Free Dream Wheels by Richard Wagamese Page B

hand time and time again, raised it to his face, looked at it and poured all the churning vitriol into its clenched tautness until the drug took over and it fell slowly to his side.
    “It’ll be okay, boy. You’ll see,” his grandfather said.
    Joe Willie looked at him, numbed by the morphine and quieted by the rage. He turned his head. Something inside him kept right on turning and he followed the bear out of the room.
    They walked down the alley and out into the hard flat light of the street. Around them the neighbourhood was thrumming with the afternoon energy of shoppers, buskers, joggers. It was a nondescript avenue, a transition zone between seamy andtrendy, organic food stores next to the pawnshops, headshops and coffee joints. Aiden and Cort melted into the background, a pair of kids at loose ends, traipsing down the street and stopping to lean against a wall to smoke. They had book packs hooked over one shoulder, and nothing in their manner or their dress suggested anything other than teenagers on their way home from school. They stayed where they were for the length of time it took to smoke two cigarettes, then slouched away casually to a small café on the near corner. In their booth they were studious about the menu, quiet and at ease, looking out the window patiently while their burgers were being prepared.
    “Not much action over there,” Cort said after they’d been served. “You sure it’s worth it?”
    Aiden chewed some fries and studied his friend, pressing one hand downward in the air to quiet his talk. “It’s perfect,” he said.
    “How do you figure?”
    “Lots of things. But mostly, it’s a family store and the girl works regular evening hours on regular days. She’s in college and she works alone. No extra staff, no surprise arrivals.”
    “That’s good?”
    “Real good,” Aiden said. “She locks up at ten, walks two blocks down the street to the bank and drops the cash bag in the slot. The drop is next to the alley that leads to the park that leads to the ravine and gone.”
    “Sounds good. Where’s the hitch? There’s gotta be a hitch.”
    Aiden sipped at his milkshake. “We gamble on the day,” he said.
    “Meaning?”
    “What they turn that day. How much business they do.”
    Cort took a long look down the street toward the bookstore. “Doesn’t look like much of a business to me.”
    “Trust me,” Aiden said. “Bookstore. Never a crush of people, just a regular, steady business. It doesn’t stick out. Not to the cops, not to anybody. They feel safe. Nobody robs a bookstore. It’s always the liquor stores and corner stores.”
    “How much?”
    “I don’t know. I figure a few hundred.”
    “That ain’t much.”
    “It’s enough to slide it down the list.”
    “The list?”
    “The score list. Guys are pulling down scores all the time. Cops are more interested in the big ones, the ones over a grand, the ones with narcotics involved, home invasions, shootings, that sort of stuff. Small jobs like this don’t draw much heat. They’ll investigate it because they gotta but they’re not real hot to trot to solve it.”
    “Still.”
    “Still what?”
    “Still don’t seem like a lot for the effort.”
    Aiden nodded. When he looked at Cort he did it squarely and he saw his friend blanch at the directness, lower his head to his food and wait for the next words to release him.
    “It’s all safe. It’s way out of our neighbourhood for one thing and nobody knows us around here. It’s fast; show the piece, grab the bag, don’t make a lot of noise and attract attention, gone. It’s a girl so there won’t be a scene. And we’re not walking around with fistfuls of loot after. I seen guys after a score spending money like it was on fire in their hands. We don’t do that. Everything we do is low key. Safe. Unnoticed. No heat. Besides,” he said and grinned at Cort over a mouthful of burger, “I’m just a friggin’ kid.”
    Cort smiled back. “Yeah,” he said.