I caught my breath and turned around. He was buckling his belt. The tingling sensation in my ass acted as a constant reminder of what had just happened.
“Yeah. You did,” I said. “And I loved it.”
“I decided something right before I came,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Well, this chick was driving by, and she was rubbernecking. You know, she slowed way down and was watching me fuck you. And I didn’t know what to fucking do. So, I waved at her. And, I mean, I’m nuts deep in your ass. It’s fucking 7:00. It’s daylight, and I’m butt fucking you with your head all shoved into the seat of the car and your ass in the air.”
“So what’d you decide?”
“Oh. I decided that you’re alright.”
Alright. I found it heartwarming that an asshole like him would say such a thing. “Just alright?”
“Yeah.” He brushed the wrinkles from his shirt and shoved his hands into his front pockets. “So, you busy tomorrow?”
“Night?”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
I was scheduled to work, but I didn’t care. Not. One. Bit. “No,” I said. “Not at all.”
“Cool.”
I got out of the car, waddled to the passenger side door, and carefully lowered my sore ass into the seat. He got in and closed the door.
“Ready?”
“Every time you ask me that, something crazy happens,” I said.
“Welcome to my life,” he said.
I didn’t know if he meant it to be a formal invitation, but I took it as one.
And, I was ready.
TEN
Dick
STEALING drug money is one of the easiest ways to get killed, but the cash return for the typical job is tenfold what any bank job would produce.
Contrary to what is shown on television shows and movies, most banks don’t keep much more than $100,000 on hand. Smaller neighborhood banks may not have $10,000. Robbing a bank of their cash on hand is a huge risk with minimal return.
Safe deposit boxes often provide a much better return versus risk, but unless someone has provided information regarding a particular box’s contents, knowing what’s inside prior to the theft is impossible.
I needed the money I lost in the diamond deal, and a little more.
A million more.
According to my sources, the one-bedroom shack in the barrio was going to have two million dollars in cash in it with one person guarding the money between 9:00 and 10:00 pm.
If my sources were wrong, and there was more than one person, I’d be dead in a matter of seconds. A certain portion of the successes a thief has must be attributed to blind luck, and I was hoping mine hadn’t run out.
The small house was amongst many others like it in a prominently poor neighborhood in the barrio. It wasn’t uncommon for homes such as the one I was going to raid to be used for a one-time drug deal, and more often than not they weren’t even owned. They were abandoned homes that were used by the dealers for the amount of time it took to obtain the drugs, distribute them, and haul out the proceeds.
Often without running water or electricity, they used candles and battery powered lights for illumination.
Based on the light flicker around the edge of the window covering, my guess was this particular home was using candles.
I just hoped there wasn’t more than one person present.
Dressed in black SWAT gear and carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5 9mm submachine gun, I looked like a police officer. The backpack I carried didn’t make me look very official, but it would aid me in a quick escape. The fake business cards in my wallet identified me as a Federal Drug Enforcement Agent. The badge on my vest was as close to official as could ever be produced.
But if the home was full of occupants, credentials wouldn’t matter.
Gunshots would be fired long before I would ever have an opportunity to produce them.
I lowered my shoulders and hustled through the yard. Once at the back door, I listened for voices and heard nothing. One deep breath, half exhaled, and…
Holding the machinegun at the ready, I kicked the door in.
A Hispanic man standing in the dimly lit kitchen pulled a revolver from his holster but didn’t raise it. He appeared to be no more than 17 years old. There was no doubt in my mind the bulletproof vest I wore would stop the caliber of slug the revolver would fire, but I wasn’t in the risk taking business.
“No se mueven, yo soy un agente federal!” I shouted.
Don’t move, I’m a federal agent!
His eyes shot wide.
He raised the pistol.
I fired one round into his shoulder, knocking him to the floor.
“Es nadie en la casa?” I asked as I reached for his pistol.
Is anyone else here?
He shook his head and groaned.
I pointed the silenced submachinegun at his head. “Tu dinero o tu vida,” I warned.
Your money or your life.
His eyes motioned to the adjoining room.
After determining he didn’t have another weapon, and taking his cell phone, I left him bleeding on the kitchen floor and walked into the next room. In the corner of the room on the carpet was a pile of money.
Fuck.
It appeared to be all small bills.
$2,000,000 in $100 bills would easily fit in the backpack and would weigh only 40 pounds. The pile in front of me was either much more than $2,000,000, or it was very small bills.
I pulled the canvas bag from the backpack, filled it with as much money as I could carry, and filled the backpack.
I slung the machinegun over my shoulder, slipped my arms through the straps of the backpack, and shouldered the canvas bag.
When I walked back through the kitchen, the man was sitting with his back against the wall, clearly in shock. I pulled the man’s phone from my pocket and dialed 911. As the operator answered, I stepped through the door and tossed the phone in the yard.
If I made it to my car, I’d be home free.
And, after a few hours of counting, I’d know if I had enough money to meet the commitments I’d made to myself.
***
Zane shook his head. “Why do you do this each time we do business? There’s a reason everyone calls you Dick, isn’t there?”
“It’s my fucking name, asshole.”
“Spot is $489,800. Each. So, that’s $1,959,200 for four. What the fuck do you do with all of this shit anyway?”
“That’s none of your fucking business. Make it $1,900,000. I like even numbers.”
“It’s worth more. Like I said--”
“Save it,” I interrupted. “You got this shit at about $300 an ounce. You’re making a million and a half profit, and there’s no taxes, no questions asked, and no fucking IRS involvement. Legal money laundering. Take the $1,900,000 before I go somewhere else.”
He rubbed his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got the cash?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Come on, Zane. Have I ever fucked you over?”
“Can’t say you have. You always try and fuck me on price, but you’re a man of your word, no doubt.”
I shrugged and turned up my palms. “So, we got a deal?”
“I get tired of dealing with you, but your money’s good. Sure. Four for $1,900,000. When do you want to pick them up?”
I glared at him. “What the fuck, dude? I’m here now.”
“You’ve got the cash with you?”
I nodded. “What do you think I carried in here? Dirty fucking clothes?”
After weighing the money, I left with four 400-ounce gold bars. It seemed ludicrous paying almost $2,000,000 for 100 pounds of gold, but it was the equivalent of cash, and it couldn’t be traced.
Typically, some – if not all – of the money I ended up with could be traced back to a point of origin, and the end users certainly didn’t need or deserve to be questioned about how they obtained it.
I did what I d
id for a reason, and although some would say there was no justification to steal, manipulate, or swindle, I disagreed. I wouldn’t hesitate to resort to whatever means were required to protect my investments or to shield the causes I supported from legal ramifications.
***
I pulled into the driveway, parked, and confirmed the address matched what was on my phone. I got out, opened the trunk, and retrieved a gym bag with two of the gold bars in it. I slipped my arm through the strap and walked up the sidewalk to the front porch.
A matter of seconds after the doorbell rang, a woman answered the door.
She looked exhausted, but there was no doubt she was the woman from the many articles I had read.
“You’re Missy Wilson, right?”
Her look of exhaustion quickly turned to fear. “I uhhm. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
I shook my head and adjusted the bag on my shoulder. “No ma’am. I read about you in the newspaper, and I saw your GoFundMe on Facebook. Your son suffered from Meconium Aspiration Syndrome.”
“Suffers. Yes. What can I help you with?”
I lowered the bag from my shoulder. “Accept this. If you’d do that, it’d make me a happy man.”
Her eyes fell to the bag, and then rose to meet my sorrowful gaze. “What is it?”
“It’s gold. It’s roughly a million dollars’ worth, so you’ll need to keep it in a safe place.”
Her eyes went wide. She stared back at me. It appeared she didn’t know whether to say thank you or fuck you.
“Honey, who is it?” I heard a man’s voice ask from inside the house.
Her rather large husband stepped into the opening of the door. “Something I can do for you?”
I’d seen his face in the newspaper article. “You’re Mark.”
“Yeah.”
I unzipped the bag. “There’s fifty pounds of gold here. About a million dollars’ worth. I saw you were taking donations, and had only raised $25,000. Your medical bills were over $500,000. I’d like to donate this.”
He glanced down at the gold, stared for a moment, and then met my gaze.
I nodded my head toward the bag. “It’s not as heavy as you’d think.”
He glanced to his left, and then to his right. He fixed his eyes on mine. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, Sir. Keep whatever’s left over for, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe use it for his education.”
He glanced at his wife. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“I really don’t want to go until you take that inside,” I said. “And just so you know, you can melt it, cut it into pieces, whatever. It’s worth the same no matter what. Each bar is about half a million bucks.”
He exhaled. His lips parted. He tried twice, but couldn’t seem to speak. I didn’t need him to. I shifted my eyes toward his wife. She was still crying.
I nodded toward the bag.
She tried to lift it, couldn’t, and tugged against the handle until she dragged it inside the door.
And I turned and walked away.
ELEVEN
Jess
“IT’S really complicated,” Dick said. “And it’s best that you just don’t know. Can we leave it at that?”
“I thought we already did. I didn’t ask, you offered.”
We sat in a restaurant, talking. It seemed he was wanting to reach an agreement with me that I wouldn’t ask about his profession, but I hadn’t since we were at Drake’s house, and I had no intention of doing so again.
I felt my asking seemed to annoy him, and that was exactly what I didn’t want to do.
He twisted the tips of his chopsticks through the soup and raised a bundle of noodles to his mouth. “I just think you’re pretty cool. For a chick, anyway.”
For a chick?
It seemed so sexist. “What? Like girls can’t be cool? What the fuck, Dick?”
“I said you were cool.”
“For a chick.”
“Yeah.”
“Whatever, Dick. Thanks. I guess.”
He grinned, raised the noodles in acknowledgement, and then poked them into his mouth. As he ate, I dug through my bowl with my spoon. Eating the soup with sticks was impossible, and fitting two-foot long noodles in the one-inch wide spoon seemed more impossible yet.
I decided to sip the broth until it was gone, and then deal with the noodles.
“Do you want a fork?” he asked.
“Is it legal? Can you use a fork in one of these places?”
He chuckled. “I thought you were a criminal?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a criminal in a criminal sense, at least not yet. I just don’t like cops.”
He lowered his chopsticks. “Oh, is that it? Why?”
I placed my spoon to the side of my bowl. “They’re supposed to serve and protect, right?”
“That’s what it says on the sides of their cars, anyway.”
“Well, tell that to every kid they end up shooting for no reason. I can’t log onto the internet without MSN’s newsfeed giving me another link to look at. Always the same shit. Some cop shot another unarmed citizen. And they always find in favor of the cop. They’re never held accountable. Except in some closed-door hearing. It’s like they’re untouchable.”
“Interesting.”
“What? That cops abuse their power or that I realize it?”
“Your position on it all. It’s interesting.”
“Really? Do you think they’re in the right when they do that shit?”
He shook his head. “I don’t care much for ‘em, either.”
I sighed in relief. “Good. I thought we were going to have to throw down.”
He chuckled. “So now you want to fight me?”
“I would.”
“If I said I liked cops?”
“No,” I said. “If you said they were in the right.”
He nodded and reached for his chopsticks.
The restaurant we were in was huge, and probably had seating for 200 people. At three-fourths capacity, they were busy, but not packed. As Dick ate his noodles and I sipped my broth, I gazed at the eclectic mix of patrons.
I noticed a man walk in who was wearing a robe. At first, he reminded me of Drake. The guy with him was rocking a ridiculous mustache, but no beard. I personally found mustaches to be grotesque, and for that reason alone, he caught my attention.
As I was preparing to tell Dick about the man in the robe reminding me of Drake, he turned to face me and sat down.
It was Drake.
“Holy shit,” I whispered. “Guess who just came in?”
He shrugged. “A bunch of cops?”
“No,” I snapped back. “That lunchmeat eating friend of yours, Drake.”
Clearly surprised, he craned his neck to see. “Where?”
“Over your left shoulder,” I said. “Just sat down with some dude with a mustache. And he’s wearing a fucking robe. Drake, not the dude with the ‘stache.”
He peered over his shoulder. “He always wears a robe.”
A few seconds later, a really tall Asian man with terrible acne walked over to their table, sat down, and began to talk.
Dick spun around. “Grab your purse. Let’s go.”
“We’re leaving?”
“Kind of,” he said. “Follow me.”
He tossed fifty bucks on the table, grabbed my hand, and quickly walked toward the back of the restaurant. We ducked behind a wall that separated the bathrooms from the dining area and followed it into the kitchen.
While people appeared to be surprised, no one seemed to really care that we barged through the kitchen. Feeling like I was involved in something much bigger than I probably was, my heart raced and my mind jumped to all kinds of conclusions of what was going on.
I imagined the man with the mustache was an undercover cop, because almost all cops that were undercover had a nasty fucking mustache to assist in their disguise. I figured the Asian man was Duc, the man Drake sent Dick to meet on the day we hid
the Ferrari in his garage.
We burst through the back door and into a dirt parking lot filled with what I guessed were the employee’s cars.
“What the fuck’s going on?” I asked, knowing he wasn’t going to tell me a thing.
“Give me a minute,” he said.
He stared down at my feet for a moment and then looked up. “The other day, when I got hit, someone took something from me. Something expensive. I think the Asian guy might be the guy, but I got hit from behind, so I don’t know.”
“Go kick his ass and take it back.”
I wanted to see Dick kick the shit out of someone, and it seemed like the most logical answer to his concern.
“It’s not that easy. I took it from him in the first place.”
I shook my head. “You stole it from the Asian guy?”
“Not exactly. I paid for it. But…” He inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then sighed. “Never mind.”
Shit! I wanted to hear the details.
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going to the car. I need to think.”
We walked around the restaurant, to his car, and then drove right back to the dirt parking lot we were previously standing in. The building sat on a corner, and the place where we were sitting allowed us to see most of the cars that were parked on the street. While we sat in the dark and stared at the parked cars, he began to explain things.
“I don’t know why, but I like you,” he said.
I could list all the reasons I liked him, but my guess was he really didn’t want to know. I opted to go with the condensed version. “I like you too.”
“I’m a thief,” he said.
I played it cool. “Okay.”
He stared out into the street, seemingly preoccupied with the parked cars. “I take shit. Big shit. From big people.”
I acted unimpressed. “Okay.”
“I take most of what I steal, turn it into non-traceable funds, and give most of it to people who need it.”
He may have been a modern day Robin Hood in his own mind, but based on what his home and cars looked like, he didn’t give it all to the needy. Not even close. I decided to use one of his own words to describe my thoughts.
Dick Page 7