Flour Dusted And Pan Glossed

by Robert Mangeot

About the Author: Robert Mangeot’s fiction appears in ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE, THE FORGE LITERARY MAGAZINE, LOWESTOFT CHRONICLE, MYSTERY MAGAZINE, MWA’s ICE COLD, and the Anthony-winning MURDER UNDER THE OAKS. His work has three times been named a Derringer finalist. When not writing, he serves as a chapter officer for Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime Middle Tennessee.

Excerpt

This would all work out great, cops outside or not. I felt it sure as we were standing here in the Maritime Federal Bank and Trust. It’d been the today’s signs and signals, the blue sunshine since morning. No joke, the sun came out as I’d snuck in some pre-job fishing off the North Beach boardwalk. Onshore wind, swell tide, and I’d caught flounder nonstop as if nature herself declared, “Easton, you have this, child.” We had sunshine and fresh-made nuggets I’d brought along and the tellers on the floor acting collected. Bonus gin, too. The branch manager’s stash, and no liquor went down finer than the free kind. Around here, you took omens as omens.

I said, “We’ve got this easy as quick batter. Don’t we, boys?”

Alejo glanced away from the squad car perimeter lights flickering through the blinds. He shot a look heretofore used whenever helping unjam my Glock. Harsh. I refused to let him or a barricade or every bank landline ringing spoil my groove. Yes, the world needed worriers. Which was how come it needed bright siders for balance, same as it needed careful planners like Nate and drivers like Rave and her lead foot idling down Mercer in our getaway Plymouth. That was us, the sharpest bunch working South Georgia, me as their new fourth man.

I said that and how I had a condo complex in mind a stretch north on Fripp Island. Fripp, being swank and an all-important state line away. I would lounge beachside, two poles baited, and get my Vitamin D rocking.

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