You know how it is when you keep sticking your thumb up, and the cars go on by, just like you weren’t there. You think, “O.K., I’ll let this flock through and wait for a truck.” Then you pound away on your dogs, hoping for a truck to show up, but it doesn’t.
That’s the way it took Hienie. Not that Hienie was a bym, he wasn’t. Fate, or what ever you like to call a lousy break, had dealt him one from the bottom of the deck. He and Johnny Frost had got together to do a job. It was simple enough. Hienie had seen to all the details and that meant something. Hienie was a smart guy when it came to details.
All they had to do was to walk into a cafe, show the guy behind the counter a gun, open his cash-box, and beat it. Hienie knew this guy took the cash round to the bank every Friday. During the week the cash-box got good and full. The guy was crazy to have a system like that, but then, Hienie and Frost lived on crazy guys.
You’d think you couldn’t go wrong on a simple set-up like that—you couldn’t, but Frost got it into his nut that you could. He started making plans and getting smart, until Hienie got sore.
Hienie kept telling him all they had to do was to blow in, show the gun, and collect. You didn’t have to hang around checking the time when the coppers would be around. You didn’t have to turn your clothes inside out, so you wouldn’t be spotted, or do any of the other cock-eyed ideas Frost kept squawking about.
Frost wouldn’t do the job the easy way. They were still arguing when they set off by road to Jefferson City. Finally, Hienie got mad, and that’s where he came unstuck. Frost was a big guy and he owned the car. He listened to Hienie for a couple of minutes and then hoofed him out of the car. “O.K., smart guy,” he said, letting the clutch in with a bang, “go bowl a hoop. I’ll handle the job myself.”
Hienie was so mad that he let him go. He had a childlike faith that he could collect a lift from one of the many glittering cars that continually roared past. He’d get a lift to Jefferson City and beat that hop head to it.
It was only after the sixteenth car had ignored his frantic signals that doubt began to cloud his optimism. After the twentieth car had choked him with dust, he gave up and decided to wait for a truck.
He sat by the roadside and lit a cigarette. He cursed Frost viciously, groping far back in his loose mind for suitable terms. If ever he caught up with that guy he’d give it to him. He’d walk right up to him and say, “Hello, pal,” and then he’d let him have it in the guts. He’d stand over him and watch the heel croak.
As he sat there brooding, he noticed a car approaching in the distance. One glance made him get to his feet hurriedly. It wasn’t a private car; from where he was standing it looked mighty like a hearse.