Heist 2

by Kiki Swinson

  Four hours later, when we touch down in an even smaller landing strip two hours west of Atlanta, I’m no closer to a buy-in to a poker game than when I started. The devil on the right says that it’s for the best while the devil on the left rails on about how it’s imperative that I get to a game while I’m on a good luck streak. Like a mad man on a mission, I call every number in my mental Rolodex—some twice.

  By the time I’m escorted into a five-star hotel, which I’ve paid for with cash, I’m practically losing my mind. I have to find a game.

  “Is there anything else that I can do for you?” the bellhop asks, panting after rolling the trunk up on the trolley.

  “No. I’m good.”

  When the guy remains planted in the center of the room, I remember the tip. “Oh. Sorry about that.” I scoop out a knot of cash and peel off a Franklin.

  “Thank you, sir. If there’s anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me personally.”

  All right, muthafucka. I heard you the first time. Now go. “Thank you.” I start to turn and give the boy my back when I finally catch the glint in his eyes. This young blood works in one of the most prestigious hotels in Atlanta and has serviced a lot of rich cats looking to get into good action. He would be just the type of worker that Gold Dawg would reach out to to book up his games.

  “Yo, hold up,” I call out to the boy just before he heads out the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know how I could find some action tonight?”

  A smile breaks across the young man’s face. “What kind of action would you like?”

  The devil on the left gives me a mental high-five. “Looking for a game: Texas hold’em.”

  “I believe I can help you out with that.”

  27

  Johnnie

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Harlem keeps swearing in a loop as he stomps his way back across the cemetery.

  The anger radiates off him like sonic waves and it’s all that I can do to try and keep up. Then I hit the same soft patch of dirt during our march back to the car, but this time, Harlem isn’t paying attention and I pitch forward and hit the ground—hard.

  “Ow!” My hands and knees immediately start aching.

  Harlem keeps trudging off without me.

  “HEY!”

  He finally jumps and spins around. Beneath the strange moonlight, I can’t tell whether he’s shocked to see me on the ground or annoyed.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” I snap.

  When he sighs, I have my answer. He’s annoyed.

  I’m livid by the time he backtracks to me. Instead of accepting his hand to help me up, I struggle onto my feet alone. “Forget it.”

  “Now what the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps.

  “Excuse you?”

  “Whatever.” His hands explode up into the air. “I don’t have time for this shit!” Harlem spins back around and marches off again.

  I’m left standing there, staring after him. Who the fuck is this brothah and what the hell did he do with the real Harlem? Maybe this is the real Harlem? That thought doesn’t sit well with me. After all, I’ve just tossed my entire life into the garbage bin of history to be with this man. Now a wave of fear and regret slams into me, so much so that my eyes wet up, making it that much harder for me to see during our trek back to the car.

  “Give me the keys,” Harlem orders, beckoning me with his hand.

  I ignore his rude ass and march to the driver’s side. “I’ll drive.”

  “C’mon, Johnnie. I ain’t got time to stand here and argue with you.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and get in the car.” I unlock the door and climb inside.

  When he finishes staring a hole into the side of my head, he turns and marches to the other side of the car.

  For a brief moment, I think about jamming on the accelerator and leaving his brooding ass right here. But I reluctantly dismiss the thought and wait until he climbs back into the car. “Where to now?” When he doesn’t answer, I have to turn and look at him. “Well?”

  “The fuck if I know,” he swears. “I doubt that it even matters.”

  I don’t know what to do with that answer, so I keep staring at him.

  “What?” He explodes again. “Don’t you get it? It’s over. There is no plan B! Without that money, we’re sitting ducks. My daughter doesn’t get her surgery. My grandmother loses everything and you don’t get your happy-ever-after. FUCK!”

  Finally pulling my gaze away, I stare out over the gray, overcast cemetery with the backs of my eyes burning. “I have a little bit of money saved up.”

  “Ha! Too late for that. You think the government is going to let you get anywhere near that money now? Every single account you have has been frozen or seized.”

  “My parents—”

  “Aren’t going to risk their precious careers to help you run away with an escaped fugitive.”

  “Hey! Don’t do that. You don’t know my parents.” I do and he’s exactly right. “They’ll do whatever they think is best for me,” I add with less conviction.

  “And you think your running off with me is what’s best for you?”

  Detecting that he was saying something else, I jerk my attention back to him. “What are you saying? You don’t want me with you anymore?”

  “Did I say that?” he challenges defensively. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re thinking it,” I toss back at him.

  Silence.

  I’m crushed.

  “I don’t fucking believe this.” I shake my head as a way to ward off any tears from falling. “The first fucking bump in the road and you’re ready to throw my ass under the bus?”

  “This isn’t a bump in the road, it’s the end of the road. Why can’t you get that shit through your head? The money is gone! We can’t do jack without money!”

  “Then let’s get the money back,” I shout.

  “What?”

  Yeah, what? “There . . . has to be some way to get the money back. He stole it from you, we’ll just steal it back.”

  “Are you kidding me? With that much cash, he can be anywhere in the world right now—or gambling it away.” Harlem cocks his head as his expression changes.

  “What?”

  “Nah.” He waves whatever he was thinking off. “He wouldn’t be so stupid. Would he?”

  “You know the man better than I do.”

  Clearly, the thought circles back in his mind. “Even if he does decide to hit the tables, that still could be anywhere in the world.”

  “Where was his favorite place?”

  “Well, he definitely wouldn’t risk going to an open place like Las Vegas or Atlantic City. He never cared for the Indian casinos.”

  “So that leaves?”

  “There was this cat in Atlanta that ran an underground thing. I don’t remember his name.”

  After feeling like we were on a verge of something, my body deflates in disappointment.

  “But I think I know some people in Atlanta that would.”

  I finally start the car. “So we’re headed to Atlanta?”

  Harlem glances at the dashboard clock. “Atlanta is like sixteen hours away from here.”

  “Fine. We’ll drive in eight-hour shifts. We’ll get there around noon tomorrow.”

  “But will he still be there?” Harlem wonders aloud.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  28

  Harlem

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Uncle Jonathan pushes his bifocals higher up his nose to take a better look at me. “Boy, if you ain’t the spitting image of your momma, then water ain’t wet. Get in here.”

  Relieved that the door hadn’t been slammed in my face, I step across the threshold and allow the uncle I haven’t seen in decades to wrap his impressively muscular arms around my neck.

  “Look at you.” Uncle Jonathan razzes the top of my head. “Big, str
apping boy! Rawlo! Tremaine! Come see who’s here.” His gaze finally falls on Johnnie, who hangs back from the door. “And this must be Ms. Robinson. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re a lot prettier in person.”

  Startled, Johnnie just blinks up at him.

  “Well, you c’mon in here, too. We won’t bite.” He waves her in and soon as she enters the house, she receives a bear hug too, before he shuts the door. “I wish your aunt Sandra was here to see you, but she’s over at Robyn’s helping with the grandkids this week.”

  The floor shakes as a large man strolls around the corner. “What the hell are you over here hollering about?”

  “Rawlo, take a look at who came to visit.”

  I stare back at the man, unable to square him with being the same man I remember from my childhood. This Rawlo looks as though he might have eaten the other one. The man has to be at least four hundred pounds, judging by how his belly button is racing to meet his knees.

  “Aw hell,” Rawlo groans, shoving his meaty hands into his pockets and then shoving some money toward Uncle Jonathan. “You win again.”

  Uncle Jonathan tosses his head back with a hearty laugh. “One of these damn days you’re going to learn.” At my confused look, Jonathan explains. “We’ve been following y’all escape on CNN. I thought you’d show up here and I was right.”

  “We’re still on the news?” Johnnie groans.

  “Around the clock. Got a special ticker and everything.”

  She looks faint.

  “I’m sure it has a lot to do who your family is up north. Last hour they posted a million-dollar reward for any information or your safe return home.”

  Johnnie eyeballs him clutching the twenty-dollar bill.

  “Oh no. This was just a little fun.” He chuckles. “Trust us, we’re the last dudes calling the police.”

  Rawlo’s rumbling laughter joins in. “You can say that shit again.”

  “HEY! ARE WE PLAYING OR NOT?” another male voice shouts.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Tremaine.” Jonathan rolls his eyes. “He probably turned down his hearing aid again.” He waves me forward until we reach the poker table they have set up instead of a normal dining room table.

  When Johnnie and I follow behind my uncle and Rawlo, Tremaine finally glances up. “Oh. Why didn’t you tell me that we had company?”

  “TURN YOUR DAMN HEARING AID UP!” Jonathan shouts.

  “What? Wait a minute. Let me turn my hearing aid up.”

  I crack the hell up until I remember that I came to these guys for help. Damn. We’re in serious trouble.

  “Wait. Aren’t you Harlem?” Tremaine asks, late to the reunion.

  “Hey, man. How are you doing?” We slap palms for a hearty handshake. The dude’s hearing may be shot, but he can give Uncle Jonathan a run for his money in the strength department.

  “Damn.” Tremaine jams a hand into his pocket and comes up with another twenty and then tosses it over. “One day, I’m going to win one of these damn side bets.”

  “If you say so.” Jonathan takes a seat. “Now where were we?”

  Rawlo looks up at me. “Want to join us? Name of the game is Texas hold’em.”

  I wave off the offer. “Nah. It’s not my game.”

  “No?” Tremaine laughs. “What is your game? Grand Theft Auto?”

  The old guys share a laugh.

  I look around. “Where is Mishawn?”

  The laughter dies as they become fascinated with the cards in their hands.

  “Bad news?”

  Uncle Jonathan clears his throat. “He started having some memory issues. It was harmless for a little while until he started messing up his medication. When his niece found out, she came and stuck him in one of those godforsaken homes, where they leave you drooling in a corner with a diaper on.” He shakes his head. “The shit ain’t right.”

  “Well. We’re all getting up there,” Tremaine reminds the table.

  They nod in agreement while I cut a look over at Johnnie. The look on her face matches what I’m thinking. We’re fucked!

  “So what brings you two jailbirds to my door?”

  “Well . . . actually. I was hoping that you guys could help me find someone?”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

  Feeling that we don’t have anything to lose, I quickly catch them up to speed on what the jail break was all about and Isaiah beating me to my nest egg.

  “You buried the money in a cemetery?” Rawlo asks after my long spiel. “That’s sort of ingenious, isn’t it?”

  Uncle Jonathan appears more upset. “Why didn’t Gloria come to me for help? I would have helped her out. I have some money . . . saved.”

  “You forget that she doesn’t know about . . . certain things. She would never inconvenience you with our problems.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Tremaine tries to keep us on point. “So you’re looking to find your ex-partner so you can get your loot back?”

  “That’s the plan.” I reach over and grab Johnnie’s hand. She’s been quiet for a long time. It may be too much to hope that she’s forgiven me for the blow-up back at the cemetery, but I’m hoping. “Isaiah has a gambling problem. He used to have a guy down here that arranged underground games for big players. I don’t know if he still has his contact, but he may try to find his way into a hot game. I know that it’s a shot in the dark, but . . .”

  Rawlo shrugs. “I know a few cats like that. One dude, Gold Dawg, deals with the really elite clientele. It won’t hurt to put a call in and see whether your guy has shown up on his radar.”

  A seed of hope is planted. “Thanks. I really appreciate you checking into that.”

  Jonathan sets down his cards. “Once you find him, you’ll find the money.”

  I nod.

  “Any idea on how you’re going to get the loot back?”

  “Sort of flying by the seat of my pants on this one.”

  A huge smile breaks across Uncle Jonathan’s face. “You hear that, boys? It sounds like we coming out of retirement.”

  29

  Isaiah

  “I got the money,” I boast proudly over the phone to Kingston West. “I know that you had your doubts since . . . well, since I didn’t get the chance to come through for you last time. But I’m ready to make things right.”

  At the heavy silence, I wonder whether the big man hung up on me. Then a deep baritone floats through the line. “Why didn’t you come to me last night?”

  “Last night?” I’m confused. “I just got into town last night.”

  “And yet you had time to buy into a high-stakes poker game.”

  “How did—”

  Kingston chuckles over the line before he confesses, “I have eyes and ears everywhere. You should know that by now.”

  “My apologies—but like I said, I have your money. Give me the time and place and I’ll be there.”

  “All right. But if you disappoint me again, there will be no third chance. Understand?”

  “Completely.” I grab the pen and hotel notepad by the phone and jot down the drop-off location. “Eleven o’clock. I’ll be there with bells on,” I joke.

  Click.

  “Hello? Mr. West, are you there?” When the dial tone comes over the line, I return the handset back to its cradle. Clearly, Kingston West doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. I glance down at the clock on the nightstand and calculate that I have a solid seven hours before I have to meet Mr. West. That’s plenty of time to squeeze in a couple of poker hands. At least to see whether I’m still hot. Last night had been like a fuckin’ dream. I raked in an additional three hundred thousand before hopping up from the table. Ever since then, I can’t stop thinking that I got up from the table too soon. I hadn’t had a winning streak like that in years. It felt good that I could get up and walk away, but now? What if? What if I could have cleared another three-hundred thou—or a million? Those fat cats at the table were slinging chips around
like money grew on trees. I used to be like that . . . until the money dried up.

  I have plenty of money now. The devil on my left shoulder returns, “You’re still hot. You have plenty of money and plenty of time.”

  I’m nodding my head and looking at the clock. Seven hours. That’s plenty of time . . . just to see whether I’m still hot. I reach for the phone again; this time I have Gold Dawg’s new number and I dial him up myself. “Yo, man. You got something I can get into?”

  Less than thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce Phantom being escorted to an underground game. It’s a light crowd at happy hour, which suits me just fine while I pay my seventy-five-thousand buy-in. The moment I sit down, the half-naked waitresses are at my beck and call, with drinks, food, and most important, a smile.

  Turns out, I’m still hot. The first two hours, the right cards are just coming to me like I’m God’s favorite child. It looks like my life has finally changed for the better. It’s about fucking time.

  30

  Harlem

  “The Jackal is back in business,” Uncle Jonathan crows and then looks at his watch. “But we’re going to have to make sure that we’re back before I have to put that pan of lasagna in the oven. Sandra will kill me if I forget again.”

  As Tremaine rambles around in his black gear, he seems to be unaware that his hearing aid is whistling.

  Johnnie shoots me a look, asking whether someone should point that fact out to him. I would, but I’m too busy having a mild heart attack that I have to rely on this group of senior citizens in order to pull off this heist. I can’t tell whether I’ve lost my mind or I’m simply desperate.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Jonathan boasts, reading my mind. “We may be old, but we’re still professionals.”

  “Yeah,” Rawlo adds, stressing the hardwood floor. “We got this. Gold Dawg says that he just sent a car to pick up your man for another poker game. Clearly, this brother isn’t the brightest light bulb on the marquee. His ass is a fugitive, too, but he’s chilling the fuck out in a five-star hotel where there’s cameras every damn where?”