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“There are all these eighteen-wheelers sitting around with nobody in them. Barb’s probably been trained how to steal cars and trucks. She could steal one and we could run it right through the front of the building. Probably get five minutes inside, at least, before the cops got there.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Cartwright said. “It’s a step up from parachuting onto the roof, though.”
When Baxter was gone, Letty said, “How about this? Soon as we see him, Dale Weston, we hook our arms up, laugh a little, like we’re drunk, yell at him. He’s gonna see a couple girls coming upon him and from the looks of him, he’ll talk to us. We stick a gun in his ear and walk him inside.”
“I like it,” Cartwright said. “Simple, yet with a potential for out-of-control mayhem.”
The wait got longand some streetlights came on. No sign of the G-Wagen. The western sky turned red and as the phone-pole shadows got longer than the phone poles, Dale Weston walked back out to his truck.
“We’re on,” Cartwright snapped, and she and Letty more or less bolted out to the street, linked arms, and Letty sang out the first three lines of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and they saw Dale Weston step back from his truck to look at them.
Cartwright laughed and then pulled Letty to a stop and pointed at Weston and said, quietly, “Make it look like we’re talking about him. Take a quick peek at him.”
Letty did it, and then they walked farther up the street as Dale Weston stepped to the back of the pickup and watched them coming. They slowed as they got close, and Cartwright turned her face to Letty’s ear and said, “More whispered confidences about what a stud he must be.”
“Makes my heart flutter thinking about it,” Letty whispered back.
Cartwright laughed again, a low sexy sound that Letty immediately envied.
Dale Weston had leaned back against the pickup and called, “What’re you girls doing out here at night?”
“Ain’t night yet, cowboy,” Letty called.
Cartwright, leaning hard on a Texas accent: “We’re going down to the store to buy some more PBR. We are flat run out.”
Letty to Cartwright, loud: “We shouldn’t be run out, you almost drunk a whole goddamn case all by yourself.”
“And I gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” Cartwright said, looking around. “You see a bush?”
Dale Weston laughed and ambled toward them, asked, “How long you been drinking?”
“Can’t remember,” Letty said. “I sold my watch. You got a watch?”
Dale Weston was three feet away and Letty identified his pistol as a Smith & Wesson .357, buried in an old leather holster with a retention strap. She said to Cartwright, “Retention strap.”
“Yeah, I see,” Cartwright said.
Dale Weston: “Wut?”
Cartwright pointed her Walther PPQ subcompact at Weston’s left eye and said, “Let’s go inside, Dale.”
Letty had her 938 pointed at his navel. “It’s very unlikely, but you might live through jumping one of us, but the other one would kill you. Do you want one of us to kill you, Dale?”
“Dale? Who the fuck is Dale?”
“That would be you,” Letty said.
“I’m George. Hewitt. You girls got the wrong guy,” the cowboy said.
“We got the right guy, just the wrong truck plates,” Letty said. “What’d you do, George, steal them?”
Hewitt shrugged. “Maybe an MVD mistake?”
“Right. Let’s go inside,” Cartwright said. “We go inside, we won’t have to kill you.”
“You wouldn’t kill me anyway,” Hewitt said.
Cartwright giggled and Letty felt the hair go up on the back of her neck and suspected that it also went up on the back of Hewitt’s. Cartwright said, after the giggle, “George, I’d be happy to kill you.Happy. To kill. You. Got it? Don’t even think about that piece of shit on your belt.”
