Of course, you'll have to scroll down to read this stuff in order, so do it now. The Mayor of Whiskey Hill. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2:

"Well, it's noon, the shit should be hitting the fan by now," Greg said, as he looked at his watch. We were on U.S. 31, just north of Manistee. The old Datsun was hurtling along at 85 miles an hour, the bald tires snapping dangerously on the pavement. "I feel kinda bad about Bob and John, but Big Bill's gonna know it was us, even though it was only you."
"I don't know, I still think we should've woke them up," I said.
"They'll be up in a few minutes, you know that fat ass is going to come after us the minute he sees what happened to his money."
The theory was this: Big Bill would want the guilty parties only and our flight would define our guilt. Bill would probably try to get Bob and John to tell him where we went, but they wouldn't know and their exclusion would exonerate them. We were proud of our logic, but we had smoked a lot of pot that morning. Besides, John was a prick and we were going to fire him as soon as we found another bass player, Bob, our drummer, on the other hand, was a great guy. The thing about Bob was a self-preservation thing on our part. He would have cracked, or told the wrong person or in some way jeopardized our plan.

Our plan.
Our brilliant scheme.
The crime of the century.
A plot so intricate in detail and logistics that it had to be executed by a very drunk and drug addled guitar player to be effective. Special tools were camouflaged to look like souvenir baseball bats and guitar cases. The getaway vehicle was cleverly disguised as a beat-up car that would stop running permanently right around the time the last payment was due. Cunning and catlike, we hobbled down Route 31 with a car full of stolen money, cold beer, pot and very little in the way of functioning brain cells.
I counted the money in the bag, which was cleverly hidden under the driver’s seat. Eleven thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills and some twenties, which I didn't bother to count but split up as evenly as I could between Greg and I. In Manistee, we bought some sandwiches at a greasy spoon and ate them as we drove out of town. We were going to continue driving south until we thought of something to get us out of the mess we were in.
And we talked. We knew we had a lot more in the guitar case than what was in the bag, as much as another thirty or forty thousand, maybe more. It was a lot of money in 1973, but not retiring money. We also knew that Big Bill was the leading bookie in Traverse City, and that with football, basketball, and hockey all in full swing, business had been good lately. We didn't know if Bill would be able to report the burglary to police, they had to know about his business, though.
"I'll bet every one of those cops in that town use Bill's book," was Greg's opinion. "In that case, they'll know because he won't have to hide it from them. But, they can't do anything on the record."
"No, but they're cops and they're telling their cop friends to watch for us. We need a new car, and we need a plan," I said. "We don't even know where the hell we're going, we're just running away, we should be running towards something."
At midnight that night, we were sitting in a room at the Holiday Inn in Hammond, Indiana. In South Holland we had bought a 1970 BMW 2002 and left the Datsun, minus the plates, in a Denny's parking lot. The BMW was $3900 and, after driving the limping Datsun, it was a dream to operate and a sign of our new affluence. It made us feel successful.