warning she would have had it cut. More warning—how much trouble would that have been? There it was again, her anger. Wow! When had she decided it was anger instead of disappointment?
Melanie turned away from the mirror and added a couple of granola bars to the backpack. Jared promised they’d be home before nightfall, and he would say the backpack wasn’t necessary. He was probably right. Maybe, like Charlie, she needed her own security blanket this time.
She heard a car pull in to the driveway and glanced at her wristwatch. Right on time. But when she looked out the window, she didn’t recognize the dark blue sedan. She did, however, recognize the car’s emblem. Another fucking Saturn. What was it with that boy and Saturns?
She opened the front door, holding it for Charlie while she stood on the porch scanning the surrounding houses, catching a glimpse of curtains swinging back into place in the brick bungalow across the street. Old Mrs. Clancy noticed everything in the neighborhood, but thankfully, she kept her mouth shut, whether out of respect or fear Melanie didn’t much care. She didn’t need some busybody reporting her every time a strange car appeared in her driveway. But, as Melanie watched Charlie, she couldn’t help wondering what old Mrs. Clancy was thinking, because she knew the woman was watching from somewhere in her house.
Charlie’s usual T-shirt and baggy jeans had been replaced by dark coveralls, the zip-up kind with long sleeves. The coveralls looked out of place in the ninety-degree heat. What looked odder was his bright white high-top Nikes peeking out from under the pant cuffs. That boy took better care of his shoes than his hygiene, which didn’t matter much today. He’d be a sweaty mess within a few hours of wearing those coveralls. He had a red bandana tied around his neck, the knot loose and hanging into the collar of the coveralls. Melanie wanted to laugh. Jesus! They weren’t seriously thinking of pulling the kerchiefs around their faces like some Wild West bank robbers, were they?
Already she could see lines of sweat running down Charlie’s forehead, trailing along his jawline, white lines through the instant-suntan cream he must have applied just before coming over. She wondered, if and when his head started sweating, would the black hair dye leave streaks of red down his neck? His entire disguise could be ruined by perspiration. But Charlie seemed totally unaware of any possible problems.
He walked up the sidewalk with his usual easy stroll, whistling. It wasn’t until he was on the porch that she recognized the tune from “Green Acres,” the old TV show. The boy could be a walking commercial for “Nick at Nite” programming.
She waited until he was inside the house, the door closed behind them before she said, “That’s your idea of a getaway car?”
“What? It’s a 2004. Has less than five thousand miles on it. And the windows are tinted. Ain’t nobody gonna see inside that son of a bitch unless they have their eyes plastered up against the window.”
She had to admit it looked brand new. Probably taken from another dealers’ lot, although it didn’t have dealer plates. She didn’t need to ask. She knew he had already taken care of them, switching the stolen car’s license plates with a pair he would have taken from the airport’s long-term parking or from one of the apartment complexes in West Omaha. Someplace where the switch wouldn’t be noticed for a few days, maybe even weeks. How many people would recognize their license plates were different? The boy was good. Fast. Efficient. But predictable. She tried to drill into his thick skull that it was the common, small mistakes that usually tripped up the best of the best. A speeding ticket, an unpaid tax bill or one too many stolen Saturns.
“Where’s Jared?” she asked. “I thought you were picking him up.”
“He had an errand. We’ll pick him up on our way. You’re supposed to be wearing
Melanie turned away from the mirror and added a couple of granola bars to the backpack. Jared promised they’d be home before nightfall, and he would say the backpack wasn’t necessary. He was probably right. Maybe, like Charlie, she needed her own security blanket this time.
She heard a car pull in to the driveway and glanced at her wristwatch. Right on time. But when she looked out the window, she didn’t recognize the dark blue sedan. She did, however, recognize the car’s emblem. Another fucking Saturn. What was it with that boy and Saturns?
She opened the front door, holding it for Charlie while she stood on the porch scanning the surrounding houses, catching a glimpse of curtains swinging back into place in the brick bungalow across the street. Old Mrs. Clancy noticed everything in the neighborhood, but thankfully, she kept her mouth shut, whether out of respect or fear Melanie didn’t much care. She didn’t need some busybody reporting her every time a strange car appeared in her driveway. But, as Melanie watched Charlie, she couldn’t help wondering what old Mrs. Clancy was thinking, because she knew the woman was watching from somewhere in her house.
Charlie’s usual T-shirt and baggy jeans had been replaced by dark coveralls, the zip-up kind with long sleeves. The coveralls looked out of place in the ninety-degree heat. What looked odder was his bright white high-top Nikes peeking out from under the pant cuffs. That boy took better care of his shoes than his hygiene, which didn’t matter much today. He’d be a sweaty mess within a few hours of wearing those coveralls. He had a red bandana tied around his neck, the knot loose and hanging into the collar of the coveralls. Melanie wanted to laugh. Jesus! They weren’t seriously thinking of pulling the kerchiefs around their faces like some Wild West bank robbers, were they?
Already she could see lines of sweat running down Charlie’s forehead, trailing along his jawline, white lines through the instant-suntan cream he must have applied just before coming over. She wondered, if and when his head started sweating, would the black hair dye leave streaks of red down his neck? His entire disguise could be ruined by perspiration. But Charlie seemed totally unaware of any possible problems.
He walked up the sidewalk with his usual easy stroll, whistling. It wasn’t until he was on the porch that she recognized the tune from “Green Acres,” the old TV show. The boy could be a walking commercial for “Nick at Nite” programming.
She waited until he was inside the house, the door closed behind them before she said, “That’s your idea of a getaway car?”
“What? It’s a 2004. Has less than five thousand miles on it. And the windows are tinted. Ain’t nobody gonna see inside that son of a bitch unless they have their eyes plastered up against the window.”
She had to admit it looked brand new. Probably taken from another dealers’ lot, although it didn’t have dealer plates. She didn’t need to ask. She knew he had already taken care of them, switching the stolen car’s license plates with a pair he would have taken from the airport’s long-term parking or from one of the apartment complexes in West Omaha. Someplace where the switch wouldn’t be noticed for a few days, maybe even weeks. How many people would recognize their license plates were different? The boy was good. Fast. Efficient. But predictable. She tried to drill into his thick skull that it was the common, small mistakes that usually tripped up the best of the best. A speeding ticket, an unpaid tax bill or one too many stolen Saturns.
“Where’s Jared?” she asked. “I thought you were picking him up.”
“He had an errand. We’ll pick him up on our way. You’re supposed to be wearing
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