After they drove from the Inouye farm, Freddie Bork and Huey “Crybaby” Walker returned to Fresno. They took the freeway, careful not to speed. They had the radio on, listening for reports of the armored-car robbery. But none came on. Mostly they heard the jingles of commercials advertising after valentine’s specials, which reminded Freddie that he hadn’t gotten his mother a card for Valentine’s Day.
“You think we got ’em? It went right for a tree,” Huey said. Both hands were on the wheel, knuckles white as bone. He was worried now and beginning to wonder if he would see the Winter Olympics after all.
“I hope so,” Freddie said. He popped a knuckle and rubbed the nub of his pinkie. “That kid had a camera. I think maybe he took a picture.”
“That’s not good.”
They both shivered at the thought of going to prison. Freddie had once served six months for mail fraud and Huey a year for grand theft. They both got off for good behavior and then immediately used that goodness to hold up an elderly woman’s yard sale in Porterville. They got away with eighty-five dollars and a set of pots and pans.
“We’re going to have to get those photos,” Freddie said. “We’ll dump this car and get another one.”
“Do we have to?” Huey asked. “I was starting to like this one.” He admired the dash and nice styling.
“Yeah,” Freddie lamented. “It does have nice lines.”
They drove to Fresno and parked in a red zone near the downtown library. They wiped the steering wheel free of fingerprints and left the keys in the ignition with the windows rolled down. They crossed the street and decided to have lunch. Their breakfast of waffles, sausages, and eggs had been put to good use. It was a little after one o’clock, though the clock on the wall, batteries dead, said it was four-thirty. The place was dead, too. The restaurant was empty except for a couple near the back. They were holding hands and cooing at each other.
The waitress was sitting down, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. “Have any seat you want,” she said. She turned and yelled, “Enrique, get the grill going.”
Freddie and Huey sat near the window that looked out over the library. The Buick was still there.
Freddie took the plastic-covered menu from the napkin holder. He opened it and asked Huey. “Whatta you gonna have?”
“Burger and fries.”
“I thought you were watching your weight.”
“I am. I’m gettin’ it without cheese.”
The waitress came up to the table. She smelled of smoke and crispy bacon. “What is it going to be, fellas?”
Huey ordered his burger and fries, along with a diet Dr Pepper, and Freddie asked, “Do you make your own soup here?”
“No, it comes from a can.”
“Is the fish fresh?”
“No, we got ’em frozen.”
“Is the orange juice fresh?”
“No, that comes from a can, too.”
Freddie clicked his tongue and ordered, “Gimme a tuna melt. Make the tuna real.”
The waitress scribbled in her pad and left coughing.
“Some waitress,” Freddie remarked and gazed out the window. A guy on a bicycle was circling their Buick. He whizzed by and then stopped. He looked around and, seeing no one, placed his bicycle against the meter and got into the car. He immediately started the engine and took off with a screech.
“No class,” Freddie said. “The guy could have pulled away smooth.” He drank from his water glass and smacked his lips. “That tastes good.” He looked directly at Huey and, nervously twisting the ring on his hairy finger, moaned, “This is real delicate. We’re gonna have to break into the photographer’s pad. We gotta get those photos.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yeah, we do.”
“I’m scared,” Huey said as he tied his napkin into a noose. “Don’t you think we should get out of town?”
“We’ll be gone by tomorrow. Scouts’ honor, Huey.” Freddie held up two pudgy fingers, smiling.
When the waitress returned with ketchup and mustard, they fell silent, and remained silent until the food was served. The french fries were burnt and looked like bark from a tree. The burger was greasy. The tuna melt was skimpy, as if the chef had scraped a tuna can with a fork. But they dug in, faces close to the plates.
“Let’s get another American car,” Huey suggested, a french fry hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, I like what GM’s doing. They’re catching up with the Japanese.” His tuna melt came with a pickle and a pinch of potato chips, mostly flakes no bigger than fingernails.
They sighed and ate everything that was served. When they left, a batch of free matches in their hands, Freddie paid with a counterfeit bill. He waved to the waitress who was back in her chair lost in a cloud of smoke.