He thought of a couple fellas he knew might be up for the job, and though he wasn’t big on cutting them in, the idea of doing it alone didn’t appeal to him. Besides, they needed a getaway car, and Chaplin, one of the fellas he was thinking about, could hot-wire a waffle iron he took a mind to. And Fat Boy Wilson could drive a waffle iron if that’s all they had to drive.

A few days later after all this considering, Bill drove into town on the last of his gas and found Chaplin and Fat Boy working on a car in Fat Boy’s garage. Chaplin was under it and having Fat Boy pass down wrenches.

“How’s the boy?” Fat Boy asked Bill.

“I’m fine. That Chaplin under there?”

“Naw, I’m Raquel Welch,” Chaplin called from beneath the car, “and I’m givin’ the car a blow job. How you doin’?”

“Okay.”

“How’s your mom, Bill?”

“Fine. Who’s Raquel Welch?”

“One of the big-tittie actresses. She’s a little long in the tooth now, I reckon. Hell, she might be dead.”

“That don’t matter none to Chaplin,” Fat Boy said. “Long as her titties ain’t rotted off and there’s some kind of hole in her.”

They laughed. Bill said, “You boys want to do a little somethin’? You know, a little job.”

“You don’t mean illegal, do you?” Fat Boy said. “I mean, I don’t do nothing illegal.”

All three laughed, and Chaplin, who had been lying on a wheeled board, a creeper he called it, slid out from under the car and got a rag and wiped his hands.

“Well,” Chaplin said, “it illegal?”

“Yeah,” Bill said, “it’s some illegal.”

“Long as it ain’t killin’ nobody,” Fat Boy said.

“We’re gonna have to have guns, but that’s just for show.”

“Man, I don’t know,” Fat Boy said. “I did that filling station over in Center with you, and you’re kind of nervous when there’s guns. Chaplin, he likes guns too much. I thought we might end up shootin’ someone. I don’t want to shoot no one. I mean, they’re gonna shoot me, I might shoot ’em, but I don’t want to shoot nobody I don’t have to.”