Corey hated being compared with his father.
He also repeated many of the same mistakes.
He had been fired from a tire shop for fighting with a customer. He had lost another job after failing to show up for three consecutive shifts. He owed money to several people, though he could never give Leo a consistent explanation of how much.
He was not a criminal mastermind.
He was a frightened young man who believed the world respected only those who looked dangerous.
When Leo told him about Richie, Corey laughed.
"Then stop letting him push you around."
Leo stared at him.
"That's easy for you to say."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means he knows where my mother lives."
Corey shrugged.
"So?"
"So I don't want him showing up there."
"Then make him understand you're not scared."
Leo had looked at the floor.
Corey mistook that silence for agreement.
A few days later, he arrived at Leo's apartment with a .38 revolver wrapped in a dirty towel.
"Where'd you get that?" Leo asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
Corey unwrapped the weapon.
"It belonged to a guy I knew. He doesn't need it anymore."
"Did you buy it?"
"Something like that."
"Corey."
"What?"
"You can't just walk around with a gun."
Corey gave a humorless laugh.
"That's funny coming from the guy with a shotgun in his trunk."
Leo felt his stomach tighten.
He had not told Corey where he kept the Mossberg.
Corey noticed the expression on his face.
"Relax. You told me last week."
Leo could not remember doing so.
That frightened him more than the gun.
Over the following days, Corey continued suggesting ways to solve their problems.
They could steal a car.
They could rob a convenience store.
They could break into a storage unit and sell whatever they found.
Each suggestion was more reckless than the last.
Leo rejected them all.
Until Richie called.
The call came shortly after nine on a Thursday evening.
Leo was sitting in the Dodge Neon, trying to decide whether he had enough fuel to drive to a job interview the next morning.
Richie's voice sounded almost cheerful.
"I need to see you tonight."
"I don't have the money."
"I didn't ask if you had the money."
"I'm working on it."
"You're always working on it."
Leo closed his eyes.
"Give me until Monday."
"Monday isn't going to work."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm done waiting."
A pause followed.
Then Richie said, "You know where your mother lives, right?"
Leo's grip tightened around the phone.
"Leave her out of this."
"Then stop making me come looking for you."
The call ended.
Leo sat motionless for several minutes.
He imagined Richie walking into his mother's house. He imagined Teresa trying to be polite while a dangerous man stood in her kitchen. He imagined Melissa arriving home from work and finding everything destroyed.
He imagined Frank's old expression, that look of contempt that always appeared when Leo was afraid.
He felt sixteen again.
Then Corey called.
"What's happening?"
Leo told him.
Corey listened without interrupting.
When Leo finished, Corey said, "We need money."
"I know."
"Tonight."
"I know."
"Then let's get it."
Leo stared at the windshield.
"What are you talking about?"
"There's a place outside Barstow. Twenty-four-hour diner. Truckers come through with cash. People stop there because they think nobody's watching."
Leo felt cold.
"No."
"Listen to me."
"No."
"One score. That's all. We get the money, pay Richie, and disappear for a while."
"That's robbery."
"That's survival."
Leo's voice rose.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Corey became quiet.
Then he said something that struck the exact place where Leo was most vulnerable.
"You can keep being scared of every man who threatens you. Or you can do something about it."
Leo said nothing.
"You think your mother wants you living like this? You think Melissa respects you? You think anybody does?"
Leo stared at his own reflection in the windshield.
He wanted to tell Corey to shut up.
He wanted to drive away.
He wanted to call his sister and admit everything.
Instead, he heard himself ask, "Where did you say the diner was?"
Corey gave him the directions.
For the next hour, Leo tried to convince himself they were merely going to talk.
They would go inside. They would look around. They would decide the place was too risky and leave.
He repeated that promise until the words became meaningless.
At 11:52 p.m., he climbed into the passenger seat of Corey's battered 2003 Dodge Neon.
The shotgun lay between them, wrapped in a dark blanket.
The revolver was tucked into Corey's waistband.
The fuel gauge hovered just above empty.
As they drove west, the lights of Fresno disappeared behind them.
Corey played music too loudly and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.
Leo stared at the road.
"You ever think about what happens afterward?" he asked.
Corey glanced at him.
"After what?"
"After tonight."
"We pay Richie. We get out of town."
"And then?"
"Then we figure it out."
Leo looked through the windshield at the black ribbon of highway.
He thought about Teresa.
He thought about Melissa.
He thought about the shotgun between his feet.
And somewhere beneath his fear, a small voice kept repeating the same warning.
Turn around.
Go home.
Tell somebody the truth.
But the farther they drove into the desert, the harder it became to imagine returning to the life they had left behind.
At 12:38 a.m., the Neon turned into the Desert Star parking lot.
Two minutes later, the engine died.
And inside the diner, Mike Callahan lifted his eyes from his coffee.
The Man in the Last Booth
Mike had spent much of his life learning that a crisis rarely began at the moment everyone recognized it.
It began earlier.
A hesitation. A change in breathing. A hand moving where it had no reason to move. A person looking at an exit before looking at the people in the room.
None of those details proved anything by themselves.
But together, they could form a picture.
And the picture Mike saw now was becoming difficult to ignore.
Leo stood near the counter, his right hand hidden beneath his jacket.
Corey remained a few feet behind him.
Evelyn had set a glass of water on the counter.
"Can I get you gentlemen something?"
Leo opened his mouth.
For a second, Mike thought the younger man might ask for coffee.
Instead, Corey pulled the revolver from his waistband.
"Nobody move."
The words struck the room like a dropped tray.
The young couple beside the window froze.
The truck driver turned halfway in his seat, then stopped when Corey pointed the revolver in his direction.
Evelyn's hand tightened around the water pitcher.
"What are you doing?"
"Get away from the register," Corey snapped.
Leo pulled the shotgun from beneath his jacket.
The movement was awkward, hurried, and far less controlled than he had imagined it would be.
The muzzle swept across the counter.
Evelyn gasped and stepped backward.
A glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor.
"Everybody down!" Corey shouted.
The young woman near the window began crying.
Her boyfriend pulled her toward the floor, knocking a plate of fries onto the tiles.
The truck driver raised both hands.
Mike remained seated.
He did not move because he was trying to look brave.
He remained seated because he had spent enough years around frightened people holding dangerous weapons to understand that sudden movement could turn confusion into catastrophe.
His pulse had accelerated, but his breathing remained slow.
He studied the two men.
Corey was holding the revolver in a tight, awkward grip. His shoulders were rigid, his face flushed. The gun moved whenever he spoke.
Leo's shotgun was pointed generally toward the room, but his eyes were fixed on the floor.
His mouth had gone pale.
He looked as though he might be sick.
"Wallets!" Corey shouted. "Phones, cash, everything! Put it on the counter!"
Nobody answered.
"I said put it down!"
The truck driver slowly reached toward his back pocket.
"Don't!" Leo shouted.
The driver froze.
Leo looked at Corey.
"You said nobody would get hurt."
Corey's face twisted.
"Shut up."
"You said we were just taking money."
"Then stop talking!"
The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but Mike noticed everything about it.
The younger man with the shotgun was already regretting being there.
The one with the revolver was trying to conceal the fact that he was terrified.
That combination was dangerous.
Fear could make a person surrender.
It could also make him do something irreversible.
Mike looked toward Evelyn.
She stood behind the counter with her hands raised.
Her face had lost its color.
He had seen that expression before.
Not in a diner.
Not beneath fluorescent lights.
But in a different room, under different circumstances, with the same helpless realization that someone else now controlled the next few seconds of her life.
He had promised himself he would never again confuse stillness with safety.
Yet he also knew that acting without judgment could cost innocent people their lives.
So he waited.
Corey moved toward the truck driver.
"Your wallet. Now."
The driver placed it on the counter.
"Phone too."
The man obeyed.
Corey swept the wallet into his jacket pocket.
"Next."
The young couple placed their phones and wallets on the table.
The woman was crying so hard that she could barely speak.
"Please," she whispered. "We don't have much money."
"Then this should be easy."
Leo flinched at Corey's answer.
Mike watched him.
The shotgun trembled.
Not constantly. Not violently.
But enough.
"Hey," Corey said, pointing the revolver toward Mike. "You in the back."
Mike raised his eyes.
"Me?"
"You see anybody else sitting there?"
Mike glanced around the diner.
"Not unless you've brought someone invisible."
For one absurd moment, Corey looked genuinely confused.
Then his expression hardened.
"You think this is funny?"
"No."
"Then get your wallet."