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“You will. Finish your food.”
Though he’d lost his appetite, he wouldn’t give Rusty the satisfaction of having spoiled his breakfast. He ate. Rusty made meaningless chitchat. When Ledge pushed his empty plate aside, Rusty posed a seemingly irrelevant question.
“How much hard cash do you reckon Welch’s takes in during any given week?”
Ledge looked out the window at the rain, which had increased to a steady downpour. “No idea.”
“Quarter of a mil.”
“Good for the Welches.”
“Know how much it rakes in on a holiday week?” Leaning toward Ledge, he whispered, “At least twice that.”
Welch’s was a family-owned, sprawling warehouse of goods that had weathered the onslaught of big-box store juggernauts because of its loyal customer base. It was also a one-stop shopping outlet for tourists to the lake. The store’s inventory included everything from car jacks to Cracker Jacks, butterfly nets to Aqua Net.
“I’m going to take it.”
While gauging how wet he was likely to get if he made a dash for his car, Ledge had been only half listening. “Take what?”
“Welch’s cash till.”
He turned back to Rusty in time to catch his wink. “You heard right. And I could use a guy like you.”
Ledge listened to the rest of Rusty’s outlandish spiel, believing that he was being set up as the butt of an elaborate practical joke. He even looked around the diner to see if he could spot any of Rusty’s like-minded cronies who were in on the prank and waiting for Rusty’s signal to spring the trap.
But he didn’t see any familiar faces, and by the time Rusty paused and asked, “What do you think? Are you in?” Ledge realized that he was serious.
“Are you insane?”
“Listen.” Rusty inched closer to the edge of his bench. “The week before Easter is always a big one for the store. Huge. It runs specials and sales all week. Not counting credit card sales and personal checks, it takes in a shitload of cash.”
“Which an armored truck picks up.”
“On Monday. Ask your uncle Henry. I’ll bet his place is on the same route.”
Ledge didn’t have to ask. He knew.
“That leaves everything the store has raked in that week in a vault over Easter Sunday. Praise Jesus!” Rusty added, laughing under his breath. “And, before you ask, they don’t mark the bills or put them in bags that explode with blue paint. They band them by denomination, that’s all.”
“Where’d you get this information?”
“My inside man. His name’s Brian Foster.”
Rusty went on to describe the guy. Ledge scoffed. “The store’s second-banana bean counter? He sounds like a loser.”
“He is. He’s doing this to spite his hard-ass boss, who’s always on his case. Also to prove that he has a pair.”
Ledge again snorted skeptically, but Rusty wasn’t discouraged. “We can’t do squat without Foster. He’ll get us into the store and open the vault.”
“There is no we, Rusty. Forget it.”
“Don’t say no until you hear me out.”
“I’ve already said no.”
“Okay.” He patted the air. “You’re worried about Foster’s reliability. Understood. True, he’s scared of his own shadow. But see? That makes him easy to intimidate. To control. Do our bidding.”
“What it makes him is a screwup waiting to happen.”
