Bad Company had won the Econoline fair and square from an Okie shit-kicker at Slab City. What the hell was it about people made them so sure of themselves when it came to dice?
Dice weren’t even one of Bad Company’s specialties, but he’d still been able to beat the shit-kicker out of all of his money.
The man insisted upon a chance to win his money back. They’d rolled for the van, and Bad Company used his own dice.
He’d won the van fair and square. Too bad if the guy didn’t like it.
Bad Company didn’t like losing any more than anyone else did. He understood the man’s feelings.
The problem for the Okie shit-kicker was his mouth. He’d bragged all evening about the job he’d had in Laughlin. He had made no friends around the campfire.
Then, it turned out the shit-kicker was a poor loser.
Bitching and moaning while turning over the keys to Bad Company, the shit-kicker wrote out a poorly spelled title transfer to Bad Company by the campfire’s light. Bad Company had dated a legal secretary and knew the importance of a paper trail.
Bad Company had jumped in the van and taken off through the maze of school busses, tepees, motor homes and lean-tos, out into the clear desert.
He’d stopped in Barstow and bought enough spray paint to change the van from white to a muted olive green, hoping the paint job would look military enough to get him into Arizona.
From TRINITY and the HEISTERS
Coming soon.
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