Young Americans

by Josh Stallings

  “Look, I’ll let you in on the heist, but not like this. This is a bullshit B&E, we can do it eyes closed. Not worth risking your record on.”

  “Not fucking fair. Not. You wanna go all John Wayne? I’m going or I’ll call the doctor and tell him.”

  Sam moved slowly toward her brother, backing him up against the wall. She was dead serious. “You never rat. Not even as a threat. Never. If Pop taught us anything it was that. There is us or the squids. Who you gonna be?”

  “Us. I ain’t no squid.”

  “Damn straight. Val says you’re ready to cut your teeth.”

  “I am.”

  “She says you’re a man and I should treat you like one.”

  “You should.”

  “But you’re also my little brother, see?”

  “It doesn’t matter how you see me. I am man, hear me roar.” Jacob beat his chest and made a Tarzan call. Sam couldn’t help but smile. “Besides, me and Terry are the only ones know the layout of the doc’s crib.”

  • • •

  Sam waited twenty minutes and then flashed her headlights. A white plumber’s van rolled up the driveway. Candy boosted the van that afternoon. It was Saturday, so no one would notice it was missing until they opened on Monday. By then it would be back in its stall with the ignition wires taped up and out of sight.

  Sam walked to the front door, had the deadbolt tripped fast. Anyone watching would assume she used a key. With a flashlight she found her way to the side door. Jacob and Terry stepped in looking nervous as hell. Candy and Valentina took up the rear. Valentina stood by the back door, looking out. In her hand was a stopwatch. “Five minutes and we are gone, my children of the revolution.”

  Sam motioned for the lads and Candy to take upstairs. She had given strict instructions— jewelry, watches, anything sterling silver. No other bullshit. TVs too heavy, art too hard to move. Keep it simple. Precious metals and gems always had a market.

  • • •

  Sam searched the downstairs, finding the doc’s den exactly where Jake said it would be. He told her the doc took girls in there to get them high. A Mont Blanc pen set. That went in her pillowcase. Then, in the corner of the room, she found a fire safe. It was new. Needed a combination and a key.

  “Three minutes, then we book,” Valentina called.

  Sam scanned the room. She sat in the doc’s chair and swiveled to look down at the safe. Then back to the desk. There were grooves in the carpet like he made that trip a lot. In the distance a police siren wailed. Then it was clear. She reached under the ink blotter and found a key. Below it was a slip of paper with the combination. Sam was slightly disappointed at not getting to finesse the safe.

  • • •

  Upstairs, Terry heard the siren and started to panic. He came out of a little girl’s room, shaking. Jacob met him, equally freaked.

  “Do they really rape pretty boys in jail?” Terry asked.

  “Yes, so you don’t have to worry.” Jacob’s joke fell flat. Over his shoulder Jacob had a pillowcase filled with silver picture frames, two flintlock pistols and a jewelry box. Terry had nothing but a stuffed toy.

  Candy came out of the parents’ bedroom with a pillowcase that looked near full. “Terry, why are you holding a unicorn?”

  Terry looked at the unicorn as if he had never seen it before. “I don’t know,” he said and dropped it.

  “Time. We are off like a virgin’s panties,” Valentina called.

  Candy spun and ran down the stairs. The lads rapidly followed her out of the house and into the back of the plumber’s van. Sam let herself out the front door. Once in the Firebird and two blocks away, she allowed herself to smile. She turned up T. Rex’s The Slider 8-track, let Marc Bolan woo her with “Ballrooms of Mars.” It had been a good night. In the safe she found a cornucopia of uppers and downers, screamers and wailers. Plus she found the Holy Grail—two of the doctor’s script pads. In the right hands those scripts were golden.

  • • •

  Hiram Goldstein had helped prepare Jacob for his bar mitzvah. Hiram was also the fairest fence in the South Bay. They went to a very liberal synagogue.

  “How is Jacob, studying hard?”

  “Straight A’s. He’s shooting for Stanford, or Berkeley,” Sam said.

  “What does he want to major in?”

  “Film or theater, but I think he should be practical. He’s smart enough to study earth science, rare metals and such.”

  “Rare metals, just like you?”

  “And you.”

  “True. So, bad news always first. Mont Blanc, made in Japan, fake. The silver frames are cheap plate, and these?” He held up the flintlocks. “Crap replicas. Now, the good. The watch is gold, necklace is diamonds and rubies, all of fine quality.”

  Everything Candy pulled was valuable. The boys had brought crap. Creeping wasn’t as easy as it looked.

  “So, Hiram.”

  “Yes, my little Samula?”

  “What is the family, dang we need a break, price?”

  Hiram acted like he was running numbers in his head. Sam was sure he already knew what he was going to say. “I can go seven hundred and at that I’m losing money, hand to God.”

  “Can you get me a glass of water? I suddenly feel sick.” Sam feigned a swoon.

  “OK, miss dramatic, what would you say it’s worth?”

  “Eighteen hundred and fifty, all night long.”

  Hiram clutched his chest. “You are killing me.”

  “So you will say eight fifty, right?”

  “Close enough.”

  “I’ll say seventeen ninety, back and forth we’ll go, and I bet we settle at eleven hundred even.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because it’s the only price we both can live with.”

  “Do you know what, Samula, you’re right.” He stuck out his hand and they shook. “You ever want to come work for me steady, I could use you. I’m getting old. Mira says I have to slow down.”

  “Crazy talk, Hiram. You will be doing this when you’re a hundred. Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you love it.”

  “True.” He nodded in happy recognition.

  • • •

  The next deal wasn’t nearly as cordial or safe. The meet was in a biker bar in Boulder Creek, nestled in the redwoods where Skyline Boulevard dumped down into Santa Cruz. Johnny Salt was the head of the local chapter of the Grim Reapers, a biker gang feared in the Midwest. In NorCal they didn’t draw much water. Still, if you wanted to unload a bunch of pharmaceuticals they were the best bet.

  At the door, a greasy biker patted them down. He got a bit too close to Valentina’s dick. She grabbed his wrist and drove the biker to his knees.

  “If he doesn’t back off, Valentina may rip his arm off.”

  “Let him go. My apologies to both of you, but I have to be very careful. The Angels put a bounty on my head.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they are assholes.”

  “So I heard.”

  Johnny Salt looked Sam up and down, slow. “You have filled out in all the right places. Damn, girl. Hot motherfucking damn.”

  “I was twelve last time you saw me. My pops and I were selling you a case of whites.”

  “And look at you now. Yummy, yummy, love to have you on your tummy. How is your pops?”

  “Run over by a drunk truck driver.”

  “Shit does happen, don’t it.”

  “Could say it that way.”

  Valentina was bent over the pool table completely distracting all of Johnny Salt’s bodyguards.

  “Show and tell time, babe,” Salt said.

  “Gentlemen first.”

  “No, I insist.” His face went cold. Sam slowly lifted her purse onto the table, dumping out the contents. Then she dropped the script pads on top of the already impressive pile of narcotics.

  “So how much you want for it all?”

  “Three grand
, just like I said on the phone. Non negotiable.”

  “Everything is negotiable, especially when you come onto my turf unprotected.”

  One of the boys started to reach into his jacket. Valentina flipped a cue, connecting the heavy end with the man’s temple. It made a meaty thud and his legs went Jell-O. He was out before he hit the floor. Valentina dove and rolled across the pool table, swung the cue again, taking the man who had pat-searched her just below his chin, smacking his Adam’s apple hard. He dropped down, gasping to keep air moving to his lungs.

  The last bodyguard aimed an ugly little .44 bulldog at Valentina. She grabbed the cue ball off the table and hurled it at the gun. She missed, but the man flinched as he jerked the trigger. The gun went off, filling the room with a deafening roar. The bullet passed over Valentina’s head and blasted a hole in the wall over the bar. The dust was still falling when Valentina threw the eight ball. It took the man with the .44 between his eyes. He went down like a sack of rocks. She moved over, kicking the gun from his hand. She walked the room, taking the fallen’s firearms.

  “Hey, asshole, I’m over here,” Sam said.

  Johnny Salt slowly turned away from the carnage.

  “My money, or I sell you to the Angels. Your choice.”

  “I have—”

  “Time’s up.”

  “OK, it’s behind the bar.”

  “Val, get the cash.”

  Valentina moved behind the bar, dropping the handguns into the dirty water filled sink. Leaning down, she grinned. There was in fact, miracle of miracles, a paper bag filled with bundled up cash.

  Sam looked at Johnny Salt, then at the bag again. With one massive roundhouse she clocked the punk. He did a clumsy pirouette then hit the floor.

  In the Firebird, Sam and Valentina started to laugh.

  “Vitamin Q time, Princess Samantha?”

  “Yes, good plan. And never call me that.”

  “What, princess or Samantha?”

  “I can live with princess, almost.”

  Valentina looked at her friend and smiled. “That hand hurt?”

  “Like hell.”

  “Two Qs coming right up.”

  • • •

  Day thirteen and they were funded.

  Now all Sam had to do was work out how to get their arsenal into the club. And how to get out once they had the cash.

  Minor details.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  “This is gun country.” —Death Wish

  “Settle down you dazzling bitches, class is in session.” Valentina unzipped an olive canvas duffle bag that was sitting on the coffee table in the Creekside Apartment living room. It was full of guns.

  “Oh, fuck me.” Terry turned a lighter shade of pale.

  “You OK, Terr-Terr, this shit getting a little too real?” Valentina tossed a snub-nosed .38 to Terry. He recoiled and the revolver bounced off his chest, landing on his lap. “Pick it up, Ms. Cutie.” Terry looked scared. “Pick. It. Up. Bitch.”

  “Leave him alone, Val,” Jacob said, reaching for the gun.

  “Stop. Terr-Terr either pulls his weight or he walks.”

  “Fine, fine, I’m cool.” Terry picked up the snubnose and snapped back the hammer, waving it around the room wildly. He squeezed the trigger by accident. Flame spit from the short barrel. The crew hit the floor. All except Valentina, who stood calmly looking at Terry.

  Terry looked from the gun to Valentina. “Sorry.”

  “Point it at the floor. Not your foot, the floor. Everyone alive?”

  “I spilled my beer,” Sam said.

  “I swallowed my gum,” Candy said.

  “I shit my pants,” Jacob said.

  They all started to laugh, even Terry. Nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

  “Lesson one, my lovelies, a gun is always loaded.” She took the snubnose from Terry and looked in his eyes for a long moment. “Baby, no shame in walking away. This gig here ain’t for everyone.”

  “I’m cool. I’m cool.”

  “You don’t look cool, baby, you look snakebit.”

  “You threw a loaded gun at me. Yes, I’m freaked. But next time warn me, OK? I’m not a pussy. I’m not a wimp. I just don’t like having loaded guns thrown at me. OK?”

  “OK. You’re cute when you’re all riled up.” She stroked his cheek, then turned back to the room. She went through the care and feeding of all the weapons. She explained that knowing how to use them made them safer. She was fabulous in her tube top and flowing purple velvet skirt. She had on a Farrah Fawcett wig, frosted tips and all. She was the sexiest drill sergeant on Earth.

  “I want the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson,” Candy said. “I have a silver snakeskin belt that will go perfectly with it.”

  “Done, girl. Style points are always appreciated. We may be robbing this joint, but there is no excuse for looking tacky.”

  Terry got the snubby Valentina had tossed at him. It was missing most of its bluing and the handle was wrapped in electrician’s tape. But its action was smooth and he had already proved it shot just fine.

  Jacob was given a Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special. Black-blue. Five shot. Light. Deadly. He didn’t like to think about the last part. It was Dog Day Afternoon or The Godfather—just a movie if he didn’t dwell.

  • • •

  “I’m not a pussy.” Terry was drinking a beer, looking down into the drainage ditch. The 280 freeway droned on beyond where he and Jacob sat.

  “I know that. No shame in walking away.”

  “You too? Nobody keeps asking you if you want to walk.”

  “I’m family.”

  “So am I.”

  “Fact,” Jacob said.

  Terry was the product of a late-in-life mistake. He didn’t know his father and his mother was over sixty. She worked as an executive secretary to the History department head at De Anza College. She was a nice woman, just sort of vacant. In high school, Terry spent more nights at Jacob’s than at home.

  “Jake, if you’re in, I’m in. I’ll always have your back.”

  “OK, so now that we know we’re going to do this, I mean no shit going to do this, are you a bit freaked?”

  “Oh, hell yes, totally freaked.”

  “Good, me too. Don’t tell Sam or Valentina, but when we were in the doctor’s house I thought my heart would explode.”

  “At least you didn’t try and steal a purple unicorn.”

  “What the fuck was that about?”

  “I haven’t a clue, Jake. I looked down and it was in my hand.”

  “I’m glad Candy didn’t tell Sam or we would never—”

  “She’d nickname me unicorn-boy or something else equally demeaning.”

  “Is she that hard on you?”

  “No, she’s that hard on the world.”

  “True. The Wild Bunch is playing at the dollar movies, wanna go tonight?”

  “We’re after men and I wish to God I was with them.” Terry did his best Robert Ryan impression. They both loved films, and Peckinpah was the best. They also loved Sergio Leone, had seen all of his Man with No Name films from dusk till dawn at the drive-ins. And then there was Martin Scorsese. He hadn’t made many films, but fuck they were fine. They hadn’t seen Boxcar Bertha but Barbara Hershey’s playboy spread convinced them it had to be a great film. Mean Streets nailed that baby gangster world and Taxi Driver completely blew Jacob and Terry away. Sitting in the Varsity Theatre, Jacob had known he wanted to make movies when he saw that film. Robert De Niro was an acting god. And Paul Schrader’s script was pure crazy poetry. Oh yeah, and Terry and him were both panting after Jody Foster. Even in Bugsy Malone she was a stone cold fox.

  • • •

  In the woods high above Palo Alto, Sam and Valentina were walking on Alpine, a remote dirt road. “You tossed a loaded gun at Terry . . . what the fuck, Val?”

  “It was a blank, darling. I had to see how he would react.”

  “You are evil, you know that?�
��

  “You would have done the same.”

  “Yes, I would. Still evil. But you’re right. This deal gets twisted, I couldn’t stand to lose any of them.” This wasn’t Sam’s baby crew pulling creep and sneaks. This was brazen. Taxi Dancer deposited the night’s take early every morning after the count out. Armed men—armed and looking for a robbery—took it to the bank, so unless they wanted a shootout, taking them down was out. This left robbing the disco while it was open. If nothing went wrong the guns would be for show. If it went sideways, they might be the only way out.

  “Shoulder that arm and put two rounds in the oak,” Valentina said.

  Fumbling, Sam snapped the M16’s selective fire onto semi the way Valentina had shown her. She flinched when the gun went off. Valentina taught her to keep her eyes open and to gently squeeze the trigger. Sam was a natural.

  “Val, we aren’t going to shoot anyone.”

  “We aren’t going to plan to shoot anyone. But you bring out a gun, you open a door that can’t be closed easily. Thing about a firefight is, it starts fast, goes crazy, and when it’s done there may be some dead bodies. I want to make sure none of them are ours.”

  “You ever kill a man?”

  “Sam, I done worlds of things I ain’t gonna talk about up here in these woods on this fine day. Three shot burst, pine tree, now.”

  Sam clicked the selective fire to burst and blasted the sapling, chopping it to pieces.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.” —David Bowie

  “A band called Sound and Fury is the opening act,” Candy reported. “Local, just out of high school. The lead singer works at Kenny’s shoes.”

  “Corruptible?” Sam asked. They were in a booth at Lions, drinking coffee served by a waitress with a platinum beehive.