Job Gone Wrong

The idea was mine. “Nobody ever hits restaurants. Bars, liquor stores, gas stations, sure. Why not restaurants?”

Jacks, a burger and fish joint, but nice. I cased it good. Lots of cash transactions, not much staff. Right next to the culvert, so we could get away on the dirt bikes.

They closed at one, so fifteen minutes after I walked into the front, Davy into the back, shotguns ready. In and out.

But it didn’t go like that.

“That Mexican dishwasher is playing dumb,”  Davy said. “You understand plenty good, you sonofabitch. ”  And Davy shot him full in the chest.

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