“If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right,” Gyro said. He bowed his head and slid his shiny, overbearing .50 cal into a holster and smoothed his black leather trench coat over his flanks. He looked at his faux-gold watch. It was 2:24 AM.

Noticing the holster sticking out, Mike pointed at it saying, “No. Let's do it wrong.”

Gyro grabbed the lose flaps of the jacket and pulled them together with a leather belt. “Don't be a wiseass, Mike.”

“Don’t be a fucking moron, then.”

The elevator button was already lit; they were going down.

“Alls I’m sayin’ is that we just gotta act natural,” Gyro fixed his White Sox hat and started whistling, softly. He put a cigarette behind his left ear and jammed his hands into the trench coat’s pockets. All the while, he kept whistling.

During Gyro’s attempt at looking both prepared and natural, Mike had been rolling up his sleeves, shifting the merchandise from his left hand to his right in order to get both arms properly rolled. When he finished, he lightly compressed the bottom of the brown paper bag to feel the hotshot brown powder inside. It was there, sifting around like sand in a thin, noisy hourglass. The lights above the elevator pushed right, climbing to 14. “We gotta act natural, eh? I obviously couldn’t fucking think about that on my own.”

“Gimme a break, wouldya? If this fuck thinks anything's up, it's all over for us. We gotta get in, get him to take this shit and get out,” Gyro pushed his hands together; keeping them inside the pockets and making the coat’s belt fall slack. His black leather boots tapped the ground to keep pace with his whistling. 15 lit up.

“Well there's no reason for him to think anything's up, other than the fact that you keep telling me shit I already know… and the fact that you sound like a fuckin canary.”

The fat Greek shrugged and curled his thin lips to resemble a smile. It was pretty close to a smile Mike thought; Gyro almost had charm. “Alls I'm saying is that we can't get caught. That's all,” he said, then returned to whistling.

“Stop talking about it.” Mike looked up again. 20. “And for Christ sake, stop with the Yankee Doodle bullshit.”

The elevator door bell rang and the two thick doors slipped opened. Two girls walked out: an extremely fat brunette and an Amazon redhead with a few freckles collected on her cheeks and nose. Mike looked at Gyro; he was smiling at the redhead. She was smiling back. Even with her walk slightly drunken and a stench of cheap gin radiating from her, both of the men found her attractive. A pink t-shirt that read “Oakland High Track & Field” in small, yellow letters clung to her adequate tits. She wore two large, brown windshields on the top of her head that were resembled sunglasses, and her tight jeans made her legs look very long. Wrap-around-your-back legs, Mike thought, and he smiled at the redhead, too. The fat girl grabbed her arm, frowning “What are you going to do without me around?” she asked. They slopped their way between the two men and Fatty continued to preach at the girl as they walked down the hall and turned the corner, arm in hand.

With the door closed and both men alone on the elevator, Gyro lit his cigarette, “I'll bet Wilma’ll do just fine without Betty around.”

Mike nodded thoughtfully and smashed the button for the ground floor with his fist.