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THE
FINAL CHAPTER by
James Blakey Junior pointed to the
sign with black letters on a yellow background. “What about Waffle House?” “Have you ever been
in Waffle House?” Reggie asked. “All the time. They have the best hash browns.” “Ever notice
who’s eating?” Junior shook his head. “First, you
got your permit-carrying rednecks, waiting to play Rambo and blow you away,” Reggie
said. “Then you got your brothers who don’t bother with no permits and will
still blow you away. In the unlikely event that no one eating is packing, there’s
the staff. The cook will brain you with a frying pan. Seen videos of it on YouTube.” The light changed,
Reggie depressed the gas, and the car lurched forward. “If not Waffle House,
then where?” Junior asked. “Starbucks.” “Starbucks?” Junior
scrunched up his nose. “Their coffee tastes burnt.” “We’re not ordering
any coffee. It’s the clientele I’m interested in. Moms gathered for their book
club, sporting the latest iPhones. Folks on laptops doing remote work from home, but not
from home. Writers, sitting on fat wallets, grinding out their million-dollar screenplays. “And none
of them, especially the skinny baristas behind the counter, will fight back. They’ll
smile and hand it over. Very civilized.” “Clever, Reggie.” “And stop calling me Reggie. I don’t want that slipping
out during the job. From now on, it’s Vic.” “You got it Re—I mean
Vic.” Reggie pulled into the crowded Starbucks parking lot. A little too
crowded. Only opening was the handicapped space. Reggie didn’t want to park on the
street, making a long run to the car. He backed into the empty spot. Junior objected.
“What if some disabled person needs to park?” Reggie shook his head.
“No one’s coming. If they do, we’re doing them a favor. They won’t get
robbed.” “Smart, Reggie.” “Victor. Remember,
I’m Victor. Better yet, don’t say any name. Yell ‘Hey, you!’” The two slipped balaclavas
over their faces and entered the coffee shop. Reggie waved his gun in the air. “Nobody moves
and nobody gets hurt.” Junior slipped behind the counter and emptied the register. Reggie proceeded
along the near row of tables, filling a canvas tote bag with wallets, watches, tablets,
and phones. At the end of the row, a man sat clutching a laptop to his chest.
“You can’t take this.” “I assure you, I can,” Reggie said. The man shook his
head. “You don’t understand. My novel is on here. Three years of work. A hundred
and thirty thousand words. I’m editing the final chapter.” “You must have a
backup file,” Reggie said. The writer shook his head. “What was your plan
if the hard drive crashed?” “I know, I know.” The writer shrugged. Reggie looked around.
Junior was finishing his row. Reggie said, “I’m feeling charitable. You
have one minute to email the file to yourself.” “The laptop’s Wi-Fi
is busted,” the writer said. “Do you really want to steal this thing? Won’t get
much for it.” “Don’t care.” Reggie motioned with the gun. “Give
it.” “Reggie?” Junior asked. “We ready to go?” “I told you
not to call me that.” “His name’s not
Reggie,” Junior shouted to the patrons. “It’s really Vic.” Reggie muttered, “Fantastic.”
To the writer: “Hand over the laptop.” “Let me buy it back
from you,” the writer said. “With what? I’m taking your wallet.” “Buy it later.
I’ll give you my number. Text me.” “I’m taking your
phone.” Junior said, “Reggie, I thi—” “I told you”—Reggie
turned to face his partner—“not to call me tha—” The laptop struck
Reggie’s skull like a hammer against an anvil. He crashed to the floor, the pistol
slipping from his hand. The writer picked up the gun, holding it with a shaky hand. “You’re
not taking my novel.” Junior dashed out the door. Reggie climbed to his
feet, hands up, backing away. “Take it easy.” “That novel is my
life.” “Keep it.” Reggie raced out the door. The crooks gone,
the writer put down the gun, and inspected his laptop. He prayed he hadn’t damaged
it when he clobbered the crook. No parking, loud
customers, now a robbery. Always a problem when he came to Starbucks. He should have gone
to Waffle House. THE CRISP-R CONNECTION by James Blakey “Destination
reached,” the GPS announces. Vito
maneuvers the Lincoln into the unpaved lot next to a softball
field. Late model Accord in the far corner, near the concessions stand, parked under the
sole streetlight. Too dim to make out the color. The Lincoln
bounces toward the car. Need to get new shocks. Vito
parks fifty feet away, high beams on the Honda. He rolls down the window. Dry wind blowing
down the desert. He twists his head left, then right. No one else around. Vito slips on a pair of surgical gloves, struggles to
get an N95 respirator into place. He gets out, taps the Glock in his shoulder
holster, strides toward the Honda. A kid—twenty-five,
Dodgers long-sleeved T-shirt, needs a haircut—leans against the driver’s door,
lost in his phone. Vito stops
ten feet away, clears his throat. The
kid giggles at his phone, doesn’t look up. “Hey!” Vito’s voice, full of malevolence, cuts through
the mask and the wind. “Huh?”
The kid’s startled, drops his phone, goes to grab it.
“Freeze!” Vito
pulls out the Glock. The kid stops, bent over,
like an upside-down capital L. Vito
says, “Stand up, slowly. Then back away from the car.” “It’s kind of hard to hear you through that
mask.” Vito shouts, “You
won’t have trouble hearing anything ever again if you don’t back up!” The kid straightens, takes one shaky step backward.
“Sure, but wh—” “No
talking.” Vito waves the gun. “Keep moving. When the kid’s twenty-five feet away, Vito motions him to
stop. Vito peers in, around, and under the car. No one. No weapons. He grabs the phone,
new Samsung, from the ground and slips it in his pocket. The
kid says, “What are you doing? I still have four
paymen—” “After our business
is concluded, you can have it back,” Vito says. “You the one with CRISP-R?” “Yeah, I’m Bra—” “No
names, Christ! Where’s the stuff?” “Got
it in the trunk.” Vito’s eyes flick
to the car. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. He licks his lips and takes a step back.
“That safe?” The kid
shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be?” Vito, with the Glock pointed center mass, says, “Slowly
take out your keys and toss them over.” Vito catches the keys, double-clicks
the fob. The trunk pops. “What do you think?”
The kid beams like a first grader with a perfect report card. Vito squints. Bunch of plastic trays. Some clear. Others
white. “What the hell is this?” “Crisper drawers.
Keeps your fruits and veggies farm fresh. I got all the major brands: Frigidaire, Whirlpool,
Kenmore.” “This
a joke? I want the thing that slices and dices DNA.
You do work for ChromosomoCorp, don’t you?” A look
of pride crosses the kid’s face. He stands straighter,
puffs out his chest. “Sure, I run their Twitter account.” “Twitter?”
Vito feels the acid eating away at his stomach lining.
The Serb won’t be happy. “Get over here and into the trunk!” The
kid shuffles to the back of the car and shakes his head.
“I don’t think I can fit with all the merchandise.” Vito
jabs the gun into the kid’s gut. “Figure it out!” Trays clatter on the ground, and the kid climbs into
the empty trunk. “This, okay?” “Lie
down.” “Look, I don’t
really run the account. I’m only an intern. Sometimes they let me post on weekends.
If you have a complaint, you can contact my manag—” Vito fires three rounds into the kid’s chest.
Red stains turning Dodger Blue to a sickly purple. He slams the trunk closed. Before leaving, Vito kneels
at the pile of drawers, sorting through them. “Huh,
GE eighteen-by-twelve replacement tray? This will finally
get Angela off my back.” Vito shoves the mask in
his pocket, slips the tray under his arm, walks to his car. THE
END James Blakey lives in the Shenandoah
Valley where he writes mostly full-time. His story “The Bicycle Thief” won
a 2019 Derringer Award. When James isn’t writing, he can be found on the hiking
trail—he’s climbed forty of the fifty U.S. state high points—or bike-camping
his way up and down the East Coast. Find him at www.JamesBlakeyWrites.com.
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