The convenience store was on the edge of town, on a two-lane road with little traffic. The parking lot was gravel and the front windows were covered with thick bars. Two pumps offered gasoline but there were no other customers at that moment.
Garth parked and said, “I know this guy. Be right back.”
“What’s he doing?” Woody asked, almost in a whisper.
“Don’t worry about Garth. He knows everybody.”
They waited but not long. Garth soon appeared, making a quick exit and holding an entire case of canned beer. He yanked open his door, tossed the beer into Woody’s lap, jumped in, and shifted gears. The Mustang roared away from the store, spraying gravel all over the place.
“Beers please!” Garth said, obviously proud of himself. Woody pulled off two cans and handed them to the front. He was finished for the night.
“How’d you get the beer?” he asked when the store was out of sight.
“Just told the guy I was thirsty, needed to borrow some beer.” Garth popped a top and slugged his beer.
“Come on,” Tony said. “The guy gives you credit?”
Garth smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached into his left jeans pocket and pulled out something. It was a black pistol, shiny in the darkness. “This is instant credit all over town,” Garth said with a laugh. He turned around quickly, aimed it at Woody’s face, and pulled the trigger.
A blast of warm water hit Woody in the eyes. His heart had stopped in a split second and his mouth opened in horror. Garth roared with laughter as he turned his attention back to the highway.
Tony was not amused and yelled, “What are you doing? You robbed that guy?”
“No, of course not,” Garth said, still laughing. “You can’t rob someone with a water pistol. I just borrowed some beer, and some of his cash, and I’ll go back tomorrow and pay the guy.”
“You took cash?!” Tony yelled again in disbelief.
Woody was too stunned to think. Water was still dripping into his mouth, and he was in shock from being shot. But he quickly began to realize that the situation was a lot more serious than Garth was letting on.
“You’re crazy,” Tony said. “You can’t stick a gun in a guy’s face. I don’t care what kind of gun it is.”
“It’s not a gun. It’s a water pistol, and a very nice one at that. Just having a little fun.”
“How much cash did you take?”
“Not much. All he had. He emptied the drawer. I’d say a couple of hundred.”
“Look, Garth, we’re going home,” Tony said angrily. “Take us back to my truck. You got that? I’m on probation, remember? A stupid trick like that will bring in the cops and I’m headed to jail. I don’t care what kind of gun you used. Take us back to my truck.”
“What? We got some beer to drink, Tony. Don’t freak out on me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come on, Tony, don’t go chicken on me.”
“It’s not being chicken. It’s being stupid. I don’t want the beer and I’m telling you right now we’re getting out of here.”
“All right, all right.”
“You okay back there, Woody?” Tony asked.
“Sure,” Woody barely managed to say. He wanted to inform his older brother that he thought he was an idiot for getting in Garth’s car to begin with, but he bit his tongue and avoided more trouble.
They were back in the city, near the college, and the highway had widened into a boulevard. They stopped at a red light and a police car eased alongside them, to Garth’s left. His window was down.
From the back seat, Woody heard the words he would never forget. A cop said loudly, “Stop right there, kid.”
Suddenly, there were blue lights everywhere.
Chapter 3
A thick cop kept growling, “Shut up, kid. Shut up, kid.” But Garth kept talking over his shoulder. He was on the hood of his car, facedown, hands cuffed behind him, feet off the ground. Tony was standing behind the Mustang, also handcuffed, quietly answering questions from two policemen. There seemed to be a dozen of them milling about, poking through Garth’s car, huddling with one another, listening to their phones. Radios squawked and a hundred blue lights lit up the intersection. Traffic was blocked in several lanes and a uniformed officer pointed this way and that. A crowd was gathering on a sidewalk, everyone curious to know what terrible crime had been committed by the three young hoodlums.
In the back seat of a patrol car, Woody sat alone and felt very small. His hands were cuffed behind his back. They were snug on his wrists and quite uncomfortable. But, at the moment, he figured that a little pain from the handcuffs was not his biggest problem.
The cops had yanked him out of the car and at first shoved him around, the usual routine, but when they realized he was just a kid, they relaxed and searched him. They took his cell phone, slapped the cuffs on him, and put him in the back seat where he had a decent view of the action. Garth wanted to resist and explain and make it all go away, but the more he talked the rougher the cops became. Tony seemed too frightened to argue with the police.
The crowd continued to gather and Woody tried to slide lower. He watched as Tony was led to another patrol car and placed in the rear seat. Then Garth was removed from the hood of his car and sort of dragged to yet another patrol car and shoved in, talking away the whole time. With the three suspects secured, the police waved over a tow truck with its yellow and orange lights blinking wildly.
To Woody, it seemed like a little too much muscle and manpower just for three stupid kids drinking beer. Still, he knew he was in trouble.
Two policemen got in the front seat and slammed the doors. “You okay, kid?” one asked.
“Yes, sir,” Woody answered quickly. Everything had been “yes, sir” and “no, sir” since the moment he’d seen the blue lights.
“We gotta take you to the police station, son,” the driver said as he drove away from the scene. The Mustang’s front tires were off the ground and the tow truck driver was pulling levers.
“Yes, sir,” Woody said. “I guess we should call my mom.”
“We’ll call her from the station. We got her number from your brother.”
“I don’t suppose you guys could just take me home could you?”
Both laughed. Short little humorous grunts that quickly passed.
“A comedian,” the driver said.
Woody said, “I mean, you know, it’s just a little beer.”
“A little beer?” the cop in the passenger seat repeated. He turned around, glared at Woody, and growled, “Son, we’re talking armed robbery.”
A sharp pain hit Woody deep in the gut. He tried to say something — he wasn’t sure what — but his throat suddenly clamped shut and his mouth was dry. He managed to breathe and felt sweat under his arms.
Was this a joke, he wanted to ask, but it was obvious that it was not. Were they really charging him with armed robbery? Surely not. He and Tony had never left the car at the convenience store. How can you pull an armed robbery with a water pistol? It was only a water pistol, right? Woody’s shirt was still wet! He had the proof!
He breathed deep and said, “It was only a water pistol.”
“That’s not what he told the guy at the store,” the driver said.
“My shirt is still wet,” Woody said, and he realized how stupid he sounded.
“Just shut up, kid,” the other cop said.
And he did. And he bit his lip to keep from crying.
At the police station, Woody was led through a side door and into a large reception area where other cops and clerks stopped and gawked at him as if he’d committed a murder. There was no sign of either Tony or Garth. Woody was taken to a room where his handcuffs were removed. A gruff, angry sergeant in a tight uniform growled, “Stand over there, kid. This is your mug shot.” Woody backed against a wall, stared at a camera, and for a split second thought of all the bad mug shots of famous people he’d seen online. “Don’t smile, kid,” the cop said.