Tuesday morning, Luis risked a call to tell Pablo about the amputation.
The Guide had insisted on another heist, so they’d picked a sporting goods store in Oklahoma City-right next to the highway, a Monday evening, hardly a car in the parking lot. They’d been driving all day since the convenience store holdup in New Braunfels that morning, but they were still high on adrenaline.
So there was Luis, leaning against the service counter, bullshitting some college girl cashier. Pablo remembered the drill. Luis would smile real good. He’d be all, I love these water skis, but oh, damn, I forgot my wallet. Can you wait till my roommate brings me my money? We live right down the street. It’s really gotta be tonight, ’cause we’re going out of town.
So they let him stay after closing, and he was chatting up the pretty cashier. All the other clerks went home. The manager was impatient, but trying to be polite, because hey, it was a six-hundred-dollar purchase. Luis was dressed in a nice workout suit, gold chains. He looked like he could afford good things. Why not humor the customer?
The sky turned purple. These huge locusts started dropping from the sky, right on the sidewalk. Hundreds of them crawling over the asphalt, like red cigarettes with legs. Luis figured the whole area used to be farmland, and the bugs were wondering where all the crops went.
He thought of that story Pastor Riggs used to tell-Pablo remembered the one-how the locusts came as a plague to Egypt.
Luis thought: God must be fucking pissed. But he kept smiling and bullshitting the cashier, because the plan depended on him being so damn charming they wouldn’t kick him out.
The van pulled up, right by the entrance. His make-believe roommate, C.C., got out.
Pablo interrupted the story: C.C.? They opened the door for C.C.?
Yeah, Luis said. He cleaned up pretty good for a scrawny-ass nigger.
Anyway, C.C. was wearing this flashy Italian suit, like a damn lawyer. He came to the door, looked straight through the glass at Luis, and shook his head like he was irritated. He held up a wallet. Naughty, naughty.
The manager turned the key and let him in.
The manager started to say, “Normally I wouldn’t-” when C.C. drew a gun and shot him in the face.
The cashier screamed.
The manager knelt, hands going out to break his fall even though he was already dead. He curled into fetal position at C.C.’s feet.
Elroy and the Guide busted inside, both wearing ski masks, carrying shotguns.
They took the flanks, rounded up a couple of stock boys from the back of the store.
Luis told the girl cashier, “We’re going into the office now and open the safe.”
“He-” The girl pointed toward the thing that used to be her boss. “He’s the only one who knows how.”
The Guide looked at C.C. “What the fuck you shoot him for?”
“Fuck you,” C.C. said, but it was an act. C.C. was getting off on being the bad-ass, and the Guide was happy to let him.
We make a little mess, the Guide had told them their first day heading north. Every once in a while, we surface and give them a new headline. That’s the price for your freedom.
C.C. loved it. He thought he was goddamn Jesse James. He’d taken to wearing two pistols. He was the one who shot the convenience store clerk in New Braunfels, and a gas station attendant Sunday night in Seguin that the police hadn’t tied to them yet. C.C. was the one who delivered the headlines. He’d also be the one who got them a lethal injection, if they were ever caught.
They herded the employees to the manager’s office and tied them up. The Guide said to forget about the safe-just get the cash from the registers. They went shopping-grabbed some new clothes, a shitload of ammunition. Elroy picked up a bow-and-arrow set and Luis was like, “What the fuck are you doing?”
The big black man smiled. “Always wanted to be Robin Hood, brother.”
The Guide said, “Time to leave.”
He went back to the office and gave the employees a spiel-don’t yell for help, don’t try anything funny or we’ll hunt down your families and kill them.
Luis knew what they’d remember-the guy in charge was an Anglo in a ski mask, medium build, West Texas accent. The police would figure it was Will Stirman. They’d figure the five of them were still together, heading north. Four guys did the heist. The fifth stayed in the car, playing lookout.
As it turned out, it would’ve been better if there had been a fifth on lookout.
As soon as they got outside, there was a blaze of headlights. Some guy was shining his brights on them. A red Chevy. The driver wore some kind of uniform. Luis couldn’t tell through the glare-an off-duty security officer, maybe. The guy was leaning out his window, training a gun on them. He yelled, “Freeze!”
C.C. and the Guide opened fire. Luis and Elroy took off toward the van, locusts crunching under their boots.
The guard’s Chevy revved and careened forward, toward the van, and Luis knew he was going to die. At the last minute the Chevy swerved toward the glass storefront, where C.C. was standing, a pistol in each hand, firing away. C.C. didn’t have time to jump before the red Chevy plowed into him, slamming him through the glass.
Luis ran up. The Chevy’s engine was grinding. It wasn’t going anywhere, steam billowing out the hood, gas leaking from its belly. Behind the blood-spattered web of glass that used to be the windshield, the driver was dead. He wasn’t a security guard-he was a cop. Fucker must’ve been on his way home from his shift, spotted the holdup, had to stop and play hero.
The worst was C.C. He was sprawled on the cement, half under the Chevy, broken glass and locusts all around him. He was screaming, and his leg was pumping like a busted pipe. The Guide yelled, “Get pressure on that!”
Luis stripped off his shirt and tried to bind the wound. But then he saw what had happened. A plate glass shard had gone clean through C.C.’s calf like a guillotine blade. Nothing was holding the leg together but a few shreds of fabric.
Luis managed to wrap the mess with his shirt, tying off the sleeves like a tourniquet, but C.C.’s eyes were rolling back in his head. He was shivering.
Luis looked at Elroy, and they didn’t need to say anything. They were both thinking about stained glass, a broken angel feather stabbed in an old supervisor’s gut.
The Guide said, “Get him in the van.”
“He needs a doctor,” Elroy said. “We can leave him here, call