By Steve Brewer
Copyright 2005 by Steve Brewer
For Frank Zoretich and Kelly Brewer, wielders of the red pens
Junior Daggett jolted out of a doze when the driver of the Trans Am, his brother Leon, broke the silence in the car: "Know what they call this in the newspapers? What we're doing?"
Roy Wade, a great lump of muscle in the shotgun seat, said, "What?"
"A 'crime spree,'" Leon said. "I always liked that. Sounds like a lot of fun, don't it?"
Roy snorted, as close to a laugh as you'd ever get out of him.
Junior yawned and stretched as best he could in the cramped back seat, thinking: Not much fun so far. Roaring around rural California in Leon's sleek black car, knocking over gas stations and convenience stores for small change. Swilling Buds and smoking Marlboros and whistling at passing women. Hell, as far as Junior could see, it was like a typical redneck Saturday night in Bakersfield.
"If the papers wrote about us, they'd call us 'criminals,' right?" Roy said to Leon. Neither paid any attention to Junior, who always felt he was eavesdropping on their conversations.