I came up with a story title, 'Reno Failure', that would be about a robbery gone bad in Reno. This is not that story. I was away from the interweb for a couple of weeks and could not Goog...research Reno and so know nothing about the place. I do however know my home town, a small city, Lafayette LA. Here's a fictional version.

UNEASY

“It'll be easy.”

“It's never easy.”

“Well, that one time in Sacramento...”

“I did a trey in Folsom for that. You fucking skated. It. Is. Never. Fucking. Easy.”

“Well, that one time in...”

“Shut up.”

“Well...”

“Shut the fuck up.”

That did the trick. Skater STFUed. The throbbing behind Strick's eye faded in the silence.

They were tiny casinos pretending to be truck stops. Something in the fucked up laws in this fucked up state allowed gambling machines at truck stops. Along the interstate were a fuckton of places with a couple of pumps, a case of oil, and an assload of machines.

Slots, poker, blackjack, roulette...any game designed to separate marks from money was rendered in electronic form. No dealers, croupiers, or sweet-assed cocktail waitresses made them pure profit. This interstate oasis offered travelers and tourists four chances to lose their per diem and gas money, one at the corner of each off-ramp.

North of the interstate was a lot of country. To the south (and Strick's surprise) was a small city. A university, several hospitals, and a flock of shopping mall. By the traffic Strick figured that a large part of the state was there to shop or see a doctor.

“Cool. Bowling alley...bummer.”

Skater's bummertude was due to the marquee's message (“THANKS FOR SIXTY-THREE YEARS!”) and the pile of rubble adjacent to the giant bowling pin sign.

After a peruse (“'Zat an oil well? What the fuck's a po-boy?”) Strick drove them back near the off-ramp and began to plan. Skater's phone was plugged into the car to keep up with the power suck of constant YouTube-ing.

The trick was to get away and hide quickly then wait for the laws to widen their net past you. After that it was a matter of waiting until things were cool enough to travel.

Waiting with Skater was a chore. Strick stocked up on soft drinks, snacks, and delta-8 gummies then made sure Skater's phone charger and cable were in good shape. Handling Skater took planning and patience.

A big part of why it was never easy was because Skater was an idiot when he wasn't behind a gun. Cool as fuck on the job, a dumb-ass stoner off the clock.

Strick would have ditched Skater long ago but had promised their shared grandfather. Strick and Skater didn't believe in much bit they believed in their grandfather.

The plan was as solid as it could be. They had checked into another extended stay hotel with their fraudulent cards. The new place was close enough for a quick return but far enough away to not be immediately suspect. On they boosted a car and scouted a good spot to ditch it.

The casinos shared an armored car service. Strick blessed their confidence. They would hit at the load up of the second stop. He had seen that the guards were most alert at the first and last stops but were relaxed in between, more apt to chat and laugh with the minimal casino staff. Halfway through was the best time.

Then it was time.

The guards were cooperative, the off-duty cops were not. Skater stayed cool and died that way. Strick made it to the ICU but unfortunately survived.

He landed in a prison named after a place in Africa. Strick thought that the wet heat made that apt. Skater's death was on his tab and paid for a ride long enough to get him through criminal menopause. His grandfather was pissed and would not fill his commissary.

It. Is. Never. Fucking. Easy.

Tools (a very short story)

"When all you've got is a hammer, everything looks like a kneecap."

"You mean a nail."

"Nah. You want pliers for those."

Busmen

Steve Weddle issued a vacation noir challenge at the Do Some Damage blog. One may read all the entries at Do Some Damage.

The natty man was polite, but would clearly rather be doing anything else than assisting this…harridan. She had turned cashing traveler’s cheques into an inquisition about the bank’s services and then into a freaking tour of the bank itself.

He could not believe the manager had encouraged it on the mere possibility that this woman would open an account at the branch. The manager had smelled money and insisted that he show the woman every courtesy and answer all reasonable queries. He thought it was because the woman and the manager were in the Sour Old Bitch Club together.

For the last hour plus he had closed his eyes and thought of England…or at least the nice English boy he had met earlier and had arranged to meet again later. The only good thing about working in the touristy part of town was meeting cute tourist boys. He was lost in, let’s call it thought for a moment and had missed a question. The woman was Not Happy and was threatening to talk with the manager.

This day could not end soon enough.

---

OH! EM! GAH! He was so adorkable! The glasses and that really cute haircut…he could dress better, but what boy couldn’t? That could be fixed. She so hearted working in the touristy part of town and meeting cute tourist boys.

And he was so nice. He had been asking her and that goth cow Esmeralda such intelligent questions about the area and he had been so polite the whole time and had hardly looked at their tits at all. Esmeralda had whispered that he might be gay, but she was just being a bee-otch because he had totally complimented her on her retro-punk look and had said nothing about Esmeralda’s scary goth ass.

She could totally tell that they had so much in common by all the things he asked about! The museums, the planetarium, and the best routes to get there, the harbor tour and the times it left. She could totally amaze him with all that junk she had learned in art appreciation! That semester at the community college was finally paying off.

She really hoped he stayed until her shift was over. This day could not end soon enough.

---

Mr. Adorkable picked up his smartphone and made farewells to the suddenly crestfallen baristas. The punk rock barista blurted the name of her blog and that she totally hoped that he would visit it. As he exited the café he passed the woman from the bank and nodded politely to her. She sniffed at him and continued to the counter to give the young ladies very stern and precise instructions on how to build her latte.

He made his way to a surprisingly well-kept public restroom where he put away the hipster glasses, made a few changes to his attire and hair, had a slash, washed his hands, and exited the gents’ looking much different than when he entered. His father had run summer stock when he wasn’t heisting and had taught Mr. Adorkable how to create character with a few simple changes in style and demeanor. He looked older, better dressed, and taller than he had in the café.

As he walked to the observation deck on the wharf he passed the woman from the bank again. His polite nod got another sniff. At the deck he fed a few bills to a telescope and took a look at the the city’s iconic bridge. He thought it a nice enough bridge. It went all the way over the water.

---

The woman from the bank sniffed at the forwardness of young men these days. In the restroom she made a few changes to her attire and make-up, swapped her handbag for another she carried in the first, dropped the wig into it, had a slash, washed her hands and exited the ladies’ looking much different than when she entered. She knew her way around the makeup counter but had picked up a few tips from someone with stage training lately. The middle-aged harridan from the bank was replaced by a woman of a certain age. She drew admiring glances all the way to the observation deck.

---

A familiar hand tucked into the crook his arm. The woman kissed his cheek and nuzzled his ear.

“Mr. Green.”

“Mrs. Robins..oof…Ms. Willis.”

He moved aside and let her look at the bridge.

“Well?”

“It’s a nice enough bridge. It goes all the way over the water.”

“Ahem.”

“Oh, that! Four in, plus a driver, and one more to shut down the silent at the security firm’s office…it’s downtown but if it can’t be done over the ‘net I’ll eat that very sharp hat of yours…umm, in and out in no more than ninety seconds, and the take would be about 200K. Almost worth a six-man crew. What’s the route out like?”

“There isn’t one. The city’s set this place up like a theme park. The streets are made for foot travel. Auto traffic’s so restricted it’s impossible to get a car near the bank…at least not in any way that wouldn’t attract the cops attention. The best bet would be to split up, fade into the crowd, and regroup later, but it’s not a very good bet.”

She sighed.

“Too bad. It is such a darling little bank.”

She looked up from the scope to peer at him critically.

“You and punky barista seemed to get on well. Did you make plans with her for later?”

“Pfft. Why should I dally with such callow youth when there’s all this milfy goodness at hand?”

“Good boy.”

“Woof. Are you happy now, Charlie? Can we get on with our vacation or do you need to plan another impossible job tomorrow?”

She left the scope and wrapped her arms around him.

“I’m sorry, Allen, but I was just feeling so fat and lazy. You’re sweet to humor me. Yes, I’m done.”

“Okay then. So, this afternoon we can go to the stuffy museum and see the Monet exhibit, go to the hip museum and see the Manet exhibit, go to the planetarium and see the planets, go on the harbor tour and get a better look at the nice enough bridge that goes all the way over the water…”

She made a moue.

“Or?”

“I was trying to be a gentleman and let you know that I appreciate you for your intellectual and spiritual qualities and not just your obvious physical charms, but ‘or we can go back to the room and fuck like bunnies’, a’ight?”

“I vote for the bunny option!”

“¡Ay, mamí! Okay, but I get to be Lauren Hutton this time.”

---

The afternoon went nicely. The champagne, strawberries, and whipped cream that room service had provide quickly and without comment had been consumed with giggles and moans. After a brief rest Charlie was encouraging Allen’s trip from her toes to points north when he suddenly stopped cold.

“Damn.”

“Allen? What is it?”

“You’re a bad influence, Charlie. I just figured out how to get away from the bank.”

The gleam in Charlie’s eyes shifted from one deadly sin to another and her smile became predatory.

“Tell mama, dear boy.”

Allen told mama. Charlie was thrilled and rewarded him for his cleverness. He recovered nicely and was able to walk by morning.

Two days later they had a crew and a week later the bank coughed up nearly 100K more than Charlie predicted.

---

Charlie crouched down in the cab of the streetsweeper being driven by a mustachioed Allen.

“You’re more than just a pretty face, Mr. Green.”

“Oh, I know, Ms. Willis. I’m a cute ass as well.”

Charlie laughed and patted his knee.

“You are a very cute ass, dear boy.”

Allen grinned.

“Charlie? What do you say we take a little vacation after this?”

Bravely Green

The folks at the faboo Do Some Damage blog had a flash fiction challenge over the 2010 Yuletide. My entry was Bravely Green.

Bravely Green

By Ray Adam Latiolais

"This one, Officer Ben! It's just like the Charlie Brown tree! This one!"

Tucker was bouncing around so much that Hollee was worried he might break toilet training.

"Hang on, partner. Let's see what the boss says. Boss?"

Hollee smiled and nodded. Ben was the state trooper who showed up at her door in June to let her know that Marsh, Tucker's dad, was dead. Hollee hadn't seen, or gotten any kind of support from Marsh since her pregnancy had advanced far enough to keep her from stripping...well, she could have kept stripping, but that crowd was too weird for her. Tucker was Marsh's only known kin, so Hollee got the visit. Marsh was just a name on Tucker's birth certificate. The boy had been more interested in Ben's hat and gun than his father’s death.

She ran into Ben at the mall a couple of weeks later. She could tell he was looking for a polite way to ask her, the grieving baby mama, out and had cut to the chase and asked him instead. They'd been together since. She was bartending for a catering company now and Ben was okay with her being a former stripper. It did spice things up in the bedroom.

Ben had picked up the tree and Tucker was dragging him to the checkout. Hollee followed smiling at Her Boys.

As the tree was being loaded into Ben’s truck she toed herself up and whispered into his ear.

"That is one ugly-ass tree."

*****

The job fell apart as soon as they came through the door. The bank was full of state troopers. Shit got real, real fast.

Stark and Blue went down right away. Pops Coe took a shot in the leg but kept firing from the floor. Crazy-ass Rat Benedict was laughing and burning through clips. Clark, Holt, and Marsh started backing for the door. Clark was hit and Holt went to her aid. Marsh abandoned the couple and ran for the car.

He dived into the getaway. Shaw was already moving. They were out of sight before the troopers got out of the bank. Shaw drove to the switch point without pursuit. At the switch point Marsh shot the driver in the head and dug the keys out of a coverall pocket.

Shaw was just too fucking chatty.

He mounted the commercial van (Executive Service - On Time, On the Money!) and started moving just under the posted speed limit. He turned on the radio and the handheld police scanner on the console. The scanner was talking Cop, which he understood enough to know that the law was looking for two men in the getaway car. Marsh got on the interstate and headed north.

He was just out of the city when the story made the news. The bank was failing and the troopers were escorting the team of auditors. One of the auditors had died and one was critical. Three troopers died. That was bad news. Like most gangs, cops really hated it when their homies were killed. Marsh checked his speed. Stealth was more important right now.

The report went on to say that the police were searching for a man in a commercial vehicle, a truck, or perhaps a van. Marsh started looking for an exit. A helicopter overflew him and then circled back and buzzed the van. Minutes later a flock of state cruisers appeared in the rearview. Marsh stood on the gas, but the Crown Vics ate the distance and were on the van in no time.

Marsh spotted the roadblock and decided that he really didn’t need an off-ramp. The van veered off the interstate and through a fence. When the it finally came to a halt, he grabbed his gun and bailed.

He was crashing through forest of young trees...no, a tree farm... as the law’s bullhorns demanding his surrender. Marsh did not comply. Several rounds hit him at once. The troopers were angry about the deaths of their brother officers and had their best shooters on the pursuit.

Marsh slammed into the ground. Unable to even turn his head, Marsh’s last sight was a small, runt of a tree. He managed one last whisper.

"That is one ugly-ass tree."

*****

The Wait

More than once I've seen a van with a sign that says 'Executive Services' and nothing else. It makes me wonder what the hell they're up to.

The van (“Executive Service, quality since 1977!”) moved sedately through the industrial area making full, unhurried stops at each stop sign, and signaling every turn with fully functional, undamaged turn signals. The driver had done two walkarounds and checked the blinker fluid before the job. There was nothing about the van that would arouse suspicion in even the most dickish cop.

It turned into a gated warehouse. The driver waved a card at a box and the gate opened. Still moving carefully, it pulled up to a roll door that was opened with the same card. The van drove into the warehouse and the door closed behind it.

The five passengers sat still until the door had completely closed.

The driver drummed the steering wheel and bounced in her seat.

The Mob guy let out a deep sigh and crossed himself.

The big shooter let his back touch the seat and whistled the spaghetti western thing.

The really big shooter closed his eyes and rubbed his palms together.

The smart guy, in the back seat with the bag, caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view and nodded.

“Nice work. Let’s meet in the office and start wrapping this up.”

The smart guy ran the crew even though the Mob guy had funded the job. The Mob guy had known about the place and the thing, but the smart guy put the plan together.

The crew unassed the van and made their way to the office in the corner of the warehouse. The Mob guy cleared his throat.

“Look, guys, I’d feel better if youse’d give me youse’s pieces right now. I wanna get ridda ‘em, you know, ASAfuckin’P.”

The crew grumbled a bit but handed over the weapons the Mob guy had provided. The Mob guy nodded happily.

“Tanks, youse guys.”

The Mob guy took the weapons to the tool room to strip them and drop the parts into an acid bath. The rest of the crew went to the office to wait for him.

The wait was shorter than expected.

The Mob guy slammed into the office with an unstripped, not-eaten-by-acid gun in each hand.

“You stupid redneck fucks! La famiglia is gonna get 100% of this job!”

The shooters crouched and reached for their holdouts. The driver and the smart guy had each taken a position in the back corners of the office and faced the door as soon as the crew had entered. Both had a small, easily concealed handgun ready. The Mob guy fired, but that two-gun shit never works and he hit no one. The driver and the smart guy emptied their clips into the Mob guy.

He went down like the sack of shit that he was.

When the bullets stopped the shooters moved quickly and, without even being asked to, shot the Mob guy in the head. Then they turned and took aim on the driver and the smart guy.

The smart guy held up a hand.

“Shane, Wooley, easy. Fade and I aren’t the ones who just tried to cornhole you, are we? Guido’s gone now, so we got no problem, right?”

Fade batted her eyes. Wooley snorted and lowered his gun, but Shane kept the trigger tight and jutted his jaw.

“Damn it, Sand. What the fuck, man! You fuckin’ knew, man! YOU! FUCKING! KNEW!”

“Take a breath, Shane. I didn’t know. I suspected. You know those Mob guys can’t be trusted. And I’d rather be safe than dead, so Fade and I worked up this contingency plan.”

Shane lowered his gun.

“Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me, man?”

Sand grinned.

“No offense, Wooley, but I don’t know you that well. And Shane…have you ever won at poker?”

Shane laughed.

“All right, man. I’m sorry. You the smart guy.”

Sand nodded.

“Yeah. Now y’all get rid of these guns and this body and I’ll call my fence. Stay cool and we’ll have this dealt with today. A’ight?”

The crew were each 180K richer and out of town by the next morning.

Cheyenne

Steve Weddle issued a Hilary Davidson inspired (she does that a lot, the face that launched a thousand words, or some junk) flash fiction challenge (archived).

“Eddy! You got a job, baby.”

Ma led a woman into the office. Except for the scar, she looked like that chick who used to date Marilyn Manson. She regarded me…I’ll go with coolly.

“Damn it, Ma, we have business hours, you know.”

“Edward Everett Emerson! I raised you better! You rise when a lady enters!”

“When a lady enters, I will. Don’t you have bingo tonight?”

Ma sniffed, but got the hint and huffed to the back of the house.

That cool look got cold.

“I ain’t a lady?”

Her voice was pure trailer park.

“7th Heaven in Tulsa. You and a redhead did a girl-on-girl act. Are you Dakota or Cheyenne?”

“Cheyenne. Dancers cain’t be ladies?”

“Strippers in mobbed-up places like 7th Heaven probably aren’t. Also, you were a bitch to my partner. Called him a wetback.”

“Yeah, well…you talk a lot of shit for someone lives with their mom.”

“Ma lives with me. A subtle yet important distinction. It makes me a dutiful son rather than a loser. I also run a business out of my home, so why don’t we get to it?”

She look confused.

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“Uh…I got somethin’ for you.”

She reached into her purse, pulled out a snappy little automatic, and pointed it at me. My piece had already cleared the holster and I drew a bead on her cleavage. My finger was just tightening on the trigger when the blast from Ma’s shotgun caught Cheyenne center mass and blew her into the foyer.

“Goddamnit, Ma! The ‘bingo’ code means you get in the safe room and call Mike! It doesn’t mean get a shotgun and call Mike! You did call Mike?”

“She called me, Trip…¡CHINGA!”

Mike must have come in during the shooting. I can’t fault him for his lapse. He recognized the girl and knew what we’d have to do. I kept my gun on the body and moved toward it.

“Mike, disarm Ma.”

“Yeah. Miz Emerson?”

Ma grumbled but turned the shotgun over. Mike dropped the spent shells and started breaking it down for cleaning.

Cheyenne had definitely gone to the Happy Hunting Ground. I holstered and knelt down to get the purse. No car keys, just an extra clip and lip gloss. I looked out the front door and saw nothing at the curb.

“Ma, did she take a cab or was she dropped off?”

“Shit, Eddy, I don’t know. Why don’t you check the camera.”

Ma jerked a thumb at the computer. Mike grinned. I sucked it up.

“Thanks, Ma.”

Cheyenne had wiggled out of the back seat of a conspicuously nondescript sedan. The resolution of our cam was good enough ID Joey Benedictine in the front passenger seat.

Mike spat.

“That rat. We don’t need the cops in this, Trip. Think anyone saw her come in?”

“Dunno…but they can see her leave.”

“¿Que?”

“We need to get Ma and Tommy out of town. Ma’s got a dummy she uses to drive the HOV lane. If she uses it on the way out, it’ll look like two people are in the car. She can get Tommy and they can go to Lake Charles and gamble for a couple of weeks.”

“Or we can go to New Orleans, gamble, shop, and watch cute boys for a couple of weeks. I’ll get packed.”

Ma went to her room.

“Use the orange junk to clean your hands before you touch anything, Ma!”

Mike shook his head.

“Shit, Trip, they’re gonna bankrupt us. Let me call Tommy.”

I got the big cleaning kit out of its hidey-hole, spread the tarp, and started laying out the saws. Mike finished soothing Tommy, gave him the plan, and hung up.

“Mike, change the message on the voicemail and we’ll get started.”

Mike cleared his throat and warmed into his professional voice.

“Thank you for calling Galvez and Emerson Confidential Services. Our offices are closed while we complete our current assignment, but your call is very important to us…”

I got to work while Mike gave the potential callers our website, email, and Twitter info. Then he joined me and we planned the last trip to Tulsa together.

Eddie’s Rainy Day Adventure

Based on actual events! I was actually caught in a flash flood...

The water was too deep for the stolen car. He tightened the bath towel that was passing as medical help, grabbed his gun, slid into the knee-deep water, dragged himself to his feet, and left the Accord to its fate.

The rain pounded in his face and he regretted leaving his hat with Lula’s cooling body. It was a nice hat. A nice body, too. Too bad Lula had been in it. That body could have done a lot of good in the right hands.

The lights of a hotel cut the untimely darkness. He squinted at the logo and compared it to the keycard he’d taken from Lula.

“Got something right.”, he croaked.

Now he could kill Marty.

He staggered to the back of the hotel and found a door with a key reader on the lock. Lula’s card slid in and a green light flashed. The door opened into a stairwell. He looked at the keycard again. 206. He started up the stairs.

An eternity later he made the first landing. He fell to his knees and couldn’t go any farther. The cold began to close in. Marty would skate.

The door at the bottom of the stairwell opened and Marty walked in. Her cellphone was glued to her ear. She was talking to dead Lula’s phone. The door closed behind her.

He raised the gun. The movement caught Marty’s attention. The phone clattered on the floor.

“No, Eddie!”

Her face disappeared. Done deal. He was the only who knew where Miller’s 750K was and now he was dead. He managed a smile.

The darkness washed over him like rain.