DIME STORE ROBBERY
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Chester had no one to blame but himself, Ralph knew it, the kid would know it, too bad the kid was dead, Chester could have apologized.
It’s always the little things, and it was his old man who said that time and again. His old man, tough as nails, never a “Thank you,” or “Good job,” but he knew his stuff. The old man would be cussing him up one side and down the other. “Forgot to put gas in the car, you knucklehead!” Chester laughed thinking of knucklehead, time was when he wondered if that was his real name and not Chester. He picked up a rock and threw it at a mangy old dog, thinking he would tell Ralph he was a knucklehead for not gassing up the car.
Too bad he hadn’t mailed his drivers license to the sheriff with a note saying “I’ll be robbing the Five & Ten, Chester Nightly.” With his car in front of the store, the kid laying against the steering wheel dead as a doornail, which one would be the better clue. He laughed again, thinking, “Dead as a doornail,” who comes up with this stuff.
Ralph could not be consoled, he kept repeating “That could have been me at the wheel.” Chester pulled his gun and pressed the barrel against Ralph’s forehead, “Do not say that again, it was the kid, not you, you’re killing me with your tears,” and then laughed at his clever remark. Ralph was Chester’s cousin, and the kid was Ralph’s idea. “This kid next door wants to join our gang.” Chester was not liking the idea, “First, we’re not a gang, just you and me, second, we would be a trio if he tagged along.”
The two walked down the dirt road, purposely kicking up dust as the banter went back and forth. Chester suddenly stopped, reached into his front right trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, “Forgot to count the day’s receipts.” He checked the total twice before making his announcement. “Ninety-two dollars, not too bad, but surely not enough when you consider losing the kid.” Ralph was now squatting down drawing circles in the dirt with a four inch stick, each circle larger than the previous, and mumbling. “Cousin, what on earth are you blabbering about?” “The money belongs to the kid’s mother, every dime, or at least my half.”
A siren sent the two scampering into a cornfield and hugging the ground as Sheriff Becket sped by with the deputy sitting shotgun. Chester looked over to Ralph, “If you are willing to give away your share on what may be your last day of freedom, I can certainly do the same. I only recommend a slight adjustment, the kid’s mother gets ninety bucks, and we get a beer.”
Chester scraped the pencil against a granite rock to keep it sharp and the words legible. “Dear Madam, we are strangers passing through, this humble gift is just a small token to lighten the grief you will soon endure, your fellow travelers in life.” Ralph spotted a wire coat hanger on the road and speared the letter to the kid’s front screen door.
A frosty beer on a sweltering dusty day lightens whatever thoughts may spin through your mind. Chester, wanting to avoid shooting his groin, pulled the revolver from his waistband and sat it on the table as Ralph tapped a tune with his fingernails, keeping beat to the jukebox. “Cousin,” spoke Ralph, “Do you think they will give us a double bed cell to share?” “No idea cousin, but Sheriff Becket will do anything to stifle our happiness, best say we want separate jails, they call that reverse psychology.”
It was at that moment the sheriff entered the bar and started to look around. Chester quietly slid the gun off the table and onto his lap as he nudged Ralph and gave a head nod to the door. Once accustomed to the darkness, and seeing the pair, he walked over to Chester. “Just the man I’m looking for” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow with the rim of his hat. “Are you aware someone stole your car?” Ralph had just taken a deep draw from his bottle believing it could be his last, and the words sent him coughing. “That is surely news to me sheriff, criminals on the loose?” “Two are but we caught one, or let’s say a kid was dead leaning against your steering wheel.” “Blood dead or heart attack dead,” Chester inquired? “Blood, I’m sorry to say, and a lot of it. We may have a kitty to cover the cleanup if I can get approval from the higher-ups.”
The cousins dug deep and ordered a second beer once the sheriff left the bar. Ralph had a puzzled look staring out into space, and eventually brought his focus back to Chester. “I know why the car would not start again, the tank was empty, but how did the kid get shot? The noise shattered my ears, I threw open the door and ran.” Chester put his gun back on the table and in front of his cousin. “You keep the gun from now on. It was in my pocket, and reaching over the kid to see the gasoline gage for myself, the gun went off. It was a little thing, but I should have had a holster.” He paused, took a big swig of beer and let it settle, “Oh yeah, I was sure a knucklehead forgetting that gas.”
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Chester had no one to blame but himself, Ralph knew it, the kid would know it, too bad the kid was dead, Chester could have apologized.
It’s always the little things, and it was his old man who said that time and again. His old man, tough as nails, never a “Thank you,” or “Good job,” but he knew his stuff. The old man would be cussing him up one side and down the other. “Forgot to put gas in the car, you knucklehead!” Chester laughed thinking of knucklehead, time was when he wondered if that was his real name and not Chester. He picked up a rock and threw it at a mangy old dog, thinking he would tell Ralph he was a knucklehead for not gassing up the car.
Too bad he hadn’t mailed his drivers license to the sheriff with a note saying “I’ll be robbing the Five & Ten, Chester Nightly.” With his car in front of the store, the kid laying against the steering wheel dead as a doornail, which one would be the better clue. He laughed again, thinking, “Dead as a doornail,” who comes up with this stuff.
Ralph could not be consoled, he kept repeating “That could have been me at the wheel.” Chester pulled his gun and pressed the barrel against Ralph’s forehead, “Do not say that again, it was the kid, not you, you’re killing me with your tears,” and then laughed at his clever remark. Ralph was Chester’s cousin, and the kid was Ralph’s idea. “This kid next door wants to join our gang.” Chester was not liking the idea, “First, we’re not a gang, just you and me, second, we would be a trio if he tagged along.”
The two walked down the dirt road, purposely kicking up dust as the banter went back and forth. Chester suddenly stopped, reached into his front right trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, “Forgot to count the day’s receipts.” He checked the total twice before making his announcement. “Ninety-two dollars, not too bad, but surely not enough when you consider losing the kid.” Ralph was now squatting down drawing circles in the dirt with a four inch stick, each circle larger than the previous, and mumbling. “Cousin, what on earth are you blabbering about?” “The money belongs to the kid’s mother, every dime, or at least my half.”
A siren sent the two scampering into a cornfield and hugging the ground as Sheriff Becket sped by with the deputy sitting shotgun. Chester looked over to Ralph, “If you are willing to give away your share on what may be your last day of freedom, I can certainly do the same. I only recommend a slight adjustment, the kid’s mother gets ninety bucks, and we get a beer.”
Chester scraped the pencil against a granite rock to keep it sharp and the words legible. “Dear Madam, we are strangers passing through, this humble gift is just a small token to lighten the grief you will soon endure, your fellow travelers in life.” Ralph spotted a wire coat hanger on the road and speared the letter to the kid’s front screen door.
A frosty beer on a sweltering dusty day lightens whatever thoughts may spin through your mind. Chester, wanting to avoid shooting his groin, pulled the revolver from his waistband and sat it on the table as Ralph tapped a tune with his fingernails, keeping beat to the jukebox. “Cousin,” spoke Ralph, “Do you think they will give us a double bed cell to share?” “No idea cousin, but Sheriff Becket will do anything to stifle our happiness, best say we want separate jails, they call that reverse psychology.”
It was at that moment the sheriff entered the bar and started to look around. Chester quietly slid the gun off the table and onto his lap as he nudged Ralph and gave a head nod to the door. Once accustomed to the darkness, and seeing the pair, he walked over to Chester. “Just the man I’m looking for” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow with the rim of his hat. “Are you aware someone stole your car?” Ralph had just taken a deep draw from his bottle believing it could be his last, and the words sent him coughing. “That is surely news to me sheriff, criminals on the loose?” “Two are but we caught one, or let’s say a kid was dead leaning against your steering wheel.” “Blood dead or heart attack dead,” Chester inquired? “Blood, I’m sorry to say, and a lot of it. We may have a kitty to cover the cleanup if I can get approval from the higher-ups.”
The cousins dug deep and ordered a second beer once the sheriff left the bar. Ralph had a puzzled look staring out into space, and eventually brought his focus back to Chester. “I know why the car would not start again, the tank was empty, but how did the kid get shot? The noise shattered my ears, I threw open the door and ran.” Chester put his gun back on the table and in front of his cousin. “You keep the gun from now on. It was in my pocket, and reaching over the kid to see the gasoline gage for myself, the gun went off. It was a little thing, but I should have had a holster.” He paused, took a big swig of beer and let it settle, “Oh yeah, I was sure a knucklehead forgetting that gas.”
RICHARD SWAIN