The Easy Way Out

12

Damon leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching Blake on his hands and knees setting floor tiles. "You're gonna have a gap up here." He pointed to the intersection of the corner of the lower cabinets and the floor.

Blake shot him a "no shit" glare and placed another tile. "Old houses. Good luck finding a straight line."

"You think maybe you shoulda gone darker? To match the counter better?" He took a drink.

"Probably gonna replace the countertops. Plus, these were on sale. So..."

"Christ, you're gonna give yourself a brain tumor." Damon winced. "Aren't you supposed to be working in a well-ventilated area with that tile adhesive? Or at least wear one of those respirators?"

"Open that window behind you."

Damon squinted into the afternoon sun filtering through the kitchen window, set down his beer on the counter, then muscled open the swollen wooden window. "You gotta fan?"

"Might be a box fan in the basement."

Damon interpreted the comment to mean somebody else would go downstairs and get the fan. "Okay. So anyway." He sipped his beer. "Nobody's said shit. You did it when?"

"Wednesday."

"Woulda for sure heard something Thursday or Friday. Definitely."

"They don't know?"

"How would they even know? There's no security down there."

"You're positive?"

"Dude, you know what a spaz McQuaid is. If he knew somebody opened that garage door, he'd be losing his shit."

Blake laid the next tile then set the spacers.

"Remember when those cars up on the lot got egged last Halloween?"

Blake nodded.

"Holy Christ! McQuaid bitched and moaned about it for months. Somebody takes the last cup of coffee and doesn't make a new pot, he fuckin' goes ape shit. So believe me, if he knew that door was opened, there'd be major drama. Guar-an-teed."

Blake slid another tile out of the box then placed it against the wall.

"Dude. You got the green light. All systems go. While he's up at the diner, you open the door, grab the money, and you're gone before he's halfway through his meatloaf. You're in and out in ten minutes. Fifteen maybe if you stop to tie your shoe."

"So why don't you do it?"

Damon lowered his beer, his face scrunched tight.

"Grab the money yourself." Blake scored a tile and snapped it.

"You don't think every guy in the shop's thought about that every time one of those mules comes walking through with a backpack full of cash?"

Blake set the cut tile into place, satisfied with the fit.

"Who do you think they're gonna be looking at when the money gets lifted, huh? Us guys in the shop." He gulped his beer. "I'm totally fine taking my cut and staying the fuck out of the way. You're in the clear. Nobody's gonna be looking at you. Plus, you MacGyvered your way in there. Me and my little parakeet brain woulda had zero chance of hacking that door." He turned his head when Rachel lumbered in, struggling with a box of tile.

"Hey." Damon grinned.

"Ooof." She dropped the box on the counter. "Little early in the day for a beer, don't you think?"

"Game comes on at four. I'm gettin' primed."

"There's another box in the trunk. You mind?"

"Yeah, sure." He finished his beer, set the bottle down, and exited.