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The Perfect Heist

Tremont Charley

    The country had slid into a deep depression. Jobs were hard to come by. Long-time roommates and best friends Ramon and Chicky fell on hard times. Chicky’s unemployment benefits had recently run out. Chump change Ramon received from unemployment paid their rent, utilities and groceries. Not much dough, if any, was left after that.
    Money they had saved dwindled to an all-time low. They were now living from day-to-day, and barely surviving. Ramon and Chicky had never stolen anything. Reduced to poverty, suddenly and out of desperation, they began entertaining the idea of pulling a stick-up.
    Just thinking about doing a stick-up and the chance of getting arrested gave them both the jitters. Yet, dining every night on T.V. dinners, peanut butter and saltine crackers became more than reason enough for them to want to pull a heist. To avoid getting busted, they borrowed a library book entitled The Perfect Heist. The author was allegedly a master thief, formerly on the F.B.I’s “Ten Most Wanted” list.
    The guys found The Perfect Heist so informative they could hardly put it down. After several readings they became confident and gung-ho about pulling a stick-up. The duo believed if they followed the author’s instructions to a T, they would be in the chips.
    Ramon and Chicky spent the next couple of days, as the author specifically recommended, driving from one location to another, casing businesses in search of one that would be easy pickings for a stick-up. One night they cased all-night coffee shops and diners in the South Bronx. An hour into this excursion the gas gauge on Chicky’s jalopy was on empty. Lucky for them Rooster’s Gas Station only a block away on Randall Avenue was still open. Chicky drove onto the station and pulled up to the only working gas pump. A tall, scraggly, elderly gent limped with the aid of a cane out of the stations office towards the car.
    The elderly attendant looked down through the open window at Chicky. “What’re y’a having and how much?” Before Chicky could manage a reply, the attendant stared down at him and boldly stated, “At Rooster’s payment’s in cash...American currency only or take your story walking.”
    “Make it three dollars, regular.”
    Five dollars was all Ramon and Chicky had between them. Ramon pulled the five dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Chicky. While the attendant was pumping gas, Chicky leaned close to Ramon and said, “Monch, this could be the perfect place for a stick-up...don’t you think?”
    Ramon agreeably smiled at Chicky and whispered, “In that case I guess we’ll have to exercise Rule Six in The Perfect Heist.”
    Chicky scratched his head. “Huh? Rule Six?”
    “That’s right...Rule Six. It states that in order for a heist to be successful, we’d first have to grill the attendant for information without, of course, being conspicuous...remember?”
    “Oh yeah, Rule Six!” Chicky said, nodding his head. He then looked out at the elderly attendant and nonchalantly asked, “Excuse me, but what time do you close?”
    “Close?” the attendant grumbled, staring down at Chicky. “At Rooster’s, the word close doesn’t exist. We’re open 24/7 even on Christmas and New Year’s just like the Marines.” With his cane the attendant steadied himself and placed the hose back into the gas pump. He forced a smile at Chicky showing several missing teeth. “Anything else?”
    Ramon leaned over, cuffed his mouth and asked, “24/7...eh? So what shift do you work...midnights, you know, the graveyard shift...?”
    “Something like that, Dick Tracy,” the attendant sarcastically replied.
    “Whoa! Don’t take offense. Wasn’t asking about classified information, I was only curious and with good reason.”
    The attendant leaned over and stared at Ramon. “If it’s of any importance, which I sincerely doubt, I work, everyday from eight P.M. till eight A.M.” He shook his head. “If you’re asking because you’re planning on bringing me coffee, make it Scotch...Johnny Walker Black.
    “I was only asking because we just moved to the neighborhood and don’t get home from work until after midnight; so we need a place to gas up at that hour.”
    “Excuse me, but didn’t I tell y’a Rooster’s doesn’t ever close? In that case I’d say it really doesn’t matter what shift I work or don’t work or if I’m in Timbuktu basking in the sun with a coupl’a blondes or pushing up daisies, does it?” He forced a smile a Ramon and taped the cane against the car’s front bumper. “Okay, enough bullshit, three dollars.”
    Chicky handed the five dollar bill to the attendant.
    He snatched the bill, held it up to a light above the gas pump. Certain the money was not counterfeit, he stuck the bill into his shirt pocket and hung the cane over his arm. He balanced himself against the gas pump pulled a huge wad of dough from his pants pocket, peeled two dollars from it, and handed Chicky the change. Then without so much as a “Thank you” or “Good night” turned and limped back toward the office.
    Chicky asked, “Did you see the wad of dough on the old guy?”
    “How could I not?”
     “It’d be enough to put us on easy street.”
    “Yep, and that along with what’s in the cash register should hold us for a while.”
    Chicky said, “This’s the place, isn’t it, Monch?”
    “Yep, Rooster’s prime for the taking.”
    “It’ll be easy pickin’s, especially when the old bird’s on duty.”
    “Certainly seems like that.” Ramon replied.
    “Seems like that? C’mon, you for real? The night attendant’s an old geezer. Without the cane the guy can hardly stand up. So, tell me, Monch, when’re we going to take this place, eh?”
    Ramon rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. “According to the author of The Perfect Heist stick-ups are most successful during bad weather. So I’d say, it’d be best if we wait...wait until it...”
    “Wait? Wait for what?” Chicky interrupted. “Broke as we are, what if it doesn’t rain or snow for another month? Then what’re we supposed to do?”
    “Twiddle our thumbs and just patiently wait for a thundershower a blizzard or an earthquake...just as Rule Eight in the book suggests.”
    A voice came over the gas station’s loud speaker. “Okay, dummies, I only got one pump available. Take off, before I have y’a arrested f’er loitering.”
    Chicky started the car and looked over at Ramon. “That old asshole thinks he’s a wise guy, doesn’t he, Monch?”
    “He certainly comes off like that.”
    As Chicky drove from the gas station, he asked, “I wonder how much of a wise guy he’s going to be, when I shove a pistol in his kisser?”
    “You bought a pistol? We haven’t even got money for food. I thought we were going to use my old cap gun?”
    “Easy, Monch, I didn’t buy a pistol, and a cap gun wouldn’t fool anyone. You know, I’m quite accomplished at carving things out of wood...right?”
    “Sure, but what’s that got to do with the pistol you’re going to shove in the old guy’s puss?”
    “Everything, ‘because the .38 special I’m going to carve will look so real that it’ll have that old geezer shitting in his pants.”
    The guys slapped five to celebrate the success of their up-coming heist that would have them both sitting pretty and on top of the world.
    One evening the downpour was endless and heavy—perfect weather for sticking up Rooster’s Gas Station. Ramon and Chicky had spent the past couple days planning and rehearsing in detail exactly how they were going to pull off the heist.
    At ten minutes to midnight the rain was torrential. The men ran out of the building with jackets pulled over their heads and climbed into Chicky’s beat up jalopy. Ramon tossed an overnight bag onto the back seat. The bag contained a roll of duct tape, a box cutter and two black ski masks. The most significant item lodged in the bag was a replica of a .38 special Chicky had masterfully crafted from balsa wood and painted black.
    On the drive to Rooster’s Gas Station they thought it best to first stop at Nick’s Diner. Over coffee, which was all they could afford, they would review in detail precisely how they were going to execute sticking up the gas station. Rain was coming down in buckets. Chicky parked the car in the diner’s parking lot close to its entrance and the two men raced into the diner. Elvis’ “Love Me Tender” was playing from the juke box. The place was empty, except for a middle aged blonde waitress snapping her fingers to the rhythm and a short order cook in the kitchen peeling potatoes.
    Ramon and Chicky slipped into a booth at the back of the diner and ordered coffee. Then in a whisper they went over every aspect of the stick-up. When finished, Chicky took a sip of coffee and eye-balled Ramon. “You ready for this, Monch?”
    “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
    “You guess? What the hell does that mean?”
    Ramon shrugged. “Means just as I said...I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.”
    “Are you getting cold feet about pulling this heist?”
    “Not in the least. But on the way over here I got to thinking...”
    Chicky interrupted, “Thinking? Thinking about what? Thinking that maybe you haven’t got the balls to go through with this heist?”
    “Balls have nothing to do with it. After all the times I had your back, when you got into scraps you should be ashamed of yourself for even bringing up shit like that...it’s just something else.”
    “C’mon, Monch, you know as well as I do that heisting Roosters, especially with the old geezer on duty will be a walk in the park.” He waged a finger at Ramon. “Have you forgotten that we’re broke and haven’t had a good meal in days? I’m starved.”
    “So am I.” Ramon agreed. “What do you expect? We haven’t worked in...oh, God only knows how long. Talk about work I thought you were going to Nico for a job?”
    “I did, two weeks ago.”
    “So, what happened? He had no openings?”
    “Nope, he had two. And he was more than eager to put us both on immediately.”
    “What?” Ramon almost shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this back then?”
    “The job’s working for peanuts...busing tables, washing dishes, mopping floors and cleaning toilets for slave wages.”
    “Mopping floors and cleaning toilets for slave wages beats getting locked up. Do you think those jobs are still open?”
    “Forget it, Monch! Knowing Nico, you can bet those jobs are filled by now.”
    “Who are you kidding? You don’t know for sure if those jobs are taken...do you, Chick?”
    “What’s with all this bullshit about jobs, Monch?” Chicky poured sugar into his coffee and gave it a stir. “If for whatever reasons you’ve changed your mind about sticking up Rooster’s, just tell me straight up. I won’t hold it against you.”
    “Don’t sweat it, Chick. I’m not backing out. But as I said before, something about heisting Rooster’s has been bugging me.”
    “C’mon, Monch, what if anything could possibly be bugging you? Once I shove the pistol in the old geezer’s puss, he’ll be shitting in his pants and handing us the dough in record time.”
    “And that’s precisely what’s troubling me, Chick. Just thinking about the old guy being scared shitless doesn’t sit well with me at all.”
    “Excuse me, Monch, but have you forgotten that the reason we decided to stickup Rooster’s in the first place was because of the old geezer...remember? We knew with him on duty, robbing the gas station would be a piece of cake...right?”
    “I know, but the way you’re planning on intimidating the old guy is bugging me.”
    “Okay, okay, stop the crap. I’ll give you my word that I’m not going to hurt the old bird. I’m just going to let him know in no uncertain terms that we mean business and that it’d be in his best interest to hand over the dough in his pocket and whatever’s in the cash register without giving us any grief.”
    “And while you’re making your point, with the pistol pressed against his temple, he’ll probably be shitting in his pants, as you so bluntly put it. Did you ever think the old guy might have a bum ticker? I mean, could you live with yourself if, God forbid he collapsed and had a heart attack?”
    “Alright, alright, already, relax. Didn’t I tell you I’ll go easy on the old guy?”
    Ramon forced a smile at Chicky and applauded.
    Their coffee finished, the guys decided it was time to take care of business. On the drive over to Rooster’s they speculated on how much money they would get away with and how they were going to spend it.
    Stopped at a red light, Chicky looked over at Ramon with enthusiasm and said, “I was just thinking, with the economy the way it is, jobs aren’t readily available for guys like us...are they, Monch?”
    “Yeah, so, what’s your point, Einstein?”
    “Once we get this heist under our belt, we could take a vacation and spend a couple a weeks in the Bahamas or down on the Jersey Shore. When we return, instead of looking for work, we could case other gas stations or all night diners that could be easy pickings for a stick-up. We’d be our own bosses and wouldn’t have to worry about taking any crap from asshole supervisors. And we’d only have to work a day every two or three months. Then after pulling a few heists we could graduate from robbing gas stations and diners to sticking up banks and from there...”
    Ramon interrupted, “Don’t get carried away. Let’s see how this one goes first, Willie Sutton.” The traffic light turned green. “And don’t forget that I’m counting on you to go easy on the old guy...do we understand each other?”
    “Yeah, sure, I’ll be on my best behavior just like Father Flanagan or The Dalai Lama.”
    Rain was still heavy as Chicky turned onto Randall Avenue. A mob of people were on the sidewalk across the street from the gas station. Several uniformed cops amidst the crowd were keeping order. A police mortuary van drove off from the gas station. Two squad cars from the local precinct and an ambulance were parked at the station. High ranking police officers dressed in foul weather gear were all over the place. A mobile vehicle from one of the major networks pulled up across the street from the gas station. A cameraman and a reporter carrying a microphone and an umbrella stepped from the vehicle.
    A cop directing traffic motioned for Chicky to pull over to the curb. Terrified, Chicky turned white and stared at Ramon. “Holy shit Monch, why the hell’s he pulling us over?”
    “It’s obvious some shit went down. But don’t sweat it, seems as if they’re pulling everyone over.”
    “Get the bag, Monch. Bury it somewhere...anywhere. We’d be in deep shit if the cop saw the burglar equipment and the gun even though it’s bogus.”
    Ramon turned, grabbed the bag on the back seat, brought it to the front of the car, and shoved it under his seat.
    The cop approached the car, leaned over and stared through the open window. “There’s no through traffic, fellows. You can either make a U-turn, and I never told you to do so, or you could wait a couple’a minutes until things get squared away.”
    Chicky asked, “What happened, officer?”
    “Three gun toting thugs tried sticking up Rooster’s.”
    Astonished, Ramon and Chicky turned to stare at the other.
    Ramon then leaned toward the open window and looked up at the cop. “The old guy who works at the station is he alright?
    “If you mean, Arby, he’s just fine.”
    “Thank God,” Ramon sighed. “Did the thieves get away with much money, officer?”.
    “Get away? That’s a joke.”
    “Why’s that?” Chicky curiously asked.
    “First off, this is the third time this year thieves tried sticking up Rooster’s. All of the perpetrators, past and present, are either in prison or dead.”
    “Dead,” Chicky uttered, feeling a chill run up his spine.
    “That’s right. Just like the three hoodlums that tried sticking up Arby tonight. Two of them are on the way to the morgue and the other one’s barely alive. According to the ambulance physician he’ll be lucky if he makes it through the night.”
    Ramon asked, “It was three against one, wasn’t it, officer?”
    “Yep, sure was.”
    Chicky injected, “There’s no way Arby could’ve gotten the best of three thugs. I mean, unless, of course, he had a machine gun.”
    The cop laughed. “Arby doesn’t need a machine gun.”
    “You mean he shot it out with the three thugs by himself?”
    “There was no shootout. Those bandits never had a chance to begin with.” The officer noticed the puzzled expression on Ramon and Chicky’s faces. “You see here’s how it went down. The hoods stormed into the office with their guns drawn. One of them stuck a pistol in Arby’s face and demanded money.”
    Chicky said, “Arby must’ve been shitting in his pants, eh, officer?”
    The officer laughed. “I guess you fellows don’t know Arby...do you?”
    “We gassed up here one night when he was on duty,” Ramon replied. “Other than that we don’t know him from a hole in the wall. Why’re you asking?”
    “Why? That’s because everyone in the neighborhood that don’t walk with their heads in the ground knows that old-timer’s one tough cookie. This evening when the three desperadoes stormed into the place, he went into his survival mode.”
    His survival mode?” Ramon inquisitively asked.
    “That’s right, his notorious survival mode. Arby makes a practice of using it whenever being held up.”
    “He went up against three armed bandits?” Ramon curiously asked. “What the hell could he have possibly done to have gotten the best of them?”
    “Simple! Here’s how the survival mode works. With the gun pressed against Arby’s temple, he pretends he’s having a stroke, acts faint and drops to the floor as if he had collapsed. As he’s lying stretched out, allegedly unconscious on the floorboards, the three hoods make a dash for the cash register. While they’re in the midst of emptying it, Arby pulls a .45 automatic from a holster attached to the back of his trousers and blows the three of them away. By the way, Arby also happens to be an expert marksman.”
    Car horns from an accumulation of vehicles backed up on the cross street kept blaring, the noise getting louder. The officer cordially smiled at Ramon and Chicky. “Take care, fellows. Duty calls.”
    “Thanks, officer, have a good night.”
    The officer tipped his cap, and then headed toward the congested vehicles.
    “Holy shit Monch! I can’t believe the old geezer actually got the best of those three thugs.”
    “I guess it’s lucky for us that we didn’t get here any sooner or we’d have been the target practice for Arby, eh, Chick?”
    “I can’t believe the old geezer was actually packing a rod.” Chicky shook his head. “And of all weapons a .45 automatic at that. Go figure.”
    “Arby carrying a piece is covered by Rule Twelve in “The Perfect Heist.”
    Confused Chicky mumbled, “Rule Twelve?”
    “Yep, Rule Twelve that states when pulling a stick-up, never take anything for granted. And that’s what Arby had going for him.”
    “How’s that, Monch?”
    “Simple! Anyone looking at Arby, just like us, took it for granted that he was a pushover. I guess the three hoodlums that tried sticking him up tonight never read “The Perfect Heist.”
    Chicky rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. “You know, other than the cook and waitress, Nick’s Diner was completely empty...wasn’t it, Monch?”
    “So’s your brain. I know exactly where this is going. Just forget it.”
    “C’mon, Monch, now that heisting Rooster’s is out, I figured as long as the diner’s empty we’d have no problem sticking up the place.
    “No problem?” Did you ever think that the waitress, just like Arby, might have a Luger or an Italian Beretta concealed in her bra or strapped to her girdle?”
    “Holy shit, I never thought of that!” Chicky gasped. “What the hell are we going to do now, you know, I mean for money?”
    “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to Nico’s Restaurant.” Ramon looked down at his wrist watch. “They close, depending on how busy they are, at one, one-thirty...two the latest. With some luck maybe Nico’s still there and maybe, just maybe, he still has some job openings.”
    “Monch, you don’t think Nico would be interviewing job applicants at this hour...do you?”
    Ramon shrugged. “I’m sure he doesn’t make a practice of it. But if he has some openings, close as we are, he’d tell us to come back tomorrow.”
    “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”
    On the way to Nico’s Restaurant, stopped at a red light, Chicky glanced at Ramon. “Monch, I was just wondering if Nico has an opening for a maitre d’.”
    Startled Ramon rubbed his chin and asked, “Maitre d’?” Whoa! What happened to your career as a stick-up man, Clyde?”
    “I’m on a temporary leave of absence.”
    Chicky pulled up to the only available parking space on the block, located directly across the street from Nico’s Restaurant. The bright restaurant lobby was congested with customers on their way out of the place, most carrying umbrellas and doggie bags.
    Ramon opened the car door and said, “C’mon, Chick, let’s go before Nico leaves.”
    The rain was heavy, as they climbed out of the car. They pulled jackets over their heads, dodged traffic, and ran across the street into the restaurant. The vast, magnificently decorated dining room was empty except for two busboys clearing tables. As the guys wandered about, suddenly someone tapped them on the shoulder. They turned. Standing before them was Nico in a fashionable tailored suit, tall, distinguished looking and handsome. He smiled at Ramon and Chicky “The kitchen and bar’s closed. What’re you boys doing here at this hour, and in this weather?”
    “We were hoping with some luck you might have some job openings...anything...any kind of work.” Ramon spoke in a meek and self conscious tone. “Nico, we’re not afraid to work and certainly not afraid of hard work...honest.”
    Nico smiled. “This isn’t the chain gang fellas, so don’t sweat the hard work. I just need people who’re conscientious and willing to work hard.” Nico looked down at his wristwatch. “By the way, you guys pick some strange hours to go job hunting.”
    “We just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought maybe...”
    Nico interrupted. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s late and I have to clear the register, plus a million and one other things. But if you...”
    Disappointed, Ramon and Chicky mumbled, “Sorry, Nico...Have a nice night.” Discouraged they turned, and with hands stuffed in their pockets shuffled toward the door.”
    “Hold it, fellas,” Nico shouted, as he chased after them across the dining room.
    They stopped, turned and stared at Nico.
    “Why didn’t you guys give me a chance to finish what I was saying?”
    “Well...eh, I mean...we just figured...” Ramon sputtered.
    “Stop your figuring. I’ll expect both of you to be here at precisely ten tomorrow morning. I’ve got two openings. One’s for a busboy and another for a dishwasher, both jobs include mopping floors and cleaning toilets. Does that interest you boys?”
    They stood at attention and anxiously nodded.
    Nico jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the restaurants entrance. “Remember...its ten o’clock and don’t be late. Now beat it.”
    Ramon and Chicky bowed and both uttered, “Thank you boss.”
    “Excuse me, but didn’t I say beat it?”
    Thrilled, the duo walked out of the restaurant, as if they had just hit the Lotto. The rain was still heavy. Since the jalopy was parked across the street, the guys had no desire to get drenched, so they stood under the canopy, hoping the rain would eventually let up. Ramon put an arm around Chicky. “I can’t believe Nico actually hired us. Feels great, doesn’t it, Chick?”
    “Yep, it’ll be good to have some money in our pockets for a change.”
    “You know, it’s a miracle, Chick.”
    “What’s a miracle, you mean that Nico hired us?”
    “That, too, but that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
    “What the hell are you talking about, Monch?”
    “I’m talking miracles. I believe everything that happened tonight’s a kind of miracle...and it’s also a miracle that we’re both still alive”
    “Huh! You’re losing me, Monch.”
    “Think Chick. What if we hadn’t stopped at Nick’s Diner and gone directly to stick-up Rooster’s, then what, eh, Chick?”
    “Who knows? Anything’s possible. Maybe when we got to Rooster’s Arby would’ve been in the shithouse taking a crap. Then, there would’ve been no way he could’ve pulled off his survival routine on us.”
    “It’s easy to get cocky after the fact, Chick. In either case, here’s the way I see it. Strange as it may seem, bottom line, we’re indebted to Arby...indebted to him big time. Remember, if it weren’t for him blowing away those three bandits at Rooster’s we’d never have gone to Nico for work. And it’s anybody’s guess where we’d be right now...maybe in the morgue.”
    “Indebted, my ass!” Chicky pulled his jacket over his head. “C’mon, enough bullshit. Hard as it’s raining, let’s split. I’ve got to get some sleep. Nico want us back here at ten this morning.”
    Eight years later the guys were still employed at Nico’s Restaurant. In time Ramon was promoted to manager and the flamboyant Chicky began his apprenticeship as a waiter. Shortly afterwards he was upgraded to head waiter and eventually maitre d’. At seventy-three Nico had enough of the restaurant business and decided to retire. Instead of selling the place he handed it over to the guys on notes, with monthly payments of whatever they could afford.
    One night, just as Ramon and Chicky were about to close, Sergeant Jack McKenna from the local precinct walked into the place. He was dressed in civies so the guys knew he was off duty. Since taken over Nico’s the guys had gotten quite close with most at the precinct especially the brass and Sergeant McKenna. They could tell by the sorrowful expression blanketing his face that something was troubling him. “You alright, Jack?” Ramon asked.
    “Is the bar open? I need a drink.”
    “C’mon, Jack, you know the bar’s never closed for you.”
    Chicky ran behind the bar, held up a bottle of Smirnoff and asked, “Vodka on the rocks, right Jack?”
    “Make it a double, Chick.”
    “When’d you start drinking doubles, Jack?” Ramon suspiciously asked.
    “Tonight, I need it.”
    Chicky handed the Sergeant a double Vodka on the rocks, and McKenna gulped it down. “Give me one for the road, will you, Chick?” He took money from his pocket.
    “Don’t even think of it, Jack.” Ramon said. “Now, come clean. What the hell’s got you so upset?”
    “I’ve worked this precinct for the past twenty-five years. As a rookie beat cop I met Arby, who worked nights at Rooster’s Gas Station...you boys know the place?”
    “We’ve been there once some years back,” Ramon replied, wondering where this was going. Of course, he had no intention of telling the Sergeant back then he and Chicky had planned on sticking up Rooster’s.”
    “So I guess you boys don’t know, Arby?”
    “We met him once back then...it was just a brief encounter, but what does any of this have to do with why you’re down in the dumps?”
    “Over the years Arby and I got close...I loved the guy.” He shook his head, than buried his face in his open palm. Seconds later, somewhat composed and with his voice breaking up, he said, “Arby’s dead.”
    “Oh my God, what happened? Ramon almost shouted.
    “Tuesday night Arby had a massive heart attack. We buried him today.”
    “Tough break,” Chicky sighed, handling McKenna a second double vodka on the rocks. “Please accept my condolences, Jack.”
    “Mine too,” Ramon added. “And if there’s anything you need, don’t be shy.”
    “Thanks fellas.” The Sergeant lifted the glass. “It’s a shame you guys didn’t know Arby. That old timer was one tough cookie. But inside he had a heart of gold, especially for those who were up against it.” McKenna gulped down the vodka in one quick swig. He shook his head and said, “You know Arby was quite a bright guy. No, forgive me, he wasn’t bright, he was brilliant. And most people didn’t know he was the author of two books.”
    Chicky curiously asked, “What kind of books did he write?”
    “They were non-fiction books Arby wrote about crime under a fictitious name.”
    “Crime?” Chicky gasped. He must’ve been an authority on the subject.”
    “Yes he was. As a young man Arby was an F.B.I. agent...or at least he was until his leg got shot-up in a gunfight, which is why he limps and walks with the use of a cane.”
    “What was the title of these books he wrote,” Ramon asked.
    “The first book he wrote...” McKenna scratched his head and paused for a second. “It’s been years since I last read it so don’t quote me, but I believe he titled it ‘The Perfect Heist.’”
    Ramon and Chicky were flabbergasted and speechless. They discreetly looked at each other as if in shock and almost dropped their glasses.
    McKenna did not realize the shape the guys were in continued. “The other book Arby wrote was, for nine or ten weeks, on The New York Times Best Sellers List.”
    Somewhat composed Ramon asked, “What was the title of that book, Jack?”
    “It was a sequel to his first book entitled ‘A Dozen Ways to Beat the Perfect Heist.’ And because Arby wrote under an alias the publisher thought sales would skyrocket if the book’s author was an ex-con on The F.B.I’s Ten Most Wanted List.” Sergeant McKenna shook his head and mumbled, “What bull shit! Arby was as straight as they come.” He nodded at the guys, and with his voice breaking up said, “Thanks for the consultation fellas.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes. “Thanks for everything. I have to blow.”
    Ramon and Chicky watched, as McKenna shuffled his way toward the door. They noticed the grief on his face, when he turned to wave at them. Ramon began thinking of Arby. He realized to his embarrassment, that over the past eight years he had on occasion given Arby some thought. But those thoughts only occurred when someone, for whatever reason or other, mentioned Rooster’s Gas Station or when he heard of a stick-up that had been foiled by employees. Ashamed of himself, all Ramon could think of was Arby, visualizing him limping with the aid of a cane across the gas station. He thought of the night he courageously took down the three hoods by himself. Lucky for him and Chicky that incident happened 20 minutes prior to when they had planned on sticking up the gas station. Ramon, with a sigh of relief motioned to Chicky. “Pour me a drink, Chick.”
    Ramon vividly recollected that memorable night, thinking: I know for a fact that Arby killed the two thugs in cold blood and critically wounded the other. I know that it could have been Chicky and me instead of them. I also know, even though Chicky would never admit it, that that violent incident at Rooster’s brought him and I back to our senses. Ramon looked up toward the ceiling thinking: Thanks Arby, if it were not for you, taking out those three hoods we might’ve wound up being the next Jesse James, John Dillinger or dead.
    Chicky gave Ramon his drink, poured a beer for himself and sighed. “Shit! I can’t believe Arby’s dead. Isn’t that a bitch?”
    “Whoa! Since when’re you’re sentimental about Arby? I was always under the impression that you had no feeling one way or the other about him.”
    “That’s because I don’t always say what’s on my mind or how I feel and often keep things to myself...especially when I’m wrong.
    Ramon applauded. “Don’t stop now. You’re doing just fine, my boy.”
    “Excuse me! Can I please continue without any interruptions?”
    “The floor’s all yours.”
    Chicky pointed to the restaurant’s lavish décor. “Look at all of this. It’s elegant. And it’s all ours. I often think of how extravagantly we live...stylish clothes, magnificent homes, our beautiful wives and wonderful children.” He put his hand on Ramon’s shoulder. “And if you think just because I never speak of Arby or mention his name that I’ve got no feelings about him, that’s bullshit. Sure, it goes without saying that we also owe Nico for all this too. But if it weren’t for Arby, we would’ve never gone to Nico that night. And if it wasn’t for Arby, we’d probably be rotting in prison or digging ditches in the Sahara, living in some shithouse and still eating T.V. dinners, peanut butter and saltine crackers.”
    Ramon once again applauded. “Voil’a.”
    Both lifted their glasses, silently glanced at the other, and softly whispered, “Here’s to you, Arby. May you rest in peace?”

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