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     Tek sat in his car and listened to his stomach growl, apparently as upset as he was. He always seemed to be the getaway driver and it was starting to piss him off. Everyone knew he had better burglar skills than Tinman, but he never got to be in on the actual heists. Whenever he confronted Peach with his displeasure, he was always told he was still too young. What a crock. He was old enough to drive! How old do you have to be to be a thief?
     He was nonetheless proud of his skills as a getaway driver, and had proven his worth many times when things got dicey. But it was so boring. Nothing to do but stay prepared. Well he was certainly that. And hungry. He’d forgotten his snack, and the job had been delayed nearly an hour because some employees from the Cloud Nine Dispensary decided to hang out behind the shop after closing hours. Who stays around their workplace if they don’t have to? No one’s paying you. Well, maybe they liked their job. Selling legal pot did sound better than flipping burgers or cleaning rooms. Still, it was irritating. Crooks have to work too, and they can’t do their business until everyone leaves them alone.
     Boy was he hungry. Peach and Tinman had taken off nearly thirty minutes ago, and still no sign of them. On the good side, however, there were no alarms wailing. Nor did he expect any. After all, he was the one that actually hatched the plan, and he knew every detail of its execution. Which made it all the more painful that he couldn’t be part of it.
     The idea came four months earlier when he read an article about Nevada’s legal pot dispensaries not being able to do normal business with banks. It was all tied to the Feds and their inability to catch up with the rest of the country and just legalize the damn stuff across the board. Tek was no pothead, but it seemed to make sense. Who really cares if someone smokes a joint, anyway? Better than chugging on whiskey. He’d seen his mom do enough of that, and it was gross.
     Anyway, because the Feds couldn’t get their heads out of their asses, the dispensaries were forced to run a cash-only business. In this day and age where almost every purchase is done with plastic, the notion of a cash-rich establishment was like manna from heaven to a gang of thieves.
     Originally, Tek suggested hijacking the manager when the money was moved for deposit. Tinman immediately nixed the idea, due to the fact it would require firepower, and guns were strictly out in all the Posse’s endeavors. An edict from Tinman who despised the things, believing they were for sissies and cowards who couldn’t protect themselves with only their wits, or fists, if necessary.
     The plan evolved when Peach got a job trimming buds at Cloud Nine. The pay was low for such tedious and painstaking work, but it gave him the chance to see the workings of the business, and to case the security systems and safe. Two weeks after starting, he quit. Which was no surprise to the manager as the turnover for such slave labor was high. And Peach had used a fake ID when he got the job, so there was no concern about being connected to any future heist. Still, to be on the safe side, they’d waited three months before moving ahead.
     Tek checked the time. They should be back by now. It better be soon. Sitting in this alley for too long was not smart. It happened to be called Lovers Lane, and since he was alone, it would certainly be suspicious to any passing cop. According to firm policy laid down by Tinman, if they weren’t back in another five minutes, he would have to leave. He heard the back door click open, and he smiled and started the car.
     As he turned out of the alley and onto 2nd St. he said, “What the hell took you so long?”
Tinman huffed. “My brother felt the need to pick up a sampling of the wares.” He pulled off his ski mask and gloves and shoved them in a black garbage bag.
     “Excuse me for living!” cried Peach. “I have a lady friend who loves the stuff. You should see how she gets when she’s had a few tokes.”
     “Pass,” said Tinman dryly as he wriggled out of his black coveralls.
     “Well was it a good haul?” asked Tek.
     “Oh, yeah,” said Peach. “I got about an eighth of Chocolope, about the same of Super Silver Haze, and nearly a quarter of Purple Urkle!”
     “I think he’s talking about the loot,” said Tinman.
     “Huh? Oh! That! Sure thing. Really good haul. Great idea Tek. You get an extra slice of the pie for coming up with it.”
     “Don’t mention food,” said Tek. “I’m starving.” He turned several times, wending his way around town, making sure there was no one following. As he approached a Taco Bell, he said, “Quick pit stop. I need to eat.”
     “No way,” said Tinman. “We follow the plan. You know better.”
     “He’s right, Tek,” said Peach. “I mean we haven’t even dumped our work clothes. I don’t want to get pulled over with this stuff.”
     “Or with that other stuff stinking up the car,” added Tinman.
     “No problem there. I got well under an ounce. In fact, it’s the only legal thing in our possession,” said Peach. Tinman sighed, and continued peeling off his clothes.
     “It’ll only take a minute!” cried Tek. There was a heavy silence from the backseat, and he damn well knew what that meant. He turned left on 4th and headed toward Tinman’s apartment. As planned, he made a quick detour to the dumpster behind the Lincoln Lounge and the black garbage bag, now containing Peach and Tinman’s work clothes, was quickly deposited.
     When they all walked into Tinman’s apartment, Peach dropped the satchel of cash on the small card table. “Who wants to count?”
     “Not me!” declared Tek. “I need food, and soon! Otherwise, I’m gonna shrivel up and die! I need tacos right now.”
     “I can handle that,” said Tinman. “I happen to have everything I need.”
     “I can’t wait! I’m hitting that Taco Bell. You guys want anything?”
Tinman shook his head sadly. “I’m telling you, I can whip up the best tacos you’ve ever had, and faster than you can get to that slop house and back.”
     Tek narrowed his eyes. He was still holding a bit of a grudge over not being allowed to be in on the actual heist. That, and the fact he really was hungry, caused him to get a little feisty. “You wanna bet?”
Tinman chuckled. The youth of the day were so naïve. “How much?”
     “That extra slice Peach promised me for coming up with the idea.”
     “You don’t want to do that,” said Peach. “It’s a sucker’s bet.”
     “Oh yeah?!”  
     “Um. Yeah.”
     Despite the sage advice, Tek blurted out, “Okay, Tinman, you’re on. Starting right now!” he dashed out of the apartment and Tinman looked to Peach.
     “I hope he doesn’t speed,” said Peach.
     “Won’t matter. I’ll get dinner ready, you count.”
     “Mind if I have a little toke first?”
     “They’re your brain cells.”
     “Exactly the point. Did you know in low doses it can relieve anxiety.”
     “You have no anxiety.”
     “That’s true. Oh well. I’ll consider it preventative measures. Better safe than sorry. Do you have any papers?”
     Tek powershifted into third, and his souped-up Mazdaspeed Protégé shot down 4th St. A patrol car passing in the opposite direction briefly flickered its lights as a warning, and Tek said, “Crud,” as he quickly downshifted and reached the speed limit of 25mph. Creeping along, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. The taco joint was only five or six minutes away. And he knew at this time of night there would be few patrons, and no lines. The bet was as good as won.
     The approaching traffic light turned red. He groaned, thought about running it, then with a glance in his rearview mirror saw the patrol car had decided to keep an eye on him. As it stopped behind, he saw the smartass cop grin and give him a little half-salute. Tek slid a little lower in his seat and waited out the light.
     Tinman whistled a happy tune as he sliced up red and orange pepper, onion, a clove of garlic and half a serrano pepper. The frozen pork sirloin chop, still in its Ziploc bag, was cheerfully thawing in a pan of hot water with the burner turned on super low.
     Without looking to Peach, he said, “So what’s the count so far?”
     Peach had his mouth plastered to the pull tab opening of a beer can, and was sucking in the last smoke of a hit. When he found Tinman did not have any rolling papers, he rummaged a can from the recycling bag and made a small depression on the side, in which he’d poked a little hole. At the bottom of the can he also bore a hole to act as the carburetor—so all the smoke could be easily cleared. By holding the can horizontally, placing a small amount of pot above the hole in the side depression, and lighting it up while holding a finger over the carburetor, he’d manufactured a functional pipe.
     He exhaled with a silly grin and said, “I’m on number three.”
     “Three what? Three hundred? Thousand? What are we talking here?” 
     Peach furrowed his brows. “Three hits. What are you talking about?”
     “The money! You’re supposed to be counting.”
     Peach found this the funniest thing ever, and his belly laughs intermingled with his hacking. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “Who needs money when you’ve got this stuff?”
     Tinman groaned. “What kind did you try?”
     “All of them,” said Peach, mystified by the question. “Isn’t that the point?” 
     “Oh brother.”
     “That’s me!”
     “Will you please start counting!”
     Rapid-fire, Peach started counting aloud. When he reached forty-two, Tinman flung a wet dishrag at him, which thwopped him in the face. This elicited more gales of laughter and Tinman gave up, turning back to his prep. The meat was thawed, and he reached for his sharpest knife. Terrible thoughts came to mind, but he wanted to win the bet, so he buried his murderous inclinations and began slicing the meat razor-thin.
     Tek skidded to a stop in the Taco Bell parking lot. The cop had finally lost interest, for which he was thankful. He was also delighted to see only a handful of cars. He was home free.
     He raced for the front door and flung it open. At the last moment, he caught sight of a folding, yellow placard on the floor just inside. But the word—Cuidado—printed on it didn’t immediately ring a bell. Which was too bad. Because the floor had just been mopped. He was fine for the first ten feet, skating uncontrollably along on his worn sneaker treads. But then a trash can got in the way. Rats.
     Tinman’s favorite medium sauté pan was properly heated, so he tossed in the peppers, garlic and onion. As they sizzled, he sized up his three avocados and found the perfect one. He knew instinctively the flesh was just ripe enough. Using a sharp knife, he cut it in half, removed the pit, then quartered it, making it easier to remove the skin. Once removed, he sliced the quarters into smaller slices and arranged them lovingly on a small plate in little florets. In the center of each bud went a small slice of queso fresco cheese. He checked his peppers, which were soft, and added two thinly sliced cremini mushrooms.
     Peach had finally gotten around to dumping the loot on Tinman’s single bed. Despite his clouded mind, he started off with good intentions, but quickly became bored. Now he was caught up with trying his hand at dollar bill origami. Actually, he was working with a fifty-dollar bill, but who’s counting? Not he, anyway. Instead, he was envisioning a butterfly. But as he folded, and folded some more, it looked increasingly like a mangled fifty-dollar bill that was accidently run through the washer then wadded up and left to dry.
     Still, he was quite proud of his creation. He held it aloft and made little butterfly sounds (or at least the sounds he imagined butterflies made if they had mouths, which they don’t). He flew it over to Tinman and it flittered and chirped around his head until he swatted it hard and it went to die in a corner.
     “Geez, why’d you do that?” whined Peach, rushing to the fatally injured butterfly.
     “Count!” demanded Tinman, lightly placing his pork slices in with his peppers and mushrooms, and sprinkling with Spanish paprika.
     Peach harrumphed back to the card table and laid the butterfly to rest among its compadres. “Meanie,” he mumbled under his breath.
     “What do you mean you don’t have tacos? This is Taco Bell!” hollered Tek.
     “Yo, I did not say we did not have tacos, did I? No. What I said is we do not have your tacos. Huge difference. It’s the usage of the words, see? I mean we have lots of tacos, just not the ones you want. Look at this humungous menu, man, you can’t expect us to have everything all the time.” The stoned cashier’s bloodshot eyes showed no signs of contriteness and it further enraged Tek.
     “Why didn’t you tell me that when I ordered?!”
     “You seemed like you were in a hurry, bro. I didn’t want to slow you down.”
     “Just give me some tacos! Any tacos!”
     “Right on.” The cashier plopped a bag in front of him.
     “They’ve been sitting here all along?!”
     “Whoa, man, you do not expect us to cook them fresh do you? Like on-demand! That would really put a crimp in your busy schedule. Am I right? It’s fast food, dude. The American way. Get with the program.”
Tek was very close to leaping over the counter and committing second-degree manslaughter the American way, but there was the bet to consider. He grabbed the bag and took off in a sprint. Too bad that wet floor hadn’t dried yet.
     Tinman prepared the corn tortillas by nuking three at a time, sealed in a sandwich bag. It only took fifteen seconds or so until the bag began to fill with air and the tortillas were soft and fluffy. A light grill in another hot pan with a dash of oil and they were ready.
     He spooned a healthy amount of his pork and pepper combo into each tortilla, folded them and prepared two plates with three each. Ignoring Peach lying in the bed tossing handfuls of bills in the air and watching them waft over him like snowflakes, he placed the plates on the card table, with the avocado and cheese plate in the center, along with some lime slices.
     “Dinner.”
     Peach leapt from the bed with a “WHOOOEEEE,” skipped to the table and plopped down in his chair, making a fart sound with his mouth as he did. The folded tacos smiled up at him, filled with all sorts of yumminess. His glazed eyes ate them up hungrily. Then he dove in.
     Two tacos later, the door swung open and Tek stumbled in carrying a bag, the bottom of which was stained with grease. His frazzled eyes landed on the table, and the tacos and he said “Shit.”
His shoulders drooped. He walked to the cupboard and pulled out a plate. He unloaded his bag, pulling back the soiled paper wrappers around his tacos and placing them on his plate. It was not a pretty sight.
     Humbly, he walked to the table and took a seat. Aside from Peach making little chipmunk sounds as he devoured his food, there was no communication. Tek’s tacos dissolved in his hands as he tried to eat, the hopelessly soaked tortillas disintegrating on touch. He tried not to look at Tinman’s creations, but it was impossible. He swore never to be so misguided again.
     When everybody was finished and the plates washed, he asked, “So how much did I lose?”
     “Ask Peach,” suggested Tinman.
     “What was the total take, Peach?” asked Tek.
     Peach was leaning back in his chair, imagining what happens to food after it disappears down the hatch. His eyes popped open at Tek’s question.
     “You’re asking me? How would I know? I just got here.