bourbon stirred up a question that had nagged me.   “The fire extinguishers.”

“Mm-hm?”

“Did you know they were empty when you turned up the grill?”

She smiled at me, snickering.  “I saw Junior bribing the inspector.  Guess it was cheaper than refilling them.”  

After another great meal, we were walking down RiverTown Junction when her phone rang.  “It’s Orlando,” she said.  “Hello?”

“Nice room you got.  You aren’t going to get much farther,” a man’s voice said.

She frowned in dismay.  “Stupid of me.  They can track these.”  She walked to the edge of a scummy pond and, when we were alone, tossed it into an algae bloom.  “Time for a new number.”  We drove to a local mall and she spent an hour picking out a new phone.  "This one’s got lots of security,” she promised. 

Next morning I woke before dawn, Lorelei gently snoring next to me, and took her new smartphone to the bathroom, where I shut the door and turned on the light.  I opened her Bank of America app to see the balance.  Turns out she didn’t store her login so I had to guess.  ‘LoreleiM’, nope.  ‘MLorelei’, nope.  ‘MumfordL’, nope.  I didn’t actually know her that well, where she was raised or even when her birthday was.  I’d asked her about it early on and she’d changed the subject.  I was out of guesses when she pulled the door open.  She looked cute with bed head.  “Hey, love, you feelin’ alright?”  She blinked.  “What the hell are you doing with my phone?”
She barely spoke to me the rest of the day and we went to bed angry. 

A gruff male voice crowed, “Wake up, sleepy head.”  I opened my eyes to blinding morning sunshine, curtains wide open, then the cool metallic touch of a silvery gun barrel, Smith & Wesson if I recall, touching my forehead, held by an older man, medium size, dark glasses, well dressed and good smelling. 

“Mr. Smith?” I asked softly.

He had perfect teeth, too.  “Sure, Mr. Smith.  And you are Jason Helm?  Where’s Sheila Hoffman?”

“Who?”  

He looked at me funny, pity perhaps?  “What name did she give you?”

“Lorelei.  Mumford?”

“Okay, where’s Lorelei?  She’s Helga’s niece.”

She was gone, with her clothes and the car.  I called her new phone, in vain.  In bathrobe and slippers we tested my account at the lobby ATM: empty.

“How much did you get?  Who else was in on it?” he asked.  It turns out I spill my guts when questioned by armed men. 

“Are you the one that killed Junior?” I was surprised at my own question; one might presume I was less terrified than I was, or that I cared far more about Junior than I did.

His phone buzzed and he actually holstered his pistol while talking, so unconcerned about my flight.  “You did?  Where’s she at?  Yeah, I know where it is.  She’s still there?”  He tucked away his phone and left me behind like a food wrapper.  I heard his footsteps recede, heard a car start, heard tires squeal.

So now I’m Greyhounding back to see Miss Pettyfine.  I guess I’ll start on those programming courses, if Miss Pettyfine can keep me out of jail.  If not, continue at the college of advanced criminal engineering. 

Bob Moore wrote ‘Robbing Junior’s’ while living in central Florida, finishing it on Cape Cod. Originally from Niagara Falls, he is a librarian by day, writer and actor at night. He has published historical and mainstream fiction, as well as a few ghost stories. He lives with his wife, Stephanie and Penny the rescue dog.