A Sure Cinch by Patrick Whitehurst

Ratter ducked out of the rain. He joined Sam under the eaves of Dog Eared Books on Valencia. The place closed at ten, ages ago, but the entry still smelled like old books. Sam nodded at Ratter and took a sip from his corner store coffee. None of the fancier places were open.

"Got your text. What's so important we meet in the middle of the night?" Sam asked.

Ratter rubbed his hands together and gnawed on a toothpick. The thin mustache over his pale lips twitched. "A sure cinch," he replied.

Sam took a breath, counted to three. "A what?"


"A sure cinch. An easy score. Loading truck is parked near the de Young."

"A sure thing? Think that's what you mean."

Ratter wore a black trench coat with the collar turned up. His curly brown hair hung in wet spirals to his shoulders. On his feet were a pair of glossy black Doc Martens. Not good for running, but handy for violence, particularly if they were steel toed. Sam himself wore a black sweatshirt under a large green flannel with a pair of gray corduroys and black slip-on canvas shoes. Good for comfort. Not much else.

"It's a cinch though, a cinch and a sure thing," Ratter said. "A sure cinch."

"Sure it is."

"Got a car coming. It's unguarded for the next hour according to my guy on the inside. And get this, Sam. There's nothing but a single busted security camera back there!"

Sam sipped his coffee and pondered the rain. The neon closed sign reflected in the puddle at his feet. "What's in the loading truck?"

"Coins. Lots of rare coins. Know a guy who works there. He said something about error pennies, copper pennies, Morgan silver dollars, worth a mint I'm told. Just sitting there until one a.m.. Gonna put them on exhibit or something."

"What happens at one?"

"That's when the crew comes back from break, I guess. I don't know."

"Lot of security in the Park," Sam said. "Got a reliable ride?" Sam’s own vehicle, a beat up old Volvo, was in the shop.

"I need your help moving the stuff. That's it. You'll get a cut of the sales when I finagle a buyer."

Sam drank. Coffee burned as it went down. Ratter pulled his phone from his back pocket. Water dripped from his nose. "Ride's here."

A white Chrysler Pacifica hummed into view. Rain dribbled off the minivan as it pulled to the corner. Weather didn't seem to affect the LiDAR or the cameras mounted on the roof.

Sam stepped back, fading into the shadows. His back pressed against the cold door of the bookstore.

"I call shotgun," said Ratter.

"The fuck is this? You called a Waymo?"

"Hell yeah," Ratter said. "Ever been in one?"

"These things keep a record, Ratter. You're out of your goddamn mind."

"What are you, a caveman? Nothing to worry about! You'll see!" Ratter made his way to the silent vehicle. "Got the minivan so there's more room for the loot."

"Goodnight, Ratter." Sam started walking toward Guerrero Street. Like Ratter he turned his collar up to obscure his face.

Ratter shouted after him. "C’mon, brother. You'll regret this! You'll see, Sam!"

Sam winced at the use of his name so close to the autonomous transport. The Waymo swallowed its human and disappeared into the drizzling night.

"Regret it already," Sam said. “Even the coffee’s stupid.”

A week later, when the Chronicle reported no new leads in the coin heist and Sam found himself short on rent, he wished he’d had more faith.

​© 2026 Patrick Whitehurst

About the author: 
Patrick Whitehurst writes both fiction and non-fiction. As a former reporter, he developed a love for writing short and fast, which he uses to his advantage in the flash fiction realm. Find him online at patrickwhitehurst.com.