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Templar coupe. The driver was leaning out his window and gabbing with the driver of a pickup truck facing the other way. A pair of locals chewing the fat in the middle of the street and in no hurry about it because there was no waiting traffic behind either of them.
    As we got to the Lincoln, Earl said Hey you! Move it!
    The driver of the Templar turned to squint at us through the passenger window. Say now, mister, he said, you could try asking a little more polite.
    I slid behind the wheel and cranked up the motor as Earl took out his piece and pointed it at him and said How’s this for polite, you stupid hick! Now move it!
    Their eyes got this big and the other driver hunched down behind the wheel and his truck went rumbling off. But the guy in the Templar was so rattled the car bucked hard and stalled.
    Oh God, mister, the guy shouts, don’t shoot! And puts his hands up.
    I said move that fucken thing! Earl yells. But the guy’s too scared to do anything except put his hands higher and beg Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot!
    Watch out, I said to Earl. I yanked the gearshift into reverse and gunned the Lincoln backward and— pow! —I sent the little coupe screeching sideways farther into the street, its windshield falling apart and the driver’s hat flying off. But it was still partially blocking us in, so I pulled forward again, put it into reverse once more, and pow! —I rammed the Templar even harder, spinning it halfway around and out of our way. The little car’s side was demolished and the driver wasn’t in sight.
    Earl hopped in as I wheeled the Lincoln around. People were flocking out to the sidewalks to see what all the crashing was about. I stomped on the gas pedal and we tore off down the street as the bank alarm started sounding.
    Why, that fat sorry bastard, Earl said, glaring back toward the bank. Then we flew past the city limit sign without any cars behind us and we were both laughing like hell.
    We weren’t laughing two hours later when we were back in the apartment and found out the money was mostly small bills. The take came to $2,285—more than either of us had ever had our hands on,to be sure, but there was no denying Miss Blue Eyes had pulled a fast one on us. We read all about it in the next day’s paper. Her name was Helen Something-or-other and the report hailed her as a fast-thinking heroine who had outfoxed the robbers by foisting the small bills on us and saving the rest of the cash in the vault. More than four thousand bucks.
    Earl was so furious he wanted to go back to Marion and fix her wagon. For days afterward he muttered about that no-good crooked bitch. Not me. I admired her pluck—not to mention those sexy eyes and sweet curves. Ten to one she ended up marrying some banker and they bought a nice house and had a bunch of kids and she lost her figure and every day of her life is the same as every other day and will be until she’s too old for it to make any difference anymore. But I’ll bet you anything that every now and then she remembers staring down the barrel of my pistol and how her breath went deeper than it ever did in her life and how her blood sped up and she had absolutely no idea what would happen next.
     
    I bought a four-year-old Buick in good condition and went to the best haberdashery in town and got myself a new wardrobe, including three custom-tailored suits and a pair of Italian shoes. And then one evening I drove over to the Copper Kettle Café where Mary was waiting tables.
    I hadn’t seen her since she’d quit her job with the old couple. She was busy taking an order and didn’t notice me when I came in and took a booth at the rear of the room. I held a menu so she couldn’t see my face until she came to the booth and said, What’s yours, mister?
    I lowered the menu and smiled big. How’s the caviar in this place, I said.
    Well now, she said, look at you.
    I said I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d dropin for a bite before