“Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not going to spend any more time getting in trouble for stupid shit. No more. You understand? No fucking more. I don’t want to be the guy who is always getting in trouble for stupid shit. Next time I get in trouble, it’ll be for something serious.”
“Hmm,” said Doug.
CHAPTER 10
“THIS IS IT. This is the place,” said Kevin, pulling into a driveway that was little more than frozen mud. At the far end of the driveway, by a garage that looked like it was a day from total collapse, was the car they had come to buy, a 1980 Chevy Impala which had been listed in the paper for $300.
They had been excited after reading about the Impala, because in a big old car like that, there was plenty of room to work on the engine. Kevin was always ranting about how cars nowadays crammed everything in so tight, all the computerized gizmos and gadgets, so that you practically had to remove the engine block to check the oil. But not on these old babies. You could crawl under the hood and sleep in there after your wife threw you out, he said, a comment which made Mitch and Doug look at each other in concern.
“I just meant there’s a lot of room in there,” he explained, noticing their reaction.
The plan was to check the car out, maybe do some work on it, and get it running-all without registering it. The Impala, with its eight-cylinder engine and bulletproof appearance, was the perfect getaway car. They would slap the Nevada plate on, drive it to the bank, then drive with the money to a preselected spot in the woods where they had parked Kevin’s truck. Then they would push the car into the ravine (the preselected spot required a ravine) and speed off, rich men.
It was important, therefore, to give the guy who sold them the Impala fake names, in case the cops ever found it in the ravine and traced it back to the last registered owner. They had practiced their fake names so there would be no slipups. Doug had even suggested wearing fake mustaches and wigs, but after consideration, that suggestion had been discarded because none of them knew enough about applying a fake mustache to be able to guarantee that it would work. The possibility of a mustache falling off while they were talking to the guy who was selling them the car was too great. Anyway, the town where they were buying the Impala was fifteen miles from Wilton and over twenty from Westlake, where the robbery was going to occur, so they figured they’d just take their chances.
Before going to look at the car, they had also reiterated the final part of the plan, the aftermath: Absolutely, positively, no spending any of the money for at least six months. The money was to be buried in three packages, one for each of them, in the exact same spot where they had parked the Ferrari on their most humiliating night of crime, a location chosen because it was neutral ground that they all knew well and also because burying money there would be a symbol of their new status as successful criminals, as opposed to bungling ones. It would be like giving the finger to the LoJack company and their fine product.
“Dude, this car stinks,” said Doug, who was sitting in the backseat. Kevin had driven Linda’s car because all three of them had decided to go and look at the Impala, and Mitch and Doug were sick of being crammed in the pickup. Linda’s car had a backseat, and to Doug, it smelled like something really bad had happened in it quite recently. “Do you think Ellie, like, had an accident back here?”
“She’s nearly eight, douchebag,” Kevin snapped. “She doesn’t have accidents anymore.”
“It reeks back here,” said Doug.
“Whatever.”
“Remember our names,” said Mitch, becoming the embattled paratroop commander again. They were bitching about smells while he was trying to get into character as “Rick.” Rick, his Chevy Impala-buying alter ego, was a devoted employee of a major discount retailer, and Mitch was eager to try out this new fake personality on the man who was selling the car. He was disappointed that neither Doug nor Kevin had bothered to fabricate any details to go with their fake names, and he wasn’t even sure if Doug remembered his. They didn’t seem to think the fake identities were important, but screwing up something like that would be as bad as a fake mustache falling off while you were shaking hands. They were acting like amateurs.
Mitch went up to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He had spoken to the guy on the phone not more than an hour ago, and he had sounded very old. Perhaps he had just hung up the phone and gone out and forgotten all about them.
“Dude, I’m telling you, it reeks. There’s something in there,” he heard Doug saying. Standing on the front porch, Mitch rolled his eyes. They were still bitching about whether or not Linda’s car smelled. Obviously the car smelled. It had nearly made Mitch gag on the ride over, but so what? Couldn’t these guys see the need to focus? He wondered how they were going to pull this robbery off if they kept getting sidetracked and bitching about trivial shit.
“Come on, you guys,” Mitch said, deciding that he had to be the leader of this crew. They hadn’t even gone over to look at the old Impala. Instead, Doug was digging around under the driver’s seat of Linda’s car and pulling out a bag.
“Ohmigod,” said Kevin. He had turned pale.
“What are you guys doing?” said Mitch, but he was alarmed enough now by Kevin’s reaction that he was no longer angry.
“God, this bag REEEKS,” said Doug, holding it at arm’s length. It was a heavy, dark green trash bag that unfurled as he held it out, and as it was upside down, the contents fell out and landed with a thud at Doug’s feet.
It was Scotch Parker.
Doug yelped and hopped away from the dead terrier’s little body. Released from the trash bag, the full odor of the rotting carcass hit all of them at the same time, and Mitch gagged and felt his eyes water. He looked over at Kevin, who had covered his face with his hands, seemingly more ashamed than disgusted.
“Dude,” Doug croaked. “Why are you driving around with, like, a dead dog under the seat?”
Kevin was strangely silent.
“Seriously, man,” Mitch said after a second. “That’s a good question.”
They all stared at the little terrier’s body, bloated and gray. Mitch took a deep breath and went in closer to get a better look. The dog’s eyes were half open, his tongue hanging out of half-open jaws, his tiny teeth exposed. For most people, the sight of a dead body of any species was a cause for emotion, so seeing a dead animal that he had never known in life was a rare opportunity to study death in a neutral context. Then he breathed and got a whiff of the decaying carcass, and he gagged again.
“Kevin, man, we gotta bury this thing,” he said.
“His name’s Scotch,” Kevin said, his voice flat.
Mitch was taken aback by Kevin’s tone and turned to Doug. “You wanna help me bury it?”
Doug nodded and walked over to the half-collapsed garage. Leaning against some rotting firewood was an old, rusted shovel.
“FUCK!” Kevin screamed.
Doug and Mitch, who were about to start digging a hole by the pile of rotting firewood, flinched.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” Kevin was screaming at the top of his lungs. He walked over to the front of Linda’s car and began savagely kicking a headlight. This isn’t good, Mitch thought. The whole aim of this transaction was to keep everything cool, to pay cash for a junk car and leave, and not be remembered.
“What the hell is his problem?” Doug asked Mitch.
“I dunno,” said Mitch, looking equally mystified. He handed Doug the shovel and ran over to where Kevin was screaming. “Dude,” he said, putting his hand firmly on Kevin’s shoulder. “What are you doing? What’s the matter with you?”
Kevin seemed to run out of energy and slumped forward. “Fuck,” he mumbled.
“Is this about that dead dog?”
Kevin suddenly lurched forward, full of fury again, and kicked the bumper. “FUCK!” he screamed. Mitch tried to hold him back.
“Settle down,” said Mitch softly.
“I’ve got…” Kevin said, panting from the effort of his outburst, “a goddamned dead dog under the seat of my car.” He threw his arms up and turned around to face Mitch. “That’s like the story of my fucking life.”
“Well…” said Mitch, trying to think of something helpful to say, “I wouldn’t go that far. But as long as we’re on the subject,
“I’VE GOT A DEAD DOG UNDER THE SEAT OF MY CAR AND A FERRARI IN A FOREST AND A FUCKING DRUG-DEALING DOCTOR MAKING ME SELL HIS PILLS FOR HIM!” Kevin was bellowing like a wounded animal and Mitch’s only thought was that he was glad they were in a neighborhood where the houses were fairly far apart. If he’d had an outburst like this back where they lived, neighbors would have been peering out their windows and calling the cops by now.
“Dude, keep your voice down!” yelled Doug from over by the garage, where he was dutifully digging a hole.
“Goddammit! Fuck my life! Fuck my fucking life!” Kevin kicked the front of the car again, but the burst of energy was gone, though the fading rage seemed all the more heartfelt. “Fuck, dude,” he said to Mitch, as if imparting a profound piece of wisdom. “I mean,
Mitch nodded.
“I can’t do anything right. Not one fucking thing.” Kevin sounded like he was about to start sobbing. He was wearing a frozen half-smile, though, and Mitch wasn’t sure which of his senses he should be guided by. “I mean, I leave a goddamned dead dog in the car and let my wife and my daughter drive around with it in there for a fucking week and… and… they fucking poisoned him with antifreeze, man.” “Poisoned who?” Mitch ventured, trying to piece the rant together.
“ANTIFREEZE!” Kevin screamed and Mitch flinched, realizing the tirade wasn’t nearly over. “And the cop wouldn’t do a goddamned thing about it, and he said I could investigate myself for five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! Do you have five hundred dollars to investigate…”
Kevin seemed to be pausing for breath so he could bellow some more incoherent syllables, but Mitch put his hand up, almost as if he were requesting a turn to speak in class.
“Dude,” he said. “It’s OK. We’re going to rob an armored car.”
Kevin considered that for a second and Mitch thought how odd it was that robbing an armored car was the only hopeful thing he could offer. Maybe things really
