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Chastity called him that all the time. She almost never called him George anymore.
    A dozen tables and other work surfaces ringed the perimeter of the barn. George tore himself away from looking at the drying marijuana and set down the tools, then picked up a large bundle of green plants he’d brought in earlier. The tables and benches around him were set up with production equipment: twine and hooks to gather up pot for drying and hang up the bundles, bundlers and a boxing machine for making bricks, and boxes of baggies and scales and anything else he might need to prepare the merchandise for sale. Using the twine, he tied the ends of the plants together and hung the bundle from one of the few open areas in the barn.
    In the middle of the barn, also used as a garage, sat two vehicles: an old Mustang and a beat-up old white Corolla, parked under a grouping of work lights, surrounded by the tables and work surfaces. He looked at the new car taking up a good portion of the open area of the barn. It had appeared overnight, as if by magic, and would be gone soon. George would be driving it, as soon as they heard about the ransom. He wished he could keep it. He’d asked, but the boss said no.
    George had always been into cars. He’d started out as a mechanic and sometimes wondered what would have happened, if he’d stayed at the dealership, busting his nut working on other people’s cars. After he’d been released from prison, he’d gotten on with the boss and George had been able to fix up some of the old farm equipment around this place. But he missed working with cars, trying to figure out what made them tick, trying to fix them.
    He ran his hands along the clean lines of the stolen Mustang. He assumed it was stolen. The boss hardly ever let him in on anything. All George knew was the plan required a fast car that couldn’t be traced back to any of them, and so a car appeared.
    The other car in the garage, the beat-up, old, white Corolla, George had found wasting away in a back corner of the garage, when he’d moved in. It hadn’t worked at the beginning, but he’d fiddled with it for a few months and had gotten it working. Now, he used it when he needed to run into town. It was too bad they couldn’t use the Corolla tomorrow and abandon it. He hated that useless car. It rattled like a deathtrap on the highway. He hadn’t been able to fix the body panels, which, had swollen with rust and, in places, pulled away from the chassis.
    The back door swung open, bathing the inside of the garage with sudden sunlight, and Chastity walked inside.
    “Where have you BEEN, Puddin’?” Chastity asked, exasperated. She got exasperated a lot. “Leave that car alone and get inside. You know you can’t keep it.”
    Chastity looked good.
    He’d appreciated her from the moment they’d met, and thanked his lucky stars for every day that she put up with him. Even if she was mean to him. She was thin and blonde and gorgeous. And she knew it, too. One time, she’d told him that she hardly noticed anymore when men were admiring her. “I’m like a pretty painting,” she’d said at the time. “They just like to look.”
    Chastity was wearing a tiny pair of blue denim shorts he liked and a tight, yellow shirt that showed off every curve of her figure. It made George happy to be a man, anyway. Just looking at her was worth putting up with—
    “They won’t shut up,” she said, stopping in front of him and putting her hands on her hips. “The crying and the whining. Puddin’, I’m getting sick of it!”
    He loved those hips but pulled his eyes away and looked at her eyes, nodding.
    “It’s okay, Chas. I’m coming,” George said, nodding. “I just had to finish up.”
    He left the garage, locking it behind him and walked to the house. She shadowed him, starting in again with the complaining. They were too far out in the country, there wasn’t anything to eat, they were out of beer. You’d think with as much money as they