The train wasn’t just going slow, it was coming to a stop.
Johnny Hilliard’s desperation was like a sauna he was locked in.
It wasn’t so much a time thing. It was a gas thing. The rusty Malibu, a car that reminded him of anything but Southern California, had been below E for a while.
He was splintering his father’s biggest piece of advice, a piece he had first gotten at thirteen:
Don’t wait until you’re desperate to do a criminal job. Plan it out, budget your money.
His father didn’t drink or do drugs. The big man just loved cigars, Zagnut bars, women.
Johnny pulled over to the curb. If the old Chevy did run out of gas, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with a cop.
The train was at a dead stop now.
Behind him, a construction zone for a new manufacturing plant, forty thousand square feet, some German outfit, all automated, needed an engineering degree just to apply.
To his left, acres of empty buildings, the streets long blocked with planters donated by the chamber of commerce.
Kooma’s Garlic Dills was the only place operating in this vast wasteland, where Johnny was about to run out of gas in a borrowed car.
Damn good pickles, Johnny thought.
There were pigs in a few of the railroad cars blocking La Salle Street.
Johnny was happy for ‘em. A few more minutes of life before they made it to the slaughterhouse.
He kinda wished he could spring ‘em, just run up and unlatch the train car, but he was sure it was heavily locked.
Then he got another thought.
The pigs can’t get out, but the cops can’t get in, at least not quickly.
He was in a no man’s land, a triangle bordered by a train, construction traffic, and abandoned property, ringed with razor wire and big, donated cement planters.
“C’mon, Johnny,” he heard his dad say. “Pickle joint wouldn’t have any cash. It’s wholesale, electronic transfer.”
But they have pickles. Overpriced pickles. If he held ‘em up for a few cases, he could sell each jar for five bucks instead of the $9.49 those assholes charged. 12 jars in a case, he could fit four cases in the Malibu...
“If you’re gonna be a criminal, be smart about it. Otherwise, just be a fucking salesman.”
Johnny hadn’t been smart about it. He was smart, he thought, but not smart enough.
He was on La Salle street, in a rusted Malibu, about to run out of gas, thinking about shoving his Glock in someone’s face for the privilege of becoming a pickle salesman.
***
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash
"Johnny Hilliard’s desperation was like a sauna he was locked in." Brilliant simile! I had to take a deep breath after I read this line.