Blacktop Wasteland(35)

“Did you get everything I told you to?” Beauregard said.

Ronnie flinched like he had been kicked in the nuts.

“Huh?”

“The ski mask and the grease paint and the surgical gloves,” Beauregard said.

“Oh yeah. We paid cash like you said. Got the mask at different stores than the grease paint, on different days.”

“Good. You guys both straight?” Beauregard asked “Yeah. I didn’t even have a beer this morning,” Ronnie said.

Quan didn’t respond.

“Quan?” Beauregard said.

“I’m straight, nigga,” Quan said. He spoke clearly and distinctly. His voice was even and clear. He pronounced each syllable with articulation so sharp you could have sliced bread on it.

“This thing got a radio?” Ronnie asked. Beauregard pulled on to Town Bridge Road and headed for the interstate. He had on a pair of black driving gloves with holes over the knuckles. He flexed his right hand and pushed a button on the radio in the center of the console. “Ante Up” by M.O.P. started to fill the car.

“Well, that’s appropriate,” Ronnie said.

The AC in the car did not work. Beauregard cracked his window and a torrent of wind barreled into the Buick. He felt his heart begin to pound. It felt like a dogfish flopping on a pier. The sky was so dark it looked like dusk. A blanket of clouds obscured the early morning sun. Another old hip-hop song came on the radio and Beauregard felt himself nodding his head before he realized the title of the song. “Mind Playing Tricks on Me” by Houston trio the Geto Boys. He remembered when that song first came out how Kelvin wanted a copy of the tape so bad he convinced Beauregard to hitchhike with him to the mall in Richmond and try and steal one. Beauregard had gone to the arcade and hustled some white college kids on Pit-Fighter and earned enough money to buy the tape. Kelvin had asked him why they didn’t just take it.

“My Daddy says a risk always gotta be worth the reward. That tape ain’t worth getting caught at the door,” he had said.

“He told you that?” Kelvin had asked.

“Nah, but I heard him talking to Uncle Boonie.”

He knew why that memory had come to him. He didn’t need six years of overpriced psychoanalysis to understand his own mind. The diamonds were worth the risk. Even if Ronnie was shady and Quan was shaky. The reward outweighed the risk by a metric ton. Beauregard merged onto the interstate and hit the gas.

The parking lot of the shopping center was nearly empty when they arrived. There were two cars in front of a Chinese restaurant two doors down from the jewelry store. There were five cars in front of the jewelry store itself. The rest of the parking lot was bare. The clouds had cleared, revealing a cerulean sky. Beauregard thought it looked like someone had spilled watercolors across the heavens. He drove past the store and parked so that he was facing the exit. He took a deep breath. “Time to fly,” he said as he expelled the breath.

“Huh?” Quan asked.

“Nothing. Check your guns. Make sure they loaded. Put on the makeup. One minute to make sure no heroes get in the mix. Two minutes to open the safe and grab the diamonds and some other pieces out of the display case. One minute to get back here to the car. Four minutes. At five minutes, I’m leaving the parking lot. You hear me?” Beauregard said.

Ronnie and Quan opened their bags and took out cans of white grease paint. They pulled on their latex gloves and light camo hunting masks. They both pulled out their pieces.

“I hear you, man. We’ll be back quicker than a hiccup,” Ronnie said.

“Quan, you hear me?” Beauregard asked. He studied Quan’s reflection in the rearview mirror. A backwoods Grim Reaper was sitting in his car.

“I hear you, man,” Quan said, over-enunciating each word.

“Are you fucked up?” Beauregard asked.

Quan shoved the .38 in his pocket.

“Nope.”

Beauregard turned around and leaned over the seat. “Look at me.”

Quan raised his head. “Nigga, I said I’m straight. Damn, let’s just do this,” Quan said.

Beauregard rubbed the thumb on his left hand against his forefinger.

“Four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds. That will give us a two-minute head start on the cops that are three streets over. Get in, get out, get gone,” he said. An old Irish bank robber he had worked with on three separate occasions had coined that phrase, but Beauregard never forgot it. That Irishman had been a professional. These boys were not in his league. They weren’t even playing the same game.

“I got it,” Quan said.

Ronnie adjusted his mask. “Let’s shake, rattle and roll,” he said. He opened the car door and hopped out. Quan climbed over the seat and followed him after slamming the door shut.

Beauregard watched them hurry across the parking lot. Fifteen steps to the door from where he was parked. He had come back up here a few days ago and counted the steps from the door to the closest parking space. He checked his watch. It was 8:15.

He gripped the steering wheel.

“Time to fly,” he whispered.





THIRTEEN



Ronnie felt like he was in a movie. Everything around him seemed electric. Shimmering like scenes coming out of a projector. He had scored a tiny miniscule amount of coke the night before. This morning he had done two lines. Just enough to sharpen his senses. He realized now that had been a mistake. He felt overwhelmed by all the stimuli around him. He thought he could hear his eyelids click when he blinked. His skin felt raw and exposed as a nerve in a broken tooth.