What of Terry Conniston? Read Free

teeth and shaped his right hand into a mock pistol—thumb up, index finger pointed at the clerk, the other fingers curled back. “It’s time, Leroy.”
    The clerk’s acned face shifted toward Mitch: “What about him?”
    â€œHe’s with me.”
    Mitch said, “What?”
    Floyd ignored him and wagged his pistol-finger at the clerk. “Empty it out, Leroy.”
    The clerk edged behind the cash register and hit the No Sale key. The drawer slid open with a tinkle and clack. Floyd said, “Have a look out the window, Mitch, see if anyone’s coming this way.”
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œLook, we’re robbing the store. We don’t want to be interrupted, do we.”
    â€œWait a minute—we’re what? ”
    â€œWe’re wasting wind,” Floyd said and backed up two paces to look past Mitch through the window. “Go ahead, Leroy, it’ll be all right.”
    The clerk shook open a paper bag and scooped cash into it from the register drawer. He pushed the drawer shut, furtive in haste; handed the bag to Floyd and stepped swiftly away.
    â€œHow much?” Floyd asked.
    â€œAbout seven hundred.” Leroy bit a fingernail. “I don’t guess you’ll forget what to do with my share.”
    Floyd gave him a dry look and said after a moment, “You remember what we looked like?”
    â€œThere was three of them, Officer. This great big guy had the gun. They had nylon stockings or something over their faces but I’m sure they was Mexicans. I seen them take off in a green pickup truck.”
    â€œStick to that.” Floyd rolled the paper bag shut and walked toward the door. “Come on, Mitch.”
    Mitch drove with his head hunched, squinting under the lowered sun visor. The windshield was frosted with dust and the road was hard to see. Against his back the seat cover felt squirmy with sweat.
    Floyd said, “You really ought to wash this heap.”
    They drove past a future slum of sleazy crackerbox development ranch-houses with weedy yards. Floyd said, “Stay inside the speed limit, my fine buffoon. Hang a left there and take us downtown.”
    Mitch manhandled the old Pontiac around the corner. Floyd looked at his face. “Lose something, Mitch?”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’re going to break down and tell me what that was all about.”
    â€œWhat do you think it was all about?”
    â€œYou made a deal with Leroy to stage that phony robbery and split with him. But why bring me into it? What do you want a witness for?”
    â€œMaybe just to prove how much I trust you,” Floyd said. But a block farther on he added gently, “You’re not a witness, Mitch—you’re an accessory.” He smiled.
    â€œWhat the hell do you mean?”
    â€œYou helped me rob the place and you’re driving the getaway car.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake I didn’t even know about it.”
    Floyd turned sideways in the seat and laid his left arm along the back of it. “If I’d told you about it beforehand would you have gone with me?”
    â€œNo. Yes. Christ, I don’t know, but at least you could’ve given me a chance to think about it first.”
    â€œAeah. Well there are a few things you do all right, Mitch, but thinking isn’t one of them.”
    Mitch closed his mouth. There was no point arguing when Floyd was in one of his superior moods. Mitch spared him a brief sidewise glance. Floyd looked relaxed, one arm crook’d on the seat back, the other propping up the roof, elbow on sill. Mitch said, “We could get in a lot of trouble.”
    â€œNot if you keep your mouth shut.”
    â€œIs that why you brought me in on it, to make sure I’d keep my mouth shut?”
    Floyd made no answer of any kind. It was as if he hadn’t heard. But he said in a patient tone, “Look, we needed money, now we’ve got