Cocktail Hour
The Conductor
Smokestack was the weak link in their group, the only one with a criminal record and definitely the least intelligent. Why the Conductor had ever decided to go on a crime spree with a man he had little respect for and didn’t trust was beyond him. But Smokestack had preyed on him in a moment of weakness, preyed on the Switchman, too, proposing the plan, implying that if they didn’t vindicate themselves they were a couple of doormats.
So here they were, looking around for their dumber-than-a-doorknob partner-in-crime. They spotted him standing behind one of the gas pumps.
The Conductor raised his hand and pointed. “There he is. Let’s get our money and split. This stopped being fun an hour ago.”
The Switchman lifted his chin in agreement and the two stepped over to the pump.
“Look,” the Conductor said to Smokestack, “we’re not doing ourselves any favors hanging together like this.” He gestured at the bag of cash creating an odd bulge in Smokestack’s pants. “Let’s step behind the store, divvy up the money, and go our separate ways before the cops find us.”
“Sure, sure,” Smokestack said. “I just gotta do one more thing first.” He raised his hand, which held the beer bottle. Only now, the bottle was filled with a clear liquid with a slight yellow tint and had a paper towel stuffed in the neck. The beer had morphed into a cocktail. A Molotov cocktail.
Before the Conductor could stop him, Smokestack whipped out his lighter and set the paper towel aflame.
“What the hell are you doing?!?” The Conductor made a grab for the bottle. Didn’t this punk realize that starting another fire would only give the cops a fresh trail to follow?
Smokestack—THE GODDAM MORON!—yanked the bottle out of the Conductor’s reach. The Conductor watched helplessly as his accomplice bolted toward the doors of the convenience store, yanked one open, and tossed the glass bottle inside. There was a crash and tinkle as the glass shattered and showered the floor, followed by a fwoom as flames leapt up from the puddle of gasoline rushing across the floor.
Dammit! That stupid little fucker might as well have shot a flare gun into the air to signal the cops.
“Let’s go!” hollered the Switchman, stepping back and waving for the Conductor to follow him. “Let’s just go!”
If the Switchman thought the Conductor was going to let Smokestack keep his share of the money, especially now, he was as stupid as that pot-smoking hipster. “Hell, no! I’m not leaving without my cash!”
The Conductor ran back into the store to find the air filled with a mixture of gray smoke and white fog from the fire extinguisher the clerk held aimed at the flames. Smokestack lay sprawled over the checkout counter, three inches of ass-crack showing above the waist of his grungy jeans as he pounded a fist on the cash register, trying to get it open. Bam-bam-bam!
The fire snaked its way down the aisles, igniting boxes of cookies, Twinkies, and tampons. The Conductor grabbed Smokestack’s legs and tried to pull him backward, but the moron wrapped his free hand around the counter and hung on tight. Bam-bam-bam!
“Come on, you idiot!” the Conductor yelled. Honestly, he didn’t give a shit what happened to this pasty-face punk, but he knew that if Smokestack was apprehended he’d take the Conductor and the Switchman down with him. He yanked again on Smokestack’s legs but only managed to pull his jeans down farther, a full half foot of ass crack now visible.
Ching! Evidently Smokestack had finally hit the correct button because the drawer slid open. He released his hold on the countertop and snatched two fistfuls of cash before the Conductor was able to grab him by the shoulders and pull him off the countertop. Hot with fury, he shoved Smokestack through the thickening smoke toward the doors.
The instant they were outside, he heard the wail of approaching sirens. Hell! The clerk must have activated a silent alarm before grabbing the extinguisher. Or maybe the store had one of those smoke alarms that automatically contacts the fire department when it goes off.
“Run!” yelled the Conductor, motioning at the Switchman this time.
The Switchman, who’d been waiting by the pumps, began running before even turning his head. Screech! Thunk! He plowed right into a car that had been headed toward the pumps, doubling over the hood. Fortunately, the car was one of those tiny Fiats. A pistachio-green one. Not big enough or moving fast enough to cause life-threatening injuries.
A petite woman with curly blonde hair leapt from the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door open. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “Are you okay?”
Smokestack was on the woman in an instant, shoving her aside and slipping into the driver’s seat. “Get in!” he hollered.
A hand on his injured knee, the Switchman limped around to the passenger door.
The Conductor froze for a split second.
Should he get in the car? Or take his chances running off on his own?
On foot, he’d likely be apprehended in mere minutes. But if he got in the tiny clown car he still stood a chance—however small—of getting away scot-free. He dashed to the car, lifted the back hatch, and dove inside, pulling himself over the seatback just as Smokestack punched the gas and took off with the hatch door sticking up in the air.
Screeeeeee!