I parked the car in a vacant lot three streets south of the convenience store. I had scoped the area a few days before and found no security cameras. Gary had already donned his ski mask, but it was rolled up to the top and looked like a beanie. Even in the dim light with a rolled up ski mask on his head, Gary looked like one of those 1940’s movie stars. His eyes were dark but expressive, his jaw was square, and he had a dimple in his chin that could be downright distracting if you weren’t careful.

“Are ski masks really necessary?” I asked. 

“Of course they are,” said Gary. “Even if we avoid the cameras, the kid will see us. He’s bound to remember what you look like; you’re just too darn cute.”

He smiled and winked. Gary was dumb but sweet. He wasn’t a natural born criminal. If he hadn’t met me, he would have married a nice girl, gotten a job, and had a normal life. He certainly never would have served 3 months for breaking and entering and his record would still be clean. I was the one who led him astray and that damn beatific smile of his was almost enough to activate my conscience. Almost. 

“Okay,” I said as I pulled my mask down, “let’s do this.”

We stayed in the back alleys until we came out in front of Conway’s 24 hour Convenience Mart. Gary pulled his gun and we charged in.

“Put your hands up!” Gary ordered in his deepest voice.

The store was empty and the clerk had been snacking on a bag of corn chips. He immediately raised his hands, sending chips into the air like confetti. 

“Please don’t shoot!” he cried. “I finally got a girlfriend; I can’t die now!”

His name was Ryan, according to the gold name tag on his red polo. It was odd that after 2 weeks of casing the joint, this was the first time I had noticed his name. 

“Nobody has to die if you do as you’re told,” I said. 

Actually, nobody was likely to die, regardless. Gary refused to load the gun. I wanted at least one bullet so he could shoot the ceiling when we entered and cause plaster to sprinkle down and lights to spark like in an action movie. Gary said it was too dangerous and went on and on about how he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something went wrong and the bullet hit me. I finally agreed to no bullets just to stop the whole sappy soliloquy. 

“Open the register and put all the money in the bag!”  I opened a burlap tote and held onto it as I looked over the counter to make sure Ryan didn’t press the alarm button. “And then you’re going to open that safe under the counter and give us the rest of the money.”

“What?” Ryan froze with a small stack of bills in his hand. 

I grabbed the cash and threw it into the bag. “The safe under the counter, Ryan. We know it’s there, so open it after you empty the register.”

“I can’t!” He ducked behind the counter and curled into a ball with his hands over his head.

“Ryan,” I leaned over and glared at him, “Do you really want to play hero for an employer who pays you with minimum wage and corn snacks?”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Only the manager knows the combination. We drop the money into a slot in the safe when the register gets too full, and the manager takes the money to the bank in the morning.”

The kid’s hands were shaking and his voice trembled. I doubted he was lying, and I wanted to get out of the store before any witnesses wandered in.

“All right, fine,” I said, “just empty the register.”

“And give us a six pack of beer, some beef jerky, and a couple bags of French onion chips,” Gary added.

“This isn’t a drive-thru!” I said.

“I’m hungry.” Gary shrugged. “I skipped dinner.”

The register was empty. I closed the bag and hugged it close to my chest. “You heard the big guy. He needs a snack! He gets angry when he’s hungry.”

The kid threw a six pack, a handful of jerky, and the chips into a plastic bag and pushed it to the edge of the counter. “Don’t shoot me!” he begged, and ducked as Gary reached over to grab it. 

I turned and ran out the door as quickly as I could. I heard the kid call out in a high-pitched, cracking voice, “Thank you for shopping at Conway’s!”

I looked back. Gary lumbered behind me. 

“Wait up!” he shouted. “I’m not as fast as you!”

I was counting on that. At six feet, two hundred pounds, and with a smoking habit, sprinting was not Gay’s strong suit.

I made it to the car just as I heard sirens approaching. Gary was half a mile away, standing there, dumbfounded, as I started the engine and pulled away. 

In the rearview mirror, I saw red and blue lights flash behind him as the six pack fell through the flimsy bag and his snacks spilled onto the street. Whatever happened to Gary wasn’t my concern. I pushed the gas pedal all the way down, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, blissfully unaware that karma was right behind me.