by Mike Dennis
"What happened to the four hundred Gs?"
"Until just recently, nothing special. It went into a larger fund and from there into a few commercial real estate buys, strictly routine, and Sullivan even saw a little income from it. Then, about a month before you got out, Adams Securities pulled a little high-finance sleight-of-hand with debt-shifting and shell companies and a few other tricks. When the smoke cleared, the money was gone."
"Gone right into Whitney's pocket," I said.
"No doubt."
With a slightly flamboyant arm motion, Ryder crushed out his cigarette, signaling that the curtain had fallen.
I got up from the table.
"Thanks for the data."
"Hey, wait a second. I go to a shitload of trouble and that's all I get? Just a quick thanks?"
I kept walking toward the door, but turned back to say, "No. You also get the check. And my thanks for the coffee."
TWENTY-FOUR
YALE Lando told me my ID would be ready on the twelfth, which was tomorrow. But I thought I'd drop by just in case he got it together early.
First, though, I had to eat; I was starved. After leaving the Waffle House, I made sure I wasn't being tailed, then went down to a little spot on White Street, one of the DeLima joints, for a leisurely Cuban breakfast.
Around nine o'clock, I caught Yale outside his gate, just as he was hurrying into his house.
"Yo, Yale!" I hollered from my car.
He turned around and saw me.
"Hey, man! Come on in!" He rushed up to unlock his door.
"C'mere, Yale!"
He ignored me as he ran inside. I climbed out of Norma's Toyota and followed him through the gate, up the steps, into the house.
His house was nice and cool, providing refuge from the intensity of the sun. I relaxed immediately while he frantically flipped on the TV. After a couple of channel changes, he located his target.
A guy with white hair talking to another guy across a table.
"This is Phil Donahue. Y'ever see this show?"
I shook my head.
"This guy's great. He has all these guests on, you know, where they talk about current events and big issues and shit. Really interesting. He gets these people to open up to him and then, bam, he nails 'em."
After that little dramatic explanation, I thought he was ready to get down to business.
But instead, "Oh, and the audience! He even lets the audience ask questions. And people can phone in from home and ask questions. It's really great. I tried phoning in a couple of times, but I could never get through. Sometimes it's more lighthearted, but usually it's heavy shit like this. Events. And issues."
I took a seat on his dilapidated couch. We watched the show for a few minutes while Donahue held up a book which the other guy had apparently written. Donahue did most of the talking.
Then, as they broke for a commercial, Yale said, "I'll bet I know why you're here."
"You got something for me?"
"You're in luck, Don Roy. It's all ready to go."
He went into the other room, the one where only he is allowed to go, and came out with a small envelope.
He sat next to me on the couch and peered inside the envelope. This was all for maximum effect, of course, his own little drama played out for my benefit. I half expected to see a glittering light flow out of the envelope and illuminate his face.
Finally, he took out three items.
"Here's your passport."
I checked it out as he carefully placed it in my hand. It looked fantastic, with its thick blue cover and the number punched out across the top. All perfectly legal, just like he'd told me. I flipped through it. It looked just like the real thing, with my photo stamped into it under the name of Roy Davis.
He handed me another item.
"Driver's license."
I studied it closely because a driver's license was more likely to be handled than a passport.
He was about to explain something to me when his head snapped back toward the TV.
Donahue raised his voice to his guest. They were arguing. From the audience's rowdy mood, they were clearly on Donahue's side, applauding everything he said.
"Yes, Phil!" cried Yale. "Don't take any shit from that right-wing motherfucker!"
He turned to face me, but only halfway, so he could still catch the action on the TV.
"You hear this? This fucking guy doesn't want the Brady Bill to go through. Shit, even Reagan is behind it! What fucking century is this guy living in, anyway? Let him have it, Phil!"
Thankfully, they went to another commercial.
Yale calmed down, then returned his attention to the driver's license. He pointed to the long number printed on it.
"This's where so many fakes fall apart," he said. "Each one of those figures means something, something the authorities use to tell if it's the real thing. For instance, the letter D right there at the beginning of the number. That's the first initial of the last name: Davis. If a cop sees that and it doesn't match up, you're toast."
He pulled out the last item.
"And here's your plastic."
He laid it on the coffee table. A Visa card, under the name of Charles Brockaway, complete with expiration date and everything.
I looked on the back. The signature area was blank.
Yale said, "Don't sign it right away. Practice the signature a few times so you can get comfortable with it, so it'll look natural. That way, it'll be easier to match it when you sign for a purchase."
I nodded.
"I can pick up the second card on the twenty-fifth? That right?"
"Check. Now, there's the minor matter of the money."
He returned his attention to the TV while I counted out twenty-one hundred dollars. As I gave it to him, he put it in the pocket of his cutoffs without counting it. Donahue and the other guy were getting into it again.
I patted Yale on the shoulder and left.
TWENTY-FIVE
I went to a pay phone to call Norma at her mother's up on Big Coppitt.
I told her I was on my way up there, then asked how would she like to run up to Miami. She thought it was a swell idea. So did I. Now that I was running plastic, I needed to buy some new clothes, but I didn't want to chance any buys in Key West.
Like Yale said, it's a small town.
Anyway, I'd been wearing the same three pairs of pants and a couple of shirts and guayaberas since I'd gotten out. I was tired of doing all that washing every two or three days, so I picked her up and we headed up the Keys for the mainland.
We got up there around mid-afternoon. She picked out a shopping mall, so we went in, looking for a couple of clothing stores.
I bought a bunch of stuff, including a few nice things. I'd never had many nice clothes — I really was never too interested in them, you know? — but Norma insisted. I figured if she wanted me to look nice, then why shouldn't I?
I wanted to return the favor so we went to a women's store, so she could go crazy. She'd had even less her whole life than I ever did, and I really wanted to make things right for her.
If we were going to have a life together, then I figured I ought to do what I could for her, while I could do it.
It was beginning to dawn on me that the square life was just around the corner. I mean, I couldn't live on the con forever, not if I wanted to be with Norma. She was a wonderful woman, everything I ever hoped to have.
I owed her that much.
To get on the straight road.
Besides, there wasn't much action in Key West, anyway. That's why I'd left for Vegas before. So how long would it be this time before I'd run out of scams again?
No, Key West was … well … it was our home. So if Norma was willing to take a chance on me, then I didn't want her worrying every day of her life about whether or not I was going to prison.
Especially with the likes of Ortega out there, just itching to nail me for one thing or another.
We had a nice dinner that n
ight in a cute little place on the ocean over in Miami Beach. Nothing real fancy, but we did get a bottle of wine.
Neither of us had ever done that before and it felt kind of strange. You know, where the guy brings the bottle out and pours a little and all that ceremonial shit. We really didn't know what to do, but the guy helped us with it, so it worked out okay.
It was a pretty nice little evening, and we both agreed we'd do it again sometime.
Afterward, we went to a hotel to spend the night, and what a night it was!
TWENTY-SIX
WE stayed up in Miami another day, heading back on Saturday, the thirteenth.
I dropped Norma off at her mother's trailer, reminding both of them not to answer the door for anyone until I gave the all-clear. Norma's mother had moved to Big Coppitt Key a month or so ago, after having lived on Stock Island her whole life, so I was pretty sure no one knew where she was.
But with Vasiliev after her, I couldn't get overconfident.
Back in my room, I gathered up my piece and the muffler, along with a couple of extra clips, which I'd bought at a real gun shop up in Miami. Then I got into the car for a quick trip across the island to the Ocean Walk apartments.
There it was, in the parking lot right by the stairwell to Norma's building, the dark blue Land Rover I'd seen the other day. I circled around the building, parked on the other side, then got out and made my way back around on foot, approaching it from behind.
As I crept closer to the Land Rover, I saw there was no one sitting inside. I glimpsed the plates. Broward County.
I went into the building, taking the back stairs up to Norma's floor. When I got to her apartment, I gently put my ear to her door. I heard the TV going.
I stayed still for a few minutes. Eventually, I heard voices in the room, speaking in a foreign language. I slowly attached the silencer to the end of my automatic. Then I made a fist and pounded on the door a couple of times.
The TV stopped immediately. After a little rapid talk in their language, one of them soon stood on the other side of the door.
"Who is it?" he asked in accented English.
I stood to one side of the door with my gun in one hand, the other hand covering the peephole.
"Police officers!" I said in my best cop voice. "Open up!"
After a moment's pause, in which he apparently tried to look through the peephole, he said, "I can't see you through little hole in door."
"Open up! Police! Open up now!"
"What do you want? Get away from hole!"
Then I said in a lower voice, but so he could still hear me, "Twenty-one-fifty to headquarters. Officers need assistance. Ocean Walk apartments, building —"
"Okay, okay!" he shouted. "You don't need more cops! I open up."
And he unbolted the door, but didn't unchain it. When he inched it open to peek through, I came bursting through it with all of my weight, breaking the chain and sending him reeling against the far wall. The revolver fell from his hand on impact.
His pal came running in from the living room, gun in hand, but I fired first. Two quiet pops found the mark, as he collapsed to the floor with small red stains across the center of his white shirt.
The guy who answered the door was still down, but recovered now. He reached for his piece on the floor. I put a heavy foot on his hand before he could get to it.
With the business end of my silencer touching his temple, I said, "What's your name, friend?"
"Alexei. Please, ay-yy-y! Please move foot!"
"Yeah, in a minute. But first, Alexei, what's this all about?
I ground my heel into the back of his hand. I felt one of the little bones crack. He yelped.
"I said, what's this all about?"
He gasped and groaned. I pushed the silencer harder against his head.
"It's gonna get a lot worse if you don't tell me right now."
"Is Whitney! Whitney and Yuri!" he said through his gasps. "Is all I know! I do what Yuri tells me! Is all I know!"
"Where's Yuri? Where is he?"
"He fly back to Lauderdale the other day. He have business."
"When's he coming back?"
I stepped a little harder on his broken hand, sending major hurt all through his body.
"He — oh-hh — he come back tomorrow! Please! Move foot! Please!"
I gave one more full-weight heel-grind into his hand, breaking another bone or two.
He screamed, then I let up.
As I bent down to pick up his gun, he groaned again while he tenderly cradled his injured hand, glad for the relief.
I pulled him to his feet, then made him help me clean up the blood from the floor by his buddy's corpse. We wrapped the body in Norma's bedspread before carrying it downstairs.
Once we got to the ground floor, I fished through his pockets, finding the Land Rover key. The Rover wasn't far away, but I went and got it. As soon as I brought it over by the stairwell, we loaded the body inside.
I grabbed Alexei by his collar. With all the upper body force I could muster, I shoved him up against the side of the car.
"You tell Yuri to leave my woman alone," I snarled, "or he's gonna wish he died as easily as your friend here. You understand me, Alexei?"
He moved his head up and down, fear all over his face.
"If Yuri wants me, I'll be around. But I mean it, if he fucks with my woman, I'll make him eat his own balls! You got it?"
I pushed him away without waiting for an answer, then headed back to my car.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DOCTOR Chicago stepped off the plane three days later, on the sixteenth.
I had to admit, he was looking good. The years seemed a lot kinder to him than they were to me. Of course, his work leaned toward the high-volume end of things, so it netted him a lot more dough than mine ever got me. Plus, he never got caught.
"Hey, hey!" he cried as he came to me with open arms. "My man! Don Roy! So great to see you again!"
His slender arms hugged my big shoulders as best they could, and I returned the embrace.
"Same old Doc!" I said, pulling away for a good look at him. "You don't look a day older, man."
It was true. He had to be in his late fifties, but his eyes were dark and clear, his big smile showed gleaming teeth, and his skin was still smooth, as if freshly-coated with a fine, dark polish.
We threw some of that small talk back and forth for a few seconds. The tight little airport terminal building had no air conditioning, so it got pretty thick in there.
"You got any bags?" I asked.
"Right here."
He held up a carry-on suitcase, along with what appeared to be an empty satchel. "Everything the doctor ordered."
"Let's go." We headed for the car.
On the way back from the airport, I took a detour to Key Haven to make a run past Whitney's house.
"There it is," I said, slowing down to give him a good look.
Disbelief came out of his eyes and his voice.
"That's it?"
He gazed hard at it as I drove by.
"That's it? No gates? No walls?"
"That's it."
"You mean, it's just some bullshit hundred-dollar dinger inside the door? Which probably has a two-dollar deadbolt on it?"
"That's it," I repeated.
"How 'bout animals? Any dogs? Or any pets at all likely to make a noise?"
"No."
"Man, I don't get it. You could do this yourself with your eyes closed. What you need me for?"
"You know I don't do a lot of this kind of work, Doc. Besides, this is a big deal to me. I need the best. That's why I called you. I need those files, and he can't know he's been broken into. I'll make copies of the ones I need, and then you'll have to return them, okay?"
He nodded.
"The owner? He gone now?"
"Left this morning for three days. I think only the live-in maid is there."
"Shi-it!" he grumbled. "I could take that place while she was in the other
room eatin' breakfast."
I turned the car around to drive by once more on our way out of the neighborhood.
"Like I told you, man. You done a lot for me. You'll get your files, no-o-o problem."
≈≈≈
That night, Doc made his preparations in my room. He put on his all-black throwaway over his regular street clothes, assembled a few pieces of high and low-tech equipment into an oversized fanny pack, and wrapped the whole package around his lean waist. Finally, he grabbed the empty satchel to put the files in.
I'd drawn him a layout of the house, pinpointing the file cabinet's location. Then I drove him out to Key Haven just before 3:30 AM. The streets all around were empty and silent. All the houses were dark.
"Let me off right in front," he said as we approached Whitney's house. "Drive around for fifteen minutes. Got it? Fifteen minutes." I nodded. He added, "Come back and pass by the house. You won't see me. I'll be in the bushes. When you come by, I'll make for the car and get in the driver's side back door. Leave it ajar so I don't make no noise opening it. Got it?"
"Got it."
"If you don't see me runnin' for the car, drive around the block and keep doin' it till you see me. Okay?"
I said okay, and we synched our watches. After he got out, I watched him creep onto Whitney's front lawn.
Within seconds, he disappeared into the dark.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I returned. I motored down the deserted street, slowing way down to look for Doc.
Suddenly, he was at the back door and in the car, almost as though he'd just popped out of the pavement. We exited the neighborhood while he peeled off his black clothing.
"Piece o' fuckin' cake, man! What'd I tell you!" He patted the satchel. "You got you some files, my man!"
I half-turned around to face him. I was still driving.
"Everything go all right? No problems?"
"None whatsoever. The locks, the dinger, they all went down without a hitch. Man, I was in and out in eleven minutes. My biggest problem was waitin' in the bushes till you came back." He hefted the satchel. "Not many files in there, though. I was expecting a ton of 'em, but there's only a few. Hope you get what you're lookin' for."