Okay, So Here’s The Plan
All right, fellas, let’s go through this one last time. Security at the museum changes shifts at 1:30 AM every night, meaning Competent Jeff is replaced by Incompetent Incontinent Lawrence. Lawrence invariably spends the first hour of his shift trying to cure his constipation in the security port-o-john with a stick and bindle. That’s where Jimmy comes in. Hiding in the underbrush, Jimmy signals up to Tommy on the roof that the coast is clear.
That’s where Tommy comes in. Having cut a hole in the roof precisely 2-feet in diameter, he leaps in with abandon, a word we only use in this context because we are thick as thieves, as we should be, being actual thieves, and would never abandon each other. For example, Tommy won’t jump alone; he’s tied to a rope held by yours truly. I signal Jimmy in the underbrush, who signals Johnny in the getaway car that the plan is a-go, and we’re all gonna be rich.
Whilst making the complex gestures that signal “the plan is a-go and we’re all gonna be rich,” I neglect the rope, slackening Tommy right into invisible lasers. The alarm sounds and a helicopter flashes searchlights. Thinking quickly, I drop the rope and create a distraction before being speared in the belly by the policeman whose uniform I was recently belittling.
That’s where I come in.
I’m hauled into the chopper just as Half Pint Tony emerges from the tunnel he’s been digging for eight months… right beneath the diamond. He checks Tommy for broken ribs, then together they grab the curiously unprotected diamond and exit through the front door, Tommy in great distress since Tony never checked for burst corpuscles.
You all enter Johnny’s cars as the feds, miles away as the crow flies, press a razor hot razor to my left nipple. “I know nothing!” I shout. Not good enough. Zip ties chafe my wrists as G-Men threaten the safety of Esmerelda, my daughter. I beg them, “leave her out of this! Esmy never did nobody no harm! Pierce my colon, touch my naughty bits, I don’t care! I’ll do anything!” But here’s the secret: I don’t have a daughter. By the time they realize, you’re all well on your way to Mexico.
Six years pass. I’m beaten daily by Aryan Nation types in the prison yard. Tommy is MIA. Johnny marries Louisa, beautiful heiress to the largest goat farm in Oaxaca. Their lives are peaceful, rich in diamond/goat money. Jimmy returns to the states to find Sandra.
That’s where Sandra comes in. See? I didn’t forget you, Sandra. Stop pouting.
Sandra harbors deep resentments for me; she always loved Tommy, straining her marriage to Jimmy. She blames me for Tommy’s disappearance, and the crippling spinal cord injury inflaming his already tinder box-like tantrums. Half Pint Tony forgot to check his spine. Is that my fault? Speaking of, Half Pint Tony is long dead due to complications from his progeria.
That’s phase two.
I’m released three years later, having cut a deal. After six months drifting across dead Southwestern towns and visiting Half Pint Tony’s tiny tombstone, I wander into a seemingly average Mexican restaurant three miles south of Flagstaff. Little do I know who owns the place. Johnny moved to Arizona three years before, after Louisa left him a spurned man, running off with Competent Jeff. Johnny opened the dive, Louisa’s, as a testament to their lost love, the past he could never leave behind.
And I’m a walking reminder. Moments after entering, I’m seared with molten taquito innards. Her knows I sold Jimmy up the river. In the tussle that was jimmy’s arrest, Sandra was shot and killed. See, Johnny loved Louisa, who loved Tommy and in turn was loved by Jimmy, who loved Johnny like a brother. Maybe it’s because they are brothers. Maybe it’s just the way the world is. Maybe all the goat money on Earth can’t change that.
I awaken four days later in a fog, a note from Johnny pinned to my chest. I’m not owed any profits from sale of the diamond. When my facial blisters deflate enough to be tolerable, I visit Tommy in prison. His hands are grotesquely swollen at the joints from a disease with which I am unfamiliar. He pretends not to recognize me. It breaks my heart.
Meanwhile, Incompetent Incontinent Lawrence sits on a Havana Beach growing fat off Mexican pussy, because he was in on it… the whole time.
All clear? I won’t repeat myself, so it fucking better be. We meet at midnight. Brace yourself, boys. We’re all gonna be rich.