The pickup was right where Jimar said it would be. It was a silver, tricked-out, Ford 350 with a shiny tool box cozied up in the bed next to the rear-view window. Bonus, that’d be full of tools we could hock. I walked by in tennis shoes and shorts, like a jogger on the street. When I got to the truck, I pretended to trip and fall into it. No alarm. I bounced it to make sure. Nothing. Good sign, I thought. I jimmied the lock and slipped inside. Had the thing running in no time. Drove away with a smile. Piece of cake.
And then I saw the arms coming down at the train crossing. There was another car in front of me, so I couldn't gun it across the tracks. Damn, that wasn't part of the plan. I kept one eye on the rear-view mirror, watching for anyone who looked angry running toward me, while I counted the cars. I stopped counting at 100. My luck held, and I drove over the tracks as soon as the arm raised. I headed for our prearranged meet. It took
around twenty minutes to get there, in which time I'd changed all the radio stations from country western to rap. I was jammin' to Drake when I spotted Jimar. His shiny pokes glinted in the sunshine. Tashid was in the car with him. They were clearly stoned when I tapped on the driver's side window.
"Want me to drive it to the shop?" I asked.
"No way, bitch," Jimar said.
I figured I'd be eighty before the guy would trust me. One of these days, I'd follow him to the shop, make a deal without him. But not today.
"Left it running," I said.
"I'll take you back," Tashid said. I had my doubts about his driving ability at the moment but didn't have much choice.