11
Ted
From the orchard, I drove the Speedy Shuttle two miles toward Boise, along one of the single-lane ranch exits.
“ Slow and steady,” I told myself every time I was tempted to inch the shuttle over the speed limit. There weren ’ t any other cars around. And Bus 315 wasn’t even due to arrive at Bright Beginnings for another ten minutes, so nobody knew the kids were missing. But there was no point taking chances.
The shuttle had air conditioning, but I opened the window just a crack, because the smell of Andy ’ s BO and that stupid spearmint hair oil was pretty strong in here. I felt bad for the passengers he would be taking to the airport later this evening—which was the whole reason he had the airport shuttle van today. The cash tip from the lady he’d taken to the airport earlier was still sitting in the cupholder up front—along with a used tissue.
“ Gross, dude,” I mumbled, as I flicked the tissue onto the floor . We ’ d debated who would drive which vehicle, just like we ’ d argued through every other detail of the plan about a hundred times over the past two months. The white airport shuttle was Andy ’ s work car, but it was an automatic. The gray Craigslist van was a stick shift, and that ’ s what it came down to. I could ’ ve learned to drive a stick—or at least I told myself I probably could have—but I just knew I ’ d stall it when the pressure was on.
As I approached the next turn, I checked the sideview mirror and scanned the horizon. This side of the Treasure Valley was mostly foothills, dotted with tiny towns that barely deserved their own gas station. So even during “ rush hour” the roads were mostly empty.
When the coast stayed clear, I slowed to a crawl, rolled down the driver ’ s side window, and tossed the Walmart bag of cell phones into the murky water of a weedy ditch.
“ Bye, bitches,” I murmured, glad to be rid of the little tracking time bombs, a few of which had pinged with text messages while I was driving for the past fifteen minutes.
The police would find the phones, eventually. Maybe they ’ d even be able to trace the history of cell tower signals back to where we ’ d left the bus in the orchard, once the investigation really got rolling.
But all that would take time.
And it ’ d lead them to jack shit.
I let out a big breath and hit the accelerator, careful not to push the van past sixty-five as I headed for the Sunset Springs exit.
The bougie community was smack in the middle of the hills between Boise and the rest of rural Idaho. Half of it was McMansions, built during a real-estate boom over the past three years. The other half were more normal-looking houses, tucked into the foothills on land that was cheap ten years ago. A long line of big, billboard-type signs right before the entry road to the community shouted bullshit like RURAL LUXURY, A CITY IN THE HILLS, and COUNTRY LIFE, CITY PERKS.
Sunset Springs was almost finished building its own—fancy—elementary school. But for now, all of the kids still had to be bussed ten miles to shitty Northridge, in the boonies. There ’ d been a big fight about it.
The city of Boise had made one change, though, in response to the bitching from the Sunset Springs McMansion moms. Bright Beginnings, in Boise, had been added to the list of state-subsidized after-school care programs. So now the Northridge kids could go there for after-school care, too.
It was the kind of shit I never would ’ ve paid any attention to before. “ Sunset Swings”—that was what people from Boise called it, with its Stepford vibe and rumors of swingers—didn ’ t mean anything to me.
People like me, who lived out in real Idaho near Northridge, mostly referred to the planned community as “ the good gas station,” with its sparkling new Chevron. It even had one of those vending machines that could spit out an Oreo shake in two minutes. I took a girl there once, after I got out of jail. Right before Andy got me the job at the quarry.
The girl ended up being a loser, but she was the reason I ’ d set foot inside a cutesy little pizza parlor on the edge of town— Speedwagon ’ s. The tiny restaurant was separated from the new developments that ’ d popped up like stucco flowers over the past three years. It ’ d been there since before the McMansions, but had gotten a facelift.
And that ’ s where I was headed now.
“ Jesus Christ, ” I said to myself as I pulled the shuttle onto the shoulder of the road next to Speedwagon ’ s. A twee little letterboard facing the road read, YOU WANNA PIZZA ME? The place was ridiculous, but still, even outside the smell of grease and cheese made my stomach growl.
I wasn ’ t here for pizza, though.
I peeled off my gloves, then shut my door with my hip and glanced around, trying not to look obvious about it.
“ Keep your shit together, Ted,” I whispered. “ It ’ s all good.”
I looked behind me at Highway 55. A couple of cars blazed past.
I looked to the left, then the right. A posh sign shouting SUNSET SPRINGS, ugly brown hills, and a cheesy “ orchard” where the bougie residents could pick apples in the fall.
In front of me, Speedwagon ’ s new stucco siding and neon sign blinked a welcome. The parking lot was empty, thank Jesus. Dinner rush wasn ’ t on yet.
I already knew the place didn ’ t have security cameras. Not as of last week, anyway. Still, I moved my eyes back and forth across the front entrance for any sign of surveillance.
Nothing.
The door jingled when I walked inside.
A skinny, high-school-aged girl with an underbite and huge brown eyes jumped up from where she ’ d been leaning on the counter with her phone. “ Oh, hi. Welcome to—” She stared at me, clearly panicked.
My mouth went dry, and I wished I had the pantyhose back over my head. Did she recognize me from last week? Did this girl have a photographic memory or something? Why the open mouth, though? I ’ d been in and out in five minutes tops, to case the place—and pick up a goddamn pizza because honestly, they were pretty damn good.
“ Welcome to Speedwagon ’ s ,” she blurted triumphantly, and her face relaxed.
I forced out a laugh. She didn ’ t recognize me. She was just stupid. She ’ d forgotten the name of the place she worked at.
“ What can I get ya?” she asked, making her voice all high and weird, like she was trying to flirt or something.
I smiled back, kept my face totally neutral. Get in, get out, be unmemorable. “ My friend just had a baby,” I said, impressed by how good the story sounded coming out of my mouth. “ I wanted to send her dinner tonight. She lives just a few blocks that way, but I don ’ t wanna bother her. Can you guys deliver it?”
The girl made a little “ Aww,” sound, then nodded vigorously. Her short brown hair, slicked in a tight ponytail, didn ’ t move. “ That ’ s so nice of you. Yeah, for sure. What do you want? We have a special. Two medium two-toppings for twenty bucks.”
I pretended to look at the menu. “ Um, just a large pepperoni.”
She nodded again. “ Okay, cool. What’s the address?”
My throat was so dry, I could barely swallow. I reached into the kangaroo pouch of my hoodie and removed the envelope I ’ d brought with me. “ Address is right here. Can I actually tape this note to the box? My friend, she ’ s been having a rough time. You know, new mom. Just leave the pizza on the doorstep for her, okay? In case, like, the baby is sleeping. I already told her I was sending dinner.”
The girl bobbed her head up and down like she really did know how hard it was to be a new mom, even though she ’ d probably never even kissed a dude. Her eyes went all big and shiny. “ Aww, for sure. Lemme grab some tape for your note.”
Three minutes later, I was making a beeline back to the shuttle van.
I kept my hands shoved in the pouch of my jacket, resisting the urge to pump my fist in the air. We ’ d done pretty good work for a couple of functional deadbeats.
That ’ s what my mom called me and Andy. “ Functional deadbeats.” Like it was some kind of disease diagnosis. Like she thought I was every bit as dumb and useless as he was. Like she was any better than me, wearing a hairnet and serving up sloppy joes at the old folk ’ s home in Emmett, then getting high as a kite and sitting in front of the TV with beer and a bag of chips until she passed out.
Andy had graduated high school, at least. Not me. I ’ d actually gotten good grades. Some A ’ s, even. But then I spent the last two weeks of my senior year in the hospital, then sixty days in jail.
Trespassing.
Unlawful use of a motor vehicle.
Driving under the influence.
Drug possession.
Criminal vandalism.
Five charges, all because I was over eighteen. By two weeks. And … because the dirt bike I was riding, trying to jump the gap at Canyon Creek Park was “ borrowed.”
Andy said his buddy knew he was taking the bike. But when it got wrecked—and me with it—the “ buddy ” pressed charges. Against me, specifically. Since I was the one who wrapped the bike around a tree at the bottom of the gully, and got caught with an eighth of pot in my back pocket I didn ’ t even want. Andy had given it to me for my birthday.
So, yeah. Deadbeat was sort of in the cards after that. No matter how much my mom nagged me about getting my GED or “ applying myself,” it wasn ’ t going to lead anywhere.
Nobody wanted to hire someone with a record. Or date someone with a record. The shitty job at the quarry with Andy was the biggest win of my adult life.
I ’ d been fucked straight out of the gate.
Look at me now, though.
I was on my way to pulling off the best and biggest heist in Idaho.
And I was gonna get away with it, too.