Creamthieves - Fiction

‘You coulda spat out there y'know.'

‘Gross,' she said, picking blood out from under her fingernails. ‘How long you reckon we should wait here for?'

‘Pff,' I said, and put my hands out to the sides, ‘half an hour? Just keep an eye on the rearvy til you see the security company go after that alarm. Then we roll.'

The hoola-hoop girl approached us, gyrating her little hips. Her shirt and pants were pink cotton. Baby's window was open where she'd spat her bloody gob. The girl paused outside the window and stared at my Baby so long she had to blink. Baby chuckled.

‘What's dat in your twunk?'

We leaned our heads towards the rearvy at the same time and they clonked together. At the same time we saw the slight incline of the boot lid, meaning it was open. I swore very loudly then said sorry to the little girl. I got out of the car, squinting, and blocked out the sun with my hand.

‘Oh, the trunk?' Baby explained to the girl while I went to the boot, ‘that's um.... that's an ice cream maker.'

‘A ice cream maker!' The girl ran up to the boot. I pushed it down with my hands. It wouldn't close without causing damage. Screw it. I jumped up and sat hard on the boot. It gave a groan and dented the metal. Wasn't my ride anyway, no biggie.

‘You wanna find Mr Whippy for ice cream,' I said to the girl, sliding off the boot, ‘I saw him not far from here.'

‘But... you got a maker.'

‘Aww sweetie,' Baby said, beckoning the girl with her finger, ‘c'mere.' Baby's good arm was dangling out the window. The wounded one was glued to her shorts. ‘What if we took you to Mr Whippy?'

‘I'm aren't allowed.' The girl showed the inside of her bottom lip.

‘I wasn't either, when I was a girl. Wanna come with us then, get Mr Whippy? When you're grown up you can get what you want, anytime.'

Baby looked at me. I looked at the boot.

*

The driver looked at me queer-as when I caught up to him. His buggered wheel meant I caught up pretty easily. He pulled over after a minute. With the engine off, I got a perfect listen to the loose nuts on his wheel. The little girl was bawling her eyes out in the back seat and holding her hoop around her like it was protection. Baby said with a sour face,

‘Mum'd beat the shit out of us if she saw us come home with sprinkles round our mouths or whatever.' She lit a cigarette and offered the little girl one without looking back.

‘I've got it sorted, baby,' I told her.

I popped the boot and grabbed my gear. Mr Whippy himself turned out to be an Asian bloke who liked his mobile more than ice cream. He saw me take the wheel brace out the boot and come at him and he panicked and ran inside his van. I stood at the side of the vehicle with the counter and asked nicely for an ice cream - chocolate and then sprinkle-dipped, that's the way. Make it two. Whippy could've driven off at any point but good on him, he stuck it out, shaking though he was. He stuck the cones in the cone-holder and asked for my money and I raised the wheel brace. We both ducked down; I tightened his nuts for him, he cowered. Then I went back to the car, handed the ice creams over and found some parking coins. Whippy was grateful for the cash and even more grateful to get the hell out of there. He switched on Greensleeves as he went. Maybe he thought that would attract more savoury customers. The little girl heard the tune and stopped crying and licked her ice cream.

My baby and the girl licked quietly as we drove back towards the sun. We connected with the girl's street and let her out. I offered her the ice cream maker in the boot and the little girl said no thanks. As we drove home, I told my baby that her idea of boosting the thing in the first place was a stupid idea. Baby didn't answer me back, just clamped her wound and whistled Greensleeves.