Pico would typically rotate drivers on the heavy equipment so that there was always a fresh man who could report for legitimate contract work on a regular daily schedule, creating the illusion that the equipment operator was nothing other than a regular guy. No one would think twice when the gypsy heavy equipment guys moved on a few weeks later, usually to work "on a road building project" in some other state. By the time the big cats were loaded onto flatbeds and rolled out of town, the hijacked beef would be steaks on somebody’s table in Kansas City. Pico had it all figured out. He even had a crew that repaired the area where the abattoir pit had been covered over. This clean-up crew had once resodded an area using four foot square rugs of over-grown Buffalo grass that they'd harvested from various sites around the countryside. It didn't have to look perfect, it just had to go unnoticed long enough for Pico' s boys to move on, to buy a little escape time before the deed was discovered. They usually slaughtered on four or five consecutive nights, usually moving in a circle within a sixty mile radius. By the time ranchers starting to find cattle "turning up missing," Pico's crew was likewise. And over and over, it worked.
Before any of that could happen, however, a mole had to be placed inside the targeted business, and this was where Jake had entered the picture with Frank Walker. He was hired as an infiltrator – a job for which he was perfectly suited.
Jake's hold on Py was a hypnosis that had been reenacted many times. He was a natural con, a born charmer who even experienced men seemed taken by. Pico recognized Jake's special ability and offered to forgive his debt if he would do the job on Walker. The first hurdle was getting hired, which Jake handled easily. He booked a room at the Longmont Hotel and started asking around about who might be looking for an experienced trucker. There were only three ranchers in the county with operations large enough to hire such a specialist and soon enough Jake had the names of their foremen. He approached each, but he paid special attention to Jarvis Lang, who did the hiring for Walker Ranch. He shadowed him, finding out where he spent his free time, showing up at places where Lang was. They played pool together at Snorty's. There was a dance at the VFW Hall and Jake shared a bottle of Southern Comfort with Lang on the street outside. Jarvis was only twenty-five years old – not that much older than Py and soon enough he was enamored with Jake, who he found to be good company, and whose confident competence he respected. Lang suggested Jake to Frank Walker, and Walker approved the hire on Jarvis' recommendation. Jake worked at the Walker Ranch for a month before even meeting Frank Walker. By then he'd completely inventoried Walker's assets – including his daughter Lily – and developed a working model for the sting.
Now, however, there was a problem. The scheduled heist was still over a month away. There were standing orders for much of what was there to take, but there was still unfinished business on the sales side. Only half the machine parts they expected to get were spoken for. The offers they had on Walker's flatbed and on his tractor-trailer were too low to make profit. (Pico figured he had to make triple his expenses to make the risk worth taking. "Too many people with loose lips," he'd say.) Jake needed to be in a position inside the operation to determine the best night to make the hit, to direct Pico's men to the right spots and the right properties, and to spot problems and head them off so the heists could take place. If he had a title it would be Director of Operations. But now, how was Jake going to tell Pico that he'd lost his job at Walker Ranch?
* * * * *
Pico sat in a chair in a corner by an open window, facing the door, as befit his paranoia. His enforcers, Frye and Larson, were located strategically around the room, Larson next to the door and Frye in a neutral corner, from which he could see the entire room. "Hello Jake," Pico said as Jake entered.
"Pico," Jake said, tipping his head. He looked at the other two, acknowledging their presence but saying nothing.
"So Jake – did you bring what we need?" Pico asked. Jake nodded. "Yeah, I got what you want."
"Have a seat," Pico said. "Let's see what you got." He motioned for Jake to pull a chair up next to the bed, which they would use for a table. Pico moved some papers he had lying there out of the way.
"You already have a pretty good list of trucks and machinery." Jake said, as he seated himself. He handed a piece of paper to Pico. "This is everything I've already told you about plus a few more. Walker recently bought a John Deere that's not on your list."
"Very good," Pico said, noting the model number. "I've had doubts about this job. This'll help the margin."
"There's this, too," Jake said, pointing out another item. "Walker keeps a vintage automobile – a 1925 Ford – in a garage on the property. I just saw it for the first time and its prime."
Pico shrugged it off. "Parts, maybe," he said. "Is it easy?"
"It's in the yard, so it ain't easy," Jake said. "You may want to forget it."
"It ain't worth it," Pico said, shaking his head.
"There is one other thing I think you'll be interested in," Jake said. "Walker keeps a safe on the property." This Pico showed an interest in. "It's in a den in the main house. It works off a combination."
"You know what it is?" Pico asked.
"No – but I think I know where I can find it," Jake said. "Walker's a strange guy. He keeps records of everything: serial numbers, transactions, even verbal agreements. Everybody on the ranch knows that he keeps payroll checks and large sums of cash drawers in a desk in one of his offices. I've seen his ledger book, including serial numbers to a couple wall boxes – they're Meilinks, I know the models – and there were combinations listed for both."
Pico grinned in disbelief at Frye, his right hand man, who remained expressionless. "Are you telling me this sap keeps the combinations to his strong boxes written down on an account ledger, where anybody could find it?"
"I don't think most people would recognize it for what it is," Jake said. "This guy Walker is . . . I don't know, different. He keeps track of things. I guess it makes him feel secure to know exactly what he's got."
"So what you're saying is you think you can go in there and find this book that'll get you into the box. There's a lot of 'may be' and 'could be' there," Frye said, listening from the corner, eyeing Jake suspiciously. His remark was intended for Pico, who listened with one eyebrow raised. "He's right," Pico said. "I want you to see if you can't get us better information. We don’t want to go into that house looking for what might be there."
Jake sat up straight in his chair and took a deep breath. "What's wrong?" Pico asked. He could sense that Jake was nervous about something. "You got something bothering you?"
Jake glanced from Pico to Frye and gave a regardant glance toward Larson, standing at his back. "I've got something I've got to tell you," he said, swallowing hard, knowing he was entering dangerous territory. Jake could feel sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, a muted cry of panic echoing from somewhere at the back of his mind. He looked in Pico's eyes and saw only blackness. In his heart he knew that others who had looked into them and found that same empty void were no longer alive to talk about it. "There's been a development that...complicates things."
Pico looked suspiciously at Jake. "What kind of a 'development."'
"I no longer have the job at the Walker Ranch," Jake said. "Frank Walker fired me."
Larson and Frye both repositioned themselves in reaction to the news, and Pico leaned forward in his chair, his eyes still trained on Jake's. "What do you mean he fired you?" he asked.
"We had a disagreement over pay," Jake said. "He caught me going through his desk, looking for a check I was owed."
Pico looked at Larson and Frye, then back at Jake. "You're right – that complicates things." He leaned back in his chair, seemingly taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Then suddenly his expression changed and he became agitated. "I don't believe you, man," he said. "Your part is to get inside this guy's operation, to find out what he's got and plan the job." His voice began to rise. "It is not your job to have trouble with
this guy and get yourself fired!" He got up out of his chair and started to pace around the room. "This is a problem." He picked up Jake's inventory list and hit it with the back of his hand. "All this stuff – it's all spoken for!" It was an exaggeration. "There are people waiting for this stuff, expecting it. What do you propose we tell them? That you couldn't keep your hands out of the petty cash drawer so they can just go fuck themselves? It won't work, Jake!"
"There's a way," Jake interjected, trying to control the situation before it got out of hand. "If you move fast, I can tell you where the properties are and the best way to get them." Pico looked disgusted and frustrated, but Jake charged on. "This Sunday Walker is going to be out of town – I know this for a fact. He is going to be gone on some kind of business trip. He won't be back until Thursday. It gets loose around there when he's gone. The cowboys get drunk, they go to..."
Pico slammed his fist down hard atop a chiffonier next to where Larson was standing. "No, no, no! October first, Jake – that's when this is scheduled for!" he said, snarling through clinched teeth. "We can’t have everybody in place until then.
Equipment isn't even available right now."
"Then do a smaller sting," Jake said. "Get what I can steer you to now and cancel the rest. Move on. There are plenty of other rich guys..."
Again Pico slammed the dresser, this time so hard that it rattled a picture hanging above it on the wall. Even Torn Larson flinched a little – and this was not a "flinching" type of guy. He could see that Pico was going ballistic, combustion he'd witnessed many times before and one which he'd have rather not seen repeated. "We've got months wrapped up in this job already!" Pico said. He frantically ran his hands through his greasy black hair, smoothing it back close to his head. "Are you trying to make me out to be a petty thief? Is that it, Jake?" "No, no," Jake said, shaking his head, a little unsure of what Pico was saying. "What can you guarantee we can get if we go now?" Pico asked. "Some jewelry? A car?" He looked around the room as if the thought was so infradig that it hurt his feelings. Still seated in the corner, Wynn Frye wondered if he didn't see tears in Lorenz Pico's eyes. "You think I work three months for fucking jewelry and a car?" Pico said, a trace of sobbing in his voice. "You son-of-a-bitch," he said to Jake. "You would turn me into a petty thief!"
"Can I say something here?" Frye seemed consultative, like he was going to help Pico understand. "Isn't something kind of out of whack here?" "I'll say sornething's 'out of whack,"' Pico said, shaking his head in disbelief. "No – I mean who is calling the shots?" Frye asked. "This guy comes in here – what are you down, Jake, four, five grand? – and he's telling you what you got to do?" "And when you got to do it?" added Larson, supporting Wynn Frye's line of thought. Pico looked at each of them, a scowl across his face. "And he ain't even held up his end of the bargain," continued Frye. "Jake's supposed to be working the inside on this job. He ain't even in position – and he's telling you now is the time to go? It's out of whack. That's all I'm saying." "Yeah, Jake should get his facts straight," Larson said, seconding the opinion.
Pico stood equal-distant from the other three men in the room, and he considered the situation, his glance ricocheting this way and that as he surveyed his options. Then he leveled his eyes on Jake. "So tell me – when did this happen that you lost your job?" he asked. "Just last week," Jake said. Pico rubbed his chin, apparently feeling his beard for inspiration. "So what have you been doing since then?" he asked. "Where have you been staying?"
Jake seemed to grow edgy. Now it was his tum to squirm a little in his own chair as he glanced over at Frye, who seemed riveted on his every word. "I got a little work with another guy in the area," Jake said. "It's not much, but I been staying there."
"In Weld County?" Pico asked, and Jake nodded that it was. "Near Walker Ranch?"
Jake wasn't anxious to tell Pico anything about Pete Parker and his spread. He could only cause trouble and that was the last thing he wanted for Tory and her dad. "Yeah, it's near Walker Ranch:''
Pico seemed to be growing impatient. "How near Walker Ranch?" he asked. "I mean, is it so near that you can keep tabs on what's going on there? Maybe we can save this thing yet."
"No, it's not that near," Jake said, shaking his head. He didn't want to encourage Pico to get creative with their scheme.
Frye and Larson were getting fidgety again. Jake could feel it, though his eyes were cast down to the floor. He didn't want to look at anybody. Mostly he just wanted to be elsewhere. He was wishing these people would just go away and get out of his life. "How about other people working for Walker?" Pico asked. "Any casual acquaintances? Anybody you keep in touch with who might tell you what's going on there?"
"No one," Jake said.
"He isn't trying very hard," Frye said, from the corner of the room. "Not hard at all," Larson said.
"Look – there's something else I've got to tell you." Jake raised his head and looked at Pico, ignoring the other two. He summoned up all the courage he could. "If you go ahead with this job, I can't be a part of it. I can provide you with drawings, maps, anything you need to find what you want. If you go this weekend all this information will be good. But I can't do it like we planned."
Pico looked like he'd been hit with a baseball bat. His jaw dropped in disbelief. "This guy has got some nerve," Frye said, verbalizing what was written all over Lorenz Pico's face. "No brains whatsoever," added Larson.
"There's bad blood between Frank Walker and me," Jake said. "That already puts me in a bad light. It makes me a suspect, the first person the police are gonna want to talk to after all this takes place. I've got to be somewhere public that night, visible, where a lot of people can see me. I've got to have an alibi. It works out for you, too.
Otherwise they can tie the two of us together. You'll go down sure as I will if anything goes wrong."
"I don't believe this!" Pico said, seemingly shell-shocked by the new revelation. "You are telling me that you've screwed up this whole thing. And because you've screwed it all up, I've got to work with your schedule, on my own with no help from you, and settle for maybe one-fifth of what I'm in this thing for. On top of that I've got to tell my resellers that the stuff I promised them – some of them pay up front, you know?
They put money down, kind of like a retainer. Now you are telling me that – tra- la- la – fuck yourselves! I can't deliver. Is that what you're telling me I'm supposed to say?"
"What about the four thousand dollars?" added Frye. "How does he propose to pay that?"
Strain showed in Jake's face. "Surely the information I've given you is worth some of that!" he said. "We can come to some sort of an agreement. I can work the rest off."
"Agreements with you are clearly just...toilet paper," Pico said. "You wipe your butt on agreements and throw them away. That's how you got yourself in this in the first place. Or don’t you remember? Don’t you remember being a fugitive, hiding from loan sharks and hit men?" "I remember," Jake said, but Pico continued. "Don't you remember who it was who stepped in and paid your debt, set you up with an income so you could live a regular life?"
CHAPTER 12 – Warm Welcome
As the Greyhound droned north on Highway 287, Jake looked out toward the plains of Eastern Colorado, little by little becoming cloaked in deep purple as the sun retreated behind the Rockies. Using an idol finger to trace invisible circles on the bus window, he felt weary and depressed. He had stared too long into a mirror at the bus station in Denver. It was mounted on a machine dispensing candy, and when he bent down to pull one of the levers, trying to determine which one freed the Life Savers, he had looked up to see his own reflection.
His detail had started to show. He noticed that his skin looked old, that tiny cracks had emerged which cut lines across his face. Irritations had come and stayed, leaving areas of him permanently damaged. It was all subtle, incipient degeneration that he knew would grow less subtle with time. It made him think of his late grandfather, and how in the years just prior to his death he h
ad looked like an old weathered elephant.
Now, looking at the lines in his own face, Jake thought – "This is how it happened to you." For a moment in the bus station he had caught a flash image of himself at seventy. And it wasn't fair. The aching he felt in his heart told him he was seeing things accurately, as they really were. But how could he be looking at the end of life when his youth still seemed so nearly within reach? Under the right circumstances, with all the pieces of his life put back in their proper places, he imagined he could still almost touch it. But the thought gave him no solace. What would youth want with him now? The damned mirror in the bus station had brought him face-to-face with himself, and there were no Life Savers in the machine.
Jake had not freed himself of his contract with Lorenz Pico. Their meeting had ended with everything proceeding as planned, not because that's what Jake had agreed to, but because that's what Pico demanded. The strike date was still October first, which had been chosen because it was the night of the Cow Cutter's Ball. The annual autumn event was eagerly anticipated by people in the Longmont area. Everyone would be there, except for Jake, who was to be on site at the Walker Ranch that night, directing Pico's clandestine operation. If Jake carried through with what he had agreed to at the outset, Pico would call their deal done. But nothing less than the original terms were acceptable. As for Jake's having gotten himself fired, Pico figured that was Jake's own fault and his own problem. Jake was just going to have to find a way to hold up his end of the deal.
* * * * *
Stepping down off the bus, Jake paused before going on into the bus station, taking a moment to look around for Tory. She had promised to be waiting for him when he returned, but when Jake didn't see her on the street he went on inside the terminal, which was really an old office building, converted for the purpose. With its "standard" ten foot ceilings and its store-front windows, it was homey in contrast to the gothic auditorium that was Denver's downtown depot.
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