"Nobody, Flip—not yet. But I got me a feeling all of us in our little group aren't happy. Right, Art?"
"I didn't say that," protested Johnson.
"That's what it sounded like to me."
"So excuse me for living." He shrugged. "All I said was that I don't go for that kind of jazz. It spells trouble, big trouble. C—O—P trouble."
"Ahhh, you're a real nervous nellie, Art. I tell you, this place is a leadpipe cinch. He leaves the money in a register my baby brother could walk off with, and the lock on that back door is made out of bubble-gum. Now all we gotta do is wait till about midnight, after the patrol car swings through. It doesn't come back again for forty minutes, and that's more than enough time for what we want to do. What do you say?"
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. Just do it. Now, what do you say?"
"Well, okay."
"Good!" Danny settled back and slapped the table. "It's settled, then. Flip picks us up here at eleven thirty and we drive over to Blandina and park behind the billboard on the vacant lot the next block down. Now don't either one of you creeps go fouling up this deal."
"What's to foul?" said Flip.