Burglars

BURGLARS / Bret Loti WE STOOD IN FRONT of the Springers' house, Gary Erickson with his four-ten, Henry Forrester with a Luger, and me with a 30.06. We were pointing our guns at two burglars holding Ted and Mary Springers' television set, ready to load it into the back of their van. It was mid-afternoon. Ted and Mary were on vacation out at Lake Havasu. The burglars, who looked like teen-agers, apparently thought they could pull up in the driveway, break in and walk out with whatever they could lay hands on. They hadn't counted on good neighbors. Margie had been at the sink getting a glass of water. I was watching a ballgame. She called out, "Larry, the Springers know anyone with a van?" I needed another beer, and so I got up and went to the kitchen. "Hell, I don't know," I said. I looked out the window.About this time two boys with half-grown beards and filthy t-shirts came out the front door carrying a stereo. "Holy shit," I said. I said, "Margie, get hold of the police. Those are burglars." Gary and Henry had come out of their houses about the same time I had, Henry from next door on the Springers' other side, Gary from across the street. Gary stood at the foot of the Springers' driveway, Henry directly across from me on the opposite edge of the Springers' yard. I didn't know what to do. I only knew I wasn't going to take a shot at these guys, not if I could help it. And I knew Margie was on the phone to the police. "Gary," I said. "Gary, what do you think?" This was the first time I had spoken to him in seven months. We had had a falling out. This was no time to keep up the fight, and I wanted to know what he thought of the situation. He was something of a hot-head, a real go-getter. He wasn't far off from being a Diamond Distributor for Amway, which, if you know anything at all about that operation, is pretty high up. But Gary didn't answer me. He only opened the hand he held around the barrel of his gun, and then regripped. I looked over at Henry, who stood with his arm out stiff, pointing the Luger at the burglars. He was wearing a tank t-shirt and gray work pants, and he was sweating. Henry was German, an older fellow, and had served in the German Army during World War II. He looked like some kind of marksmanship poster, feet evenly spread, arm out, body perpendicular to the direction he pointed the gun. 106 · The Missouri Review "Hey Henry," I called. "Hey, what do you think?" But he didn't answer, either. I hadn't expected him to. I hadn't spoken to him in a good year or so. It had been Amway, in fact, over which Gary and I had our falling out. Gary and Nancy, his wife, had been our best friends, playing fourhanded poker with us every Wednesday night for years. We always played at their house, and used to stay up all hours drinking margaritas and filling the house up with cigarette smoke, all the time listening to Tijuana Brass or the Beatles. Afterwards I would carry my oldest girl Melanie, Margie carrying Stephanie, back home across the dew-wet grass, both girls asleep. We carried on our Wednesday night cards tradition until about a year ago. Then Gary and Nancy had Amway meetings to go to twice a month, always on Wednesday nights. As soon as we started playing cards again, Gary started in on us about the world of Amway, about how it's the American way, and how you could make a swell income out of the thing if you had enough initiative, or you could just supplement your income with it. "Or you could be a clown and work your way through life," Gary would end up saying, "always putting out for someone else, always breaking your back so someone else can make a buck." "But...