It was 11 o'clock, and Sheriff Irons was at his customary place in the diner. Ira, the diner's owner, knew the sheriff's habits and had laid out his place. So, when Irons came in from the street, there was a cup of strong coffee and a slice of cherry pie waiting for him.

"Mornin' sheriff."

"Mornin' Ira."

And, with the pleasantries concluded, Sheriff Irons took off his dusty grey stetson, placed it on the counter next to him, and began to eat. However, his morning coffee break was soon interrupted.

From outside the diner came the sound of hobnail boots clattering along the boardwalk, followed by the door to the street slamming open and a quavering voice calling out. "Sheriff! Sheriff Irons!"

Irons glanced at the newcomer. It was Tooley, the mechanic at the garage. The man was sweating; the bib of his overall askew and flapping. "Mornin', Tooley. What is it?"

Tooley swallowed, his |Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Sheriff! It's the bank! It's been robbed!" No sooner had the words left his mouth than the morning calm was broken by the clamour of alarm bells.

"Really?" Irons took a sip of his coffee.

"Really, sheriff! They got guns an' masks an' everythin'!"

Irons swung around on his stool and looked out of the diner window. Just down the street, in front of the town's Savings and Loan, was a red muscle car - one that the sheriff had never seen before.

"That them?" The sheriff pointed at the car with his fork.

"Uh-huh."

Irons squinted. He could just about make out the vehicle's license plate. "Out of towners."

"How would I know? You gotta come, sheriff!"

"No rush." Sheriff Irons picked up his plate and took another forkful of pie, chewed, swallowed. As he watched, a pair of masked men in jeans and wind cheaters came barrelling out of the bank.

"They're gettin' away! Sheriff!" Tooley hopped frantically from foot to foot. From outside came the clatter of a V8 engine being revved towards the redline.

"Maybe they are." Irons lifted his coffee cup to his mouth.

"She-riff!"

The muscle car leapt forward and roared past the diner; the noise from its engine drowning out whatever Tooley was going to say next. There was a metal-rending crunch, the sound of glass breaking, and the horrible death rattle of a mortally-wounded engine. Sheriff Irons put down his cup, picked up his hat and got up from his stool. "Alright, Tooley. You convinced me."

He put down a couple of dollar bills on the counter top, then he slapped Tooley across his shoulder. "Better get that tow truck of yours. Reckon we'll need it to get their car out of that pothole."