Quinn headed on over to the Rebel to check out the busted glass doors and decimated ATM, hoping not to run into Johnny Stagg as the experience was almost always unpleasant. But there was Stagg himself, standing in the broken doorway strung with yellow tape making small talk with Kenny and Reggie, recounting the scene of the nearly great robbery. He was quick to offer video surveillance burned on DVDs and a few theories on who might be responsible.

“Good morning,” Quinn said, standing under the gas pump portico.

“Far from good, Sheriff,” Stagg said. “You should’ve seen the mess a few hours back. Scared the whale out of my woman working the register. She hadn’t seen those boys sneaking in and figured we got hit with an earthquake. Woman’s still picking glass out of her hair.”

“I see.”

“I don’t understand how a couple fellas roll up to the biggest business in this county and feel comfortable pulling out a money machine at their leisure,” he said. “Doesn’t seem right.”

Quinn removed his sunglasses and scratched at the corner of his eye with his little finger. The front doors hung misshapen and twisted, pebbles of broken glass across the side entrance. A neon sign in the window advertising they were open twenty-four hours and offered hot fresh coffee, the latter being a damn lie.

“Can you see much on the tape?” Quinn asked.

“Not at all,” Stagg said. “One fella was white. Other was black. Both around six feet tall, wearing masks up over their faces with baseball caps. Other than their color, couldn’t tell which from which. Either one of them wasn’t no brain trust. Tried yanking that machine through the brick wall and not the glass doors.”

“I heard,” Quinn said. “They take anything else?”

“White fella took a couple Slim Jims,” Stagg said. “You can see it on the tape. Slips a mess of ’em into his jacket pocket just as clear as day. They wasn’t in the store more than two minutes. White boy is the one who wrapped the chain around the machine, while the black boy goosed up the truck.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep your ATM so close to the door,” Quinn said. “This one yours or does it belong to a vendor?”

The reddened skin on his bony cheeks and bulbous nose turned a brighter red. “If y’all were doing your cotton-picking job maybe I wouldn’t have to worry where I place my machine,” he said. “And it’s a vendor. Some fine folks I do business with down in New Orleans.”

“That a fact?” Quinn asked. “We’ve had some complaints about bank card hacks. Thought it might be some card readers out on your pumps. I’ll check out the machine, too.”