(As re-told many years later in the tobacco-black southern rumble of the former Reverend Jeremiah P. Wilkerson)
They landed safely.
Later, a handful of the officers stationed at the roadblock would swear that, between the deafening thrust of the homemade jumpjets and the frantic gunshots, they could hear the distinct notes of Dixie blasted through an off-key airhorn. Though most of their fellows dismissed this curious detail as pure embellishment they would inevitably re-count this version of the "Flying Pickup" story in crusty police bars for years to come, sometimes adding that the suspects draped a Confederate flag out the window as they flew past and that it caught the sun in a perfectly romantic kind of way that almost made them feel less of themselves for being over-educated Yankee sonsofbitches.
That last part, of course, is almost certainly apocrypha.
All we know for certain is that Bobby and Richard escaped the Empire State for good after that and legend has it that they either went back to somewhere deep in the Old South to hide out or that they left the homeland once and for all to live the good life down in Mexico, where they now spend their time and fortune drinking tequila, smoking marijuana, and confounding the local drug cartels on behalf of the local peasantry with their mad antics. Either way, most agree they're in a better place now.
As for Henry, he got a nice scholarship to a prestigious Southern college and became an aerospace engineer. They say he's at NASA now and they have him working on some top-secret project to build a moonbase or something. His remaining hair, much to everyone's surprise, has allegedly remained intact and he married a beautifully fragile blue-blood literature professor from his alma mater.
Jeff continued his love affair with alcohol for a good fifteen years before finally throwing in the towel and giving himself over to God at my own behest. In that time he made almost a quarter million dollars scamming casinos around the country first though and, although he tried his best, he couldn't drink his way through quite all of it. He and Janet now live quite comfortably in Puerto Rico, where they own a highly regarded strip club and sun themselves on the beach nearly everyday.
As for me, well, it turns out Bobby had more heart than anybody expected. When I opened that locker in sub-basement 32D, I found not two but three times the share I had been promised, along with a loving note from Robert telling me to spend all three million as God himself would have intended. So I did.
These days, I'm still living in the city with my partner Greg. Between us we own three different gay clubs, a rehab clinic, and a twenty-four hour soup kitchen that we personally volunteer in every Thursday. We're set to be married in September, when the temperature around here gets nice and cool and we can have a relaxed ceremony with all the old friends we can find. If you're in town around that time, feel free to join us for a picnic in the park sometime and try some of Greg's hushpuppies.
They're positively heavenly.