After they left Denny’s Restaurant, hiking up their pants and sucking on toothpicks, Freddie and Huey wandered down the street. They stopped in front of a used car dealer. A guy in rubber boots was washing cars, getting them ready for the day, which was gray and cold. Freddie hoped that the keys might still be in some of the ignitions. He hoped that the worker was not too bright.
“What kinda car you want?” Freddie asked, eyeing a row of late model American cars.
“How ’bout a Buick? We haven’t driven one in a long time. Since we were in Bakersfield,” Huey said.
When the telephone rang, the worker dropped the hose on the ground, where it continued to spray. He hustled over to the office, a trailer with colorful plastic flags.
“What a waste of water,” Freddie sighed. “It’s a cryin’ shame. Huey, check out that Buick there.” Freddie pointed to a late-model red Buick Regal.
Huey slunk over and saw the keys on the seat. He opened the door, got in, and motioned to Freddie saying, “It’s even got electric seats.”
Freddie hurried over. He got in and peeked at the trailer. The worker was still on the telephone, a donut in his hand.
“Ease it out. Let’s go,” said Freddie as he adjusted his power seat. He opened the glove compartment and saw that, except for a handful of paper clips, it was empty.
Huey jumped the curb and sped away, not even glancing into the rearview mirror. They raced toward Chandler air field.
Earlier, at breakfast, as they sliced through waffles and sausages and poked the hearts out of their eggs, they had discussed where the photographer’s plane could have taken off and landed. They narrowed it to Chandler air field, where small planes were kept, mostly biplane crop dusters. They drove to the airport, feeling good. The Buick had a smooth ride and plenty of visibility.
“It’s a nice car,” Huey said. “American cars are gettin’ better.”
“Yeah, it’s smooth,” Freddie said, closing his eyes and slumping down as if he were in a bathtub. He was feeling lazy from his breakfast.
At the airport, they parked the car in the handicapped zone and didn’t even bother to limp into the pinkish-colored building. Although there was no one there in the foyer, they could hear the echo of talk in a far office.
Freddie walked over to a drinking fountain that was spurting water. He stepped on the pedal and the water stopped. “I hate it when people waste water,” he complained. He turned and looked around, letting out a burp from his heavy breakfast. There were pictures of airplanes on all the walls, and photographs of aviators with thin mustaches. They were taken long ago, and Freddie assumed that they were all dead and buried.
“Let’s check the board,” Freddie suggested, hooking his thumb at the bulletin board in the hallway. He hoped maybe the photographer kept a business card tacked to the board. Most of what hung on the bulletin board were ads for airplanes for sale. Freddie, though, had to laugh when he came across a handwritten ad that read, “I listen.” He tore it down and showed Huey. “Look at this crazy stuff. The guy listens and wants to get paid for it. Crazy people.”
Stewart came in, wrench in hand and grease all the way to his elbows.
Freddie turned and said, “Good morning,” friendly-like. He wet his lips and asked, “You know a photographer, one who works from the sky?”
Stewart paused and then said, “Sure. Actually, it’s me and my friend Julio Silva.”
Freddie became bright with interest. “Yeah, we’re looking to do a little aerial photography. Pronto.”
Huey gave Stewart a big smile.
“We’d be pleased to help out,” Stewart said. “A farm or factory?”
“Both. You have the number of your friend?”
Stewart didn’t have to look through his address book for Julio’s telephone number. He put his wrench down on the table in the hallway and wrote Julio’s number and address on a piece of paper. He handed it to Freddie. “Give us a call. The fog’s been bad, but usually around three o’clock the weather is pretty good.”
“You done a recent job?” Freddie asked. “We’ll need references.”
“The Inouye farm in Parlier just yesterday,” Stewart said and wrote down the address of the farm. “You can get a reference from them. In fact, Julio’s delivering the photograph this morning.”
Freddie liked this. He had the photographer’s telephone number and a place to find him. He thanked Stewart and left the building with Huey leading the way.
Although he had read the article about their robbery a dozen times, Freddie bought another newspaper, a fresh one, from the rack outside the building. They got in their Buick and Freddie read while they pulled out of the driveway and drove toward the freeway.
“See what I tole’ you?” Freddie said with a grin on his face. “The armored car drivers are keeping their mouths shut. They won’t talk. They know better.” He took out the cigarette-lighter pistol on his waist. When he pulled the trigger, a small flame shot out of the barrel. He blew the flame out and put the lighter back in his holster.
“I felt sorry for those drivers. They both seemed like family men,” Huey said, suddenly sad. “It almost made me cry.”
“They’re probably divorced or mean to their wives and kids. Anyways, crying’s not good for you. It’ll make your face wrinkled.” Freddie turned the page and saw a large ad for wholesale meats. “Great prices. Two twenty-nine a pound for sirloin.”
Huey glanced over at the newspaper and nodded his head. “Good deal.”
They got off the freeway at Manning and drove east. Within ten miles, they were in Parlier. At a convenience store they got directions from a mother with two babies in her arms and two others poking around the candy rack. Huey bought the kids candy and tickled under their chins.
“You’re a softy,” Freddie said as they returned to the car. “It’s not good for you.”
They drove to the Inouye farm and parked the Buick on the side of the road. It was all country, quiet and cold. Huey got out and plucked three oranges from a tree. He returned to the car, a chill running down his back. They used a Swiss army knife to open the oranges and a wad of restaurant napkins to wipe away the juice on their fingers.
“But what if they don’t come?” Huey asked.
“We’ll eat oranges, then,” Freddie said. He looked around. The fog was thick between the branches of the trees, almost spooky. A cat was sniffing a crushed cardboard box. Freddie rolled down the car window and threw an orange at the cat, who jumped into the air and took off running. Then he remembered that he was after the photographer and those boys, not a cat with a white stripe down its mangy back.
“We’ll take care of them,” Freddie said of Uncle, Hector, and Mando. “I don’t like when someone snitches, especially on us.”
“Me neither,” Huey agreed. “Then we’ll get our money and leave, right?”
The money from the armored-car robbery was stored in an abandoned barn east of Fresno. After they took care of that photographer and his do-gooder kids, Freddie figured that they would drive to Los Angeles and take a flight to Minneapolis, Huey’s hometown. Huey wanted to be with his mother for the Winter Olympics.
“We’ll watch the ski jumping,” Freddie said. “I like it when they crash.”
“Not a bad idea,” Huey agreed.
Soon after they had eaten their oranges, a Ford came up the road, its headlights cutting through the light fog. Smirking, Freddie looked at Huey and said, “It’s them, the snitches.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a photographer’s car. Cheap.”
The Ford Escort smoked and rattled as it pulled into the driveway of the Inouye farm. Freddie saw three heads, two of them belonging to children. He saw them and took his cigarette-lighter pistol out of the small Italian-designed holster that he had bought in San Francisco with counterfeit twenty-dollar bills. He pulled the trigger and a tongue of flame shot out. “This’ll scare those blabbermouth punk kids.”
But after a moment of thought Freddie came up with a better plan, something even more violent. He wanted to run them off the road, slam that Ford into one of the trees. That way he’d teach them what happens to blabbermouths. He turned on the car’s engine and warmed the car. The windows began to fog from their breathing. Huey placed his hands in front of the heater and rubbed them. “I’m cold, Freddie.”
“Not as cold as you’ll be in a prison cell, if we don’t do this right.” As soon as the windows were defrosted, Huey turned off the engine. Freddie looked at his watch, also bought with counterfeit bills, made a face, and said, “They’re taking too long.” He shrugged and waited staring straight ahead, meanness living in each dark pupil. Neither of them said anything. After twenty minutes they saw the Ford Escort come out of the driveway, two German shepherds barking at the wheels. Huey turned on his engine and waited for Freddie’s signal.
“Go ahead,” Freddie said simply.
“Here goes,” Huey said and, throwing the last orange slice into his mouth, shifted the car from park to drive. He pulled over to the side of the road and picked up speed, scaring the German shepherds. The Buick moved next to the Ford Escort. Freddie rolled down the window, grinning menacingly at Uncle, whose eyes spread wide with shock.
“Slam them!” Freddie ordered.
Huey steered the Buick toward the Ford. The cars slammed, sparks kicking between the grinding of two fenders. The scrape of metal was earsplitting. Huey grimaced at the sound and wished it were over.
Freddie laughed and said, “That’s the way. Get closer.”
Huey yanked the steering wheel right and the cars slammed hard, jolting both Freddie and Huey. “Good job!” Freddie laughed. He could see steam rising from the Ford and noticed that a door handle had fallen off and the windshield was cracked.
Huey pressed the Buick against the Ford a third time. They were so close that Freddie reached out his hand and tried to grab Uncle’s hair. But Uncle dodged his hand and slammed Freddie’s face with the heel of his palm.
“Ouch!” Freddie screamed as he sat back into his seat, holding his nose. He blew into a Kleenex and saw flecks of blood. Really mad now, he shook his fist and told Huey, “Get close to that punk!”
Huey maneuvered the car next to the Ford, which was wrapped in steam and buckled like a trash can. Freddie could see one of the boys holding up a camera and taking pictures. This made him even madder.
“Ram ’em hard,” Freddie shouted. “They make me sick!”
Huey threw the steering a hard right and their car smashed against the Ford. The Ford’s left front tire exploded and it went flying into an orange tree.
The Buick pulled away and disappeared into the valley fog.