Blacktop Wasteland(25)

Quan and Ronnie exchanged bemused glances.

“Alright, Ethan Hunt. I feel ya,” Quan said.

“Hey, man, that works for me,” Ronnie said.

Beauregard sat back in his chair and put his hands on his knees. “Then let’s get to it,” he said.

He listened to Ronnie talk about the job for twenty minutes before he held up his hand and stopped him midsentence.

“You haven’t checked the place out, have you? Does your girl know the code to the alarm system? How far from the interstate is the store? How many ways are there other than the interstate to get away? Is there some construction going on down there? How often do the police patrol that part of town? Is there a lock-down system? Who knows the combination to the safe other than the manager?” Beauregard said.

This time it was Ronnie’s turn to hold up his hand.

“I get it, okay? We need to do some recon on the place. Jenny can get the alarm code, but the way I figured it, nobody will have a chance to hit the alarm. We get in, we get the diamonds, we get out.”

“You have to take more than the diamonds in the safe,” Beauregard said. He flexed his left hand. His knuckles popped like knots of green wood in a fireplace.

“Why you say that?” Quan asked.

“Because if you only take the diamonds, the cops will know it was an inside job. And I bet there ain’t more than five or six people that work at this store,” Beauregard said.

Ronnie stared up at the ceiling.

“That’s a good point,” he mumbled.

“Man, fuck all this ying-yang. We go in there, blast the ceiling, them motherfuckers do what we say do. Or we ventilate they ass,” Quan said.

He reached around to the small of his back and pulled out an enormous nickel-plated semiautomatic pistol. Beauregard thought it might be a Desert Eagle.

Quan held the gun near his face. “I got the gat, so I make the rules,” he said. He punctuated each syllable by shaking the gun.

“Put that thing away,” Beauregard said.

Quan smiled. “Don’t worry, big man, I got the safety on. I know how to handle it,” Quan said. He tucked the gun back in his waistband. Beauregard figured it was a miracle of physics that the gun didn’t fall to his feet every time he wore those baggy-ass jeans.

“We gonna need new guns too,” Beauregard said.

Quan rolled his eyes. “Nigga, this my favorite gun.”

“That’s why we need new ones. How many bodies on that one? How many robberies? You think the cops don’t keep them shell casings?” Beauregard asked.

Quan seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Where we gonna get new pieces from?” Quan asked.

Beauregard rubbed his palms over his thighs. “I know somebody. We can get two pieces for five hundred. But before we get to that I need to go to check the place out.”

“Damn, nigga, five hundred? I thought we was the ones doing the robbing,” Quan said. Beauregard glared at him. The other man held his gaze. Eventually Quan looked away. Beauregard got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed a can of beer. He went back into the living room and sat at the end of the love seat near Quan’s chair. He popped the tab and took a long sip. The beer was cold as ice and chilled him all the way to his belly.

“You know, I had this friend who had a Chihuahua. Little nasty ankle biter. Every time I came around, he would bark and bark and bark. Bare his teeth and shit. But if I stomped my feet at him, he would run and hide under the couch,” Beauregard said. He set the beer on the coffee table close to the edge.

“Why the fuck you telling me about some dog, man?” Quan asked.

Beauregard didn’t respond. Instead he tipped over the can with his right hand. Beer splashed over Quan’s sneakers and pants. Cursing, he jumped up out of the chair. At the same time, Beauregard jumped up too. He grabbed Quan’s gun from his waistband near the small of his back. Clicked off the safety and let the gun hang loosely by his side. Quan spun to his right until he was facing Beauregard. Beauregard heard a strangled cough come from the couch as Ronnie choked on his beer.

“Because you remind me of that little dog. You yap and yap and talk a lot of shit, but I think at the first sign of trouble you might just piss your pants. Or run. Or both. Ronnie say you good people. He says he knows you. He trusts you. That’s fine. But I don’t. You talk like this a movie. It ain’t. It’s real life. My life. And I ain’t putting it in your hands. So, I’m going to check the place out. I’m going to get the car. I’m going to take us to get the guns. You don’t like that, then I walk. Cuz I ain’t trying to wake up to three hots and a cot because you gonna ball up like a baby when the work goes down,” Beauregard said.

He ejected the clip from the Desert Eagle and then racked the slide to eject the one in the chamber. It rolled across the vinyl-covered floor and came to rest against the far wall. He tossed the gun and clip onto the couch next to Ronnie.

“You got a problem with that, we can handle it. Or we can get this money. It’s up to you,” Beauregard asked. The AC wheezed as it struggled to cool the rectangular box. Quan scowled at Beauregard but didn’t say a word for nearly a full minute. He glanced at Ronnie then turned his attention back to Beauregard.

“Oh, we gonna handle it, motherfucker. After. But for now, let’s talk about making this money,” he snarled. Beauregard sat back down. Quan waited for what he thought was an appropriate amount of time before he sat down as well.