by Les Edgerton
What’d he learn from his mom? Not much, unless it was valuable to know you never pay the price a whore quotes you. Only ministers paid the full freight. His mother, he remembered, loved miters, but she wasn’t the least bit religious. She thought fucking them got you somehow closer to heaven.
***
“Goddammit!”
Reader looked back and laughed. Eddie was keeping behind him through the rows of cut sugar cane stalks, trying to step in Reader’s footsteps to keep the mud off his shoes. He slipped and fell on his side once; slick brown slime covered not only his shoes, but one side of his Perry Ellis trousers as well. To his credit he still held on to the leash. The dog stood patiently to the side.
“Why th’ hell we got to do this? I’ll take your word it works. Fucking shoes are ruint. Lookit my pants.” He got up, cursing.
“Because. I want you to see what happens, how this works. I want you to understand this. You can buy a dozen pairs of shoes this time next week. Hundred, two hundred pairs, that’s what you want. Get ‘em all different colors. ‘Sides, I want to see if it works myself. This is the first one I made.”
Eddie was a punk, but if he rode him hard enough he’d do. Once the job was over he was history. A zero like Eddie would roll over the first time a cop slapped him hard or squeezed his nuts. In a way it was a good thing Eddie was a jive-ass punk. Anybody more hip would have known Reader wasn’t going to leave any loose cannons lying around. Eddie was too stupid to think of anything but the broads he was going to be able to buy and the top drawer booze he was going to drown himself in. And maybe the shoes he was going to stock up on. He was whacked over shoes. Reader guessed it was because he’d never had any when he was a kid.
They reached the spot Reader had in mind at the far end of the field. He’d spotted it a month ago, driving around out in the country. An ancient oak stump that went at least twelve feet around, three feet high, its roots sticking out of the ground. Perfect for what he wanted. Anyone who heard the noise while driving by on the main access road would think--no big deal--some farmer getting rid of stumps. Farmers were always blowing up junk in fields. He took the leash from Eddie and tied it around one of the exposed roots.
He knelt down, reached inside the grocery bag and took out the contents.
“What the hell’s that, Reader? Looks like something you make in art class in second grade!”
It did look weird. A rectangular blob of material with a length of ribbon cable coming out of one side, a connector at its end and the end of another connector peeping out of the other side of the blob.
“It’s a plaster of Paris mold, Eddie. All the goodies are in there, the bomb and the circuit. A remote control receiver. All we need to do is hook it around the guy, tight, so he can’t get it off without breaking the connection and we’re in business. Like this.”
He reached over and patted the German Shepherd on the head and bent down and let the dog lick his face. He picked up the contraption and strapped it on the dog’s back, snaking the cable under his belly and snapping the connectors together on the other side. The dog reached around with his head and tried to bite at the lump that was on his back. He sat down on his haunches and began to scratch at the cable with his hind foot. He couldn’t quite reach it.
“There. It’s all set. Slick, huh?”
“Jesus, Reader. What if the mutt breaks that thing loose?”
“He goes boom. Us too, if we happen to be too close. The wires come loose, get cut or broken, it sets it off, same as if you put the juice to it.”
Eddie backed away, his eyes wide. Reader saw red lines in the whites of his parer’s eyes and felt nothing but contempt.
“Let’s get the fuck up to the car, man! Look at him. He’s gonna break that thing. You’re crazy, Reader!”
Reader smelled the animal fear coming from him. Good. Eddie needed to get a little respect for this.
“You know, you’re right, Eddie. Let’s go back. We’ll set it off up at the car.”
“What’s in that mold, that gizmo thing? Dynamite?” Eddie asked, stepping over the drainage ditch alongside the road and walking over to the car.
“You never took high-school chemistry, did you, Eddie?”
Eddie fixed his eyes on the dog that was still digging with his hind foot at the contraption strapped to his back.
“Fuck no. I was a woodshop man. Fuck a bunch of chemistry.”
“I would have guessed that, Eddie. I would have picked you to be a woodshop man. Yessir, definitely a woodshop man. No, it’s not dynamite. It’s saltpeter and some other stuff.”
“Saltpeter! Isn’t that what they put in the beans in the joint, take away your sex drive?”
Reader laughed.
“Over to Raiford, cons claimed it was in the mashed potatoes. I guess in a way it might take away your sex drive. At least, when it goes off and you happen to be in the neighborhood. Some other things, too. Sulfur, crushed charcoal. You water it down, mix it up, bake it in an oven at two-fifty. You got to be careful. It’s packed in a six-and-a-half-inch galvanized pipe, half-inch diameter. Picture something twice the size of your willie, Eddie...”
“Fuck you, Reader.”
“...bit more powerful, though. It’s got a flashbulb in one end, wires running out a hole in one of the caps, hooked to the circuit. You saw the connectors. Dynamite’s not a good idea. Too easy to be traced. They put little pellets in dynamite. Color-coded. They can tell where it came from in six seconds.”
Eddie nodded like he understood, but it was plain he was not listening. His whole attention was riveted on the dog who was scratching at the cable with his other hind foot.
“Know anything about electronics, Eddie?”
Reader walked around to the back of the car and popped open the trunk from which he extracted another grocery sack and came back up to the front of the car where Eddie stood staring at the dog.
Eddie said, “Yeah. You ever unhook the VCR to take it in to the shop you want to mark the wires so you get it back right. I never remember how to do that. It’s easier to go out and steal another one hooked up to the TV. Get two for one that way, too. I remember one time...”
“Electronics are the future, Eddie. Computers, robotics. You can do anything with electronics. Like this.”
“If you say so.”
“How would you do this job? How would you take out three, four million from somebody who doesn’t want to cooperate? Stick ‘em up with a 12 gauge?”
“Works for me. Folks don’t argue with a sawed-off.” He sucked back phlegm and swallowed. “Look! That mutt’s goin’ nuts!”
“I guess they don’t, Eddie. Only what if they have a 12 gauge too? Tell me this--how many times you been in the joint, Eddie?”
“A few. Who hasn’t?”
“That’s right. Who hasn’t. How many times you using a gun when you got busted”
“Well, shit...every time, I guess. So what?”
“Ever do a bank job?”
“Naw. Thought about it though.”
“Know what happens on a bank job?”
“Sure. You go in quick, get out quick. Listen to that dog whine, Reader.”
“Get caught quick, too. How many people get caught doing bank jobs, do you suppose?”
“I dunno. Some.”
Reader reached in the bag and took out the Futaba and extended the antenna to its full length of a foot and a half. Next, he took out a video camera. He folded the bag and threw it through the open window onto the front seat.
“Not some, Eddie. Most of ‘em. Most bank robbers get caught. I’d say about all of them. What happens is a couple of guys go in with shotguns, pistolas under their coats. They hand the teller a note or just announce it, hold down on the guard, all the customers. That’s when their troubles begin. Electronic shit starts to go down. Shit, electronic shit’s been going down before they walked in. Cameras, trip alarms set up in cash drawers, you name it. Today’s average bank is a fucking electronic wonderland. Before t
hey got the green in their mitts, helicopters are whizzin’ around outside and every cop in town is standing outside behind squad cars with a donut in one hand, .38 in the other, pissed off ‘cause they were compelled to leave their coffee and it’s gettin’ cold and they was halfway to first with Trixie, the waitress. And if you get out quick enough before all that happens they got a movie of you. Electronics, Eddie. The bank robbers are beat before they start. By technology. See what I mean?”
“I guess, Reader. We gonna do this or what? It’s gettin’ hot.”
Reader handed the Futaba to Eddie, who took it gingerly. He held it by his fingertips like he thought it might explode. The sun was bright, melting away the morning mist, but Reader didn’t think it was the heat that made little drops of perspiration pop out on his partner’s forehead. Guy truly was a punk.
Reader aimed the video camera at his partner, then found the Futaba in the viewfinder and zeroed in on it. In a smooth, steady shot, he swung the camera around and found the dog at the end of the field and turned the zoom control until the dog looked like it was ten feet away. He switched the camera off and turned and faced Eddie.
“So, bank robbers are Indians, Eddie. You’re an Indian. And you don’t have to be so careful with that. That’s the transmitter. The dog’s got the shit that blows up. The dog’s the one that ought to be nervous, but then the dog’s got balls.”
“What the fuck’re you talking about Indians t’me, Reader? I’m no Indian. I’m Acadian. Me, I’m Eddie Delahousie. Delahousie, that’s French, not Indian. And that dog’s got fleas, not guts.”
“Just some history, Eddie. History. Indian history. Besides, you’re not French-Canadian. You’re a coonass. An Indian coonass. Indians were in this country thousands of years before the white man came and getting along fine. That all got ruined. Indians tried to fight the white man with bows and arrows. The white man shot muskets.”
“Yeah?”
It started to sprinkle lightly. The sun was out, but it was raining. Reader liked that when it happened. It put him in a happy mood.
“The Indians got muskets themselves, took them off the few white men they were able to kill with their fucking Stone Age bow and arrows. They started to hold their own again for a while. But the white man came up with repeating rifles. The Indians were right back in the soup again. It kept happening, over and over. Once the Indians got their own selves some rifles, the white man said okay, we got to have something else. Andey did. They invented Gatling guns. That was the end of the Indians. You see, Eddie, it’s technology. Today the technology is electronics. They got it--we don’t. That’s why we get caught. By we, I mean those of us on the other side of the law. That’s why you’re an Indian. You and everybody who looks like your sorry ass. You’re trying to fight somebody with a bow and arrow and they got a Gatling gun.”
“You know what, Reader?” Eddie sat the transmitter down on the car hood and reached through the window into the back seat and took out a beer from the cooler. He popped it and took a long pull, beer dribbling off the sides of his mouth. “You’re a smart cookie I guess. Me? I’m a simple gangster, don’t know that much. Know something else? I don’t fucking care about all that shit you’re talkin’. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Only don’t call me no fucking Indian. I’m French-Canadian, me, Eddie Delahousie. I don’t know if you been puttin’ me down or what, but don’t do it no more.”
Reader laughed. “Okay, Eddie, okay. Look, I wasn’t putting you down, my friend. Explaining some history, that’s all. Tell you what. You do it.” He handed the Futaba back to Eddie.
“Me? Whaddya do?”
“Push the power button. And duck.”
“Duck?”
They both looked to where the dog stood. They could see his tail wagging. He’d quit trying to rid himself of the lump on his back and was standing facing them. He barked.
“Yeah. I’m not sure how big a charge that is. Might be pieces of pipe flying around. Be a shame you got your head tore off before you got to buy all them nice new shoes. Wait’ll I get the camera set.”
Eddie looked at him like he was trying to figure out if he was kidding and shook his head. Quickly, Reader picked up the camera, turned it on and found Eddie with it. As before, he swung the camera around, seeking out the German shepherd. Once in his sight, he held the zoom button down until the dog looked like he was only ten feet away.
“Now,” he said to Eddie.
Eddie held the Futaba out away from him at arm’s length and closed his eyes and pressed the red button. For a split second nothing happened and then…
“Holy fuck!”
The dog evaporated. Half his back disappeared. Flat-out disappeared. The odd thing was, he remained standing. For a second. His back was gone and half his head, the top half, but he remained standing. A frozen millisecond and then the dog collapsed and sank to the ground. Smoke and chips and chunks of metal flew in every direction, but none came as far as the car. They could see small flames sprouting up on the stump the dog had been tied to.
“Hot damn! Would you look at that, Reader! Man!”
“Yeah. Did a number, didn’t it? Took out Rover, killed half his family.” He turned off the camera, tossed it into the back seat.
“What’s the camera for?”
“We’re gonna have a private viewing in a few days. You, me and Mr. Clifford St. Ives, the Third.”
Eddie’s forehead wrinkled, making his eyebrows arch.
“That’s the mark, huh? Who’s--”
“President of Derbigny State Bank. He’s going to see what one pipe will do. Being as he’s gonna have three wired to his ass, I think we’ll have his attention.”
“Three pipes? Why three? That dog’s vaporized. Half that damn stump’s gone, too. Only take one to do the job.”
“That’s right, Eddie.”
He opened the car door and got in. Eddie got in his side. Reader started the engine and turned around in the road and began driving slowly back the way they’d come.
“Mr. St. Ives will see what one pipe will do. When he knows he’s got three hooked to him we’ll have his complete attention. Taped to his back, close to his spine and his kidneys and six dozen major arteries. His suit will hide it. Coats usually hang away from the body there. C’mon, get in. We got things to do, some more stuff to pick up.”
“Why we gotta go to all this trouble? You got me running here, there for all this crap when most of it we could pick up in one store.”
Reader sighed. He’d told Eddie a few details, enough for most people to grasp the idea, but Eddie didn’t seem to get it.
“I told you, Eddie. Every single thing connected to this job has to be gotten separately and in ways they won’t remember who they sold it to. Like our friend out there. You go to the pound and somebody remembers your face. You buy a mutt off some local yokel, nobody knows nothing. Why do you think I drove over a thousand miles to get this Futaba clear up in Ohio? I coulda picked it up in town.”
“Well? Why didn’t you?”
“Because, moron. Because some of the stuff I got doesn’t get sold every day. This job goes down--the Feds--everybody--will be all over the place. They’ll know every piece of equipment we used and if they trace it there’s a chance they’ll get a description. I walk into Radio Shack and buy a fine-ass remote controller like this Futaba and the FBI sends a sheet around to all the dealers in the country. About that time, some citizen out in Metry says, ‘Oh, yeah. I sold one of those to a guy looks like this.’ They bring one of them computer artists in and they get together and in two hours they have my face on Unsolved Mysteries in thirty-six countries. That’s why, you idiot.”
Reader tapped out a cigarette, got it going.
“Most fucks who do a job like this go in with guns drawn, lots of firepower showing. Fucking major mistake. For one thing, we can’t go in when the bank’s open because of all the problems I went over. The electronic shit. Now. St. Ives gets the money on Friday evening when the bank’s close
d. Don’t ask me how I know this, I just do. It’s fucking drug money he launders for this outfit.”
“Ain’t no way to take it off?”
Reader looked at Eddie and the word moron went through his mind.
“Eddie, the only hard part of this is I have to convince St. Ives that a single mistake on his part gets him blown to hell and back and I won’t blink an eye doing it.” He straightened around in the seat and put the car back in gear.
“You think I can convince him of that, Eddie?
***
On the drive back to town, Eddie was quiet for a long time until he began talking again. “Where’d you say you got all this shit, Reader? Why can’t it be traced?”
Reader reached into his pants pocket and felt around for a bill. They were approaching the toll booth for the Pontchartrain Causeway.
“Easy. I got the only traceable part from someone who won’t talk.”
“Bullshit! You can’t trust anyone.”
“I can trust this guy, I think.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
Reader stared at his partner and smiled.
“Because he’s dead.”
JACK FOGARTY WASN’T DEAD however. He was lying in a hospital bed with needles in his arms and tubes inserted into every possible orifice.
His brother Grady was at his store, which was located in what Dayton residents called the Oregon Historical District. It should have been called the “Oregon Deteriorated District,” Grady thought. It was a neighborhood where the local liquor store wouldn’t be apt to advertise “Free wine samples,” as he’d seen a store out in the suburbs do one time. Jack’s store was on Fifth Street, off Patterson and not far from the Great Miami River. Grady was familiar with the Miami. He’d seen more than a few floaters fished from its depths. When he was a kid he swam in it, took home stringers of smallmouth bass from its waters. The Miami still had fish in it, but you didn’t eat them. Not unless your body was low on its lead quotient for the day.
It was a day and a half removed from his brother’s attack and Jack had passed the crisis during the previous night. Chances were fifty-fifty he’d live, but the doctor still didn’t know the extent of his brain injury and how it would manifest. They were running test after test and the bill was mounting. Grady tried to keep his mind off that.