Isaiah took a week to give the go-ahead on the next job, Dodson bugging him every time they saw each other. Who’s in charge now? Isaiah thought. They drove in silence to Speedway Bicycles in Culver City and parked in the alley behind the store. They readied their equipment and took out the door, all routine. Now they were in the storeroom filling their hampers with Shimano Dura-Ace cranksets and Ultegra front derailleurs, Dodson throwing the boxes in like he was trying to break them.
“Five minutes,” Isaiah said.
“I got a watch,” Dodson said. “And I can tell time too.”
Isaiah shook his head and sighed, glancing through the storeroom door at the back of the service desk. Over it, you could see the front window and the street. A patrol car had pulled up at the curb, a cop already getting out. “Cops,” Isaiah said. They ran out into the showroom and headed for the back exit but the cop was almost at the window. “Down!” Isaiah said. They dived to the floor and crawled for cover but the cop was looking into the window, shining his flashlight. They froze in place, behind a row of brand-new bicycles, parked at an angle. They were shielded but not completely. Look through the spokes and there they were.
The cop’s flashlight beam roved around the store, bright as the one that glared down from a police helicopter chasing a carjacker. Isaiah flattened himself out like a halibut, putting his arms straight out, his cheek on the floor. Please don’t see me please don’t see me please fucking God don’t see me. Dodson was flattened out the same way; they were looking directly at each other. The flashlight beam went by quickly and didn’t stop. Was the cop done? There was a moment of hope but then the beam started over, going slower this time, inspecting instead of scanning.
“Shit, man, he’s gonna see us,” Dodson whispered.
“Maybe not,” Isaiah whispered back. “Just stay still.”
“You took a week to plan this? The fuck was you doing?”
“You rushed me into this. We shouldn’t even be here!”
The beam was heading their way, moving across displays of helmets and bicycle clothes. Please don’t see me please don’t see me please fucking God don’t see me.
“Shit, man, I got a fuckin’ record,” Dodson said. “They could try me as an adult, send me to Corcoran.” The beam moved closer, spotlighting a family of eyeless mannequins pedaling along in matching spandex. Light spilled over onto the row of bicycles, handlebars, and fenders gleaming. “I ain’t goin’ to the joint,” Dodson said. “No muthafuckin’ way.” He squirmed and reached under his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Isaiah said. “Stay still.”
Dodson had a gun.
“Are you crazy?” Isaiah said. Dodson clicked the gun’s safety off with his thumb. “Don’t, Dodson, for fuck sake, don’t!” Miraculously, the beam went up to the loft, more bicycle stuff up there. “Put the gun away!”
“Fuck you, Isaiah.”
“Put it away or I’m giving up.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear to God I’ll do it.”
“Then I’ll shoot you too.”
The beam hovered like a vulture, the two of them lying there like they’d been shot in the back, the sides of their heads pressed to the linoleum, glistening puddles of drool under their mouths.
“You can’t do this, Dodson. You can’t shoot a cop.” In the next instant, the beam was on them so bright it was hot. You could count the dust particles in the air and the beads of sweat on Dodson’s face. He’d moved his hands in closer to his head. One held the gun, the other was flat on the floor so he could push himself off. The beam held.
“He sees us!” Dodson started to get up—
“No, Dodson, no!”
The beam vanished. There was a moment of disbelief but the cop had turned and was walking back to his patrol car. Isaiah blew out a long breath and went limp. Dodson was on his knees, head down, hands on his thighs. “Man, that was some shit right there,” he said. “How’d he miss us?”
“The reflection off the bicycles,” Isaiah said. “And the beam was too high. We were just on the bottom edge of it.”
The cop had paused to say something into his radio. Isaiah’s stomach fell into his Nikes. “He’s going around the back. The car.”
They took off, sprinting across the showroom, bursting out of the rear exit, and jumping into the Explorer. Isaiah started the engine—and stopped with his mouth open.
“What?” Dodson said.
“The cop car was facing the same way we are,” Isaiah said. “He’ll come into the alley right in front of us!” He slammed the shifter into reverse and stomped on the gas. The tires chirped, the car jerking backward, accelerating, the gearbox winding up like a jet engine at takeoff. Isaiah was half turned around, stretching his neck to see into the darkness, one hand on the steering wheel. The cop is coming.
“Step on it!” Dodson said.