Atlas Read Free Page B

in.”
    There was a window shaped like a triangle. I put my sleeve over my hand and punched it in, then crawled through the opening, cutting my chest on one of the jagged edges of broken glass. We were terrible criminals. I mean, total amateurs. John was too big to get through the window, so he stayed outside while I poked around in the dark.
    â€œYou find the cash register? Is there any money in there?”
    â€œYeah, they left a box full of fucking money.”
    â€œAt least get us a bottle of scotch.”
    I grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker and crawled back out. John guzzled a quarter of the bottle right there on the curb, then got back behind the wheel of the Roadrunner. We drove around a while more, finally stopping at a Hess gas station.
    In those days, they had these cement capsules for the attendants to put the money in, these concrete tubes right on the fuel island, next to the pumps. It was a security thing. They put the money in there, and that way they wouldn’t get robbed. But this was a weekend night; they’d been busy, and the capsule was so full of money that it was almost spilling out of the slot at the top. So we were standing there, the attendant had the hose in his hand, pumping our gas, and I was plucking twenty-dollar bills out of the top of this thing. I wasn’t even trying to hide what I was doing, and John was acting all silly, cracking up because I was so calm and blatant about it. At some point, the kid who was pumping gas noticed. Today, when I think about it, I feel bad for a kid like that, but at the time I was in a different place. I didn’t have those feelings for anybody. Anyway, I just gave this kid a look, you know, a don’t-fuck-with-me look, and he decided not to pursue it, at least not directly. Instead, he headed off into the office, where there was a phone.
    â€œC’mon, Teddy, we gotta blow this place. He’s calling the cops.” John yanked the nozzle out of the gas tank and threw it on the ground while it was still pumping. It snaked around, squirting gas all over the place.
    I plucked a couple more bills out of the capsule, then got into the car; John already had it started up. The kid saw us and came running out of the office to stop us. I started getting out of the car to confront him, and he ran back inside. Okay. I shut the car door, and we were about to leave again, and again he came running out. It was slapstick stuff. This time I took the gun and aimed it at him. He stopped dead in his tracks and hit the deck like he was already shot. He was scared out of his mind. I raised the gun and shot it into the air. Except he didn’t know; he was facedown and whimpering.
    Half an hour later, John had nearly finished off the bottle of Johnny Walker. We were cruising along Victory Boulevard when he picked up a cop car in the rearview mirror. They were a block behind us. He immediately got all panicky.
    â€œWe’re fucked, man. We’re fucked, Teddy.”
    â€œJust keep driving.”
    â€œMaybe we should make a run for it.”
    â€œJust keep driving. They don’t have their light on.”
    â€œYeah, you’re right.”
    We went a ways like that, maybe a couple of miles, far enough to begin to think maybe it was just a coincidence, because they weren’t doing anything. Then we came over this ridge at the far end of Victory Boulevard, and any idea we had that we were in the clear exploded in a blaze of what felt like a hundred headlights pointing right at us.
    Lined up in a phalanx on the street, maybe three hundred yards ahead, was a roadblock of ten police cars.
    â€œHoly shit!” John said in this high, terrified voice. “Oh fuck!”
    â€œShut up.”
    The cops had their doors winged open, and they were crouched down with guns and rifles drawn. Over the PA they were shouting, “Stop the vehicle!”
    John slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop, the car fishtailing. By now there were