by Rick Dakan
He did spend some time on the phone with his parents, who were understandably worried about him. They'd heard from his former partner and CEO Greg what happened - apparently Greg had been trying to get in touch with him and the only number he had left that worked was Paul's folks' place back in Florida. Paul shortened the tale considerably, saying only that he'd sold his stock to Greg and now he wanted some time alone to think about what to do next. Although they pushed him for more details, Paul's stonewalling made them give up soon enough. They were used to him not telling them much about his personal life.
Mostly he just drove around the Bay Area. He got his comics up in Berkley and wandered around San Francisco for a few afternoons. He'd never taken the time to actually do the tourist thing - he'd been working since the day he'd moved out here. Well, working or resting. Either way, he'd only been up to the city a handful of times, even though it was less than an hour away. Like all big cities, San Francisco both fascinated and overwhelmed Paul. He loved the fact that there was so much going on, so many interesting people, but without a local to show him the ropes, he had a hard time choosing one thing to do. Although he never actually encountered any crime in SF, for some reason a fear of being mugged nested in the back of his brain and refused to leave until his car was back on the highway. It was only as he headed south on the 101 that he realized this newfound paranoia's root cause. It was perfectly natural, he thought, for someone that now lived with a bunch of criminals
He liked Santa Cruz more - a small beach town like his own home turf, but it didn't feel quite right either. An inexplicable mix of hippies and incredibly high housing costs made the small beach/university town less than appealing as a permanent place of residence, but a fun place to visit, even if the Pacific Ocean was too cold to even think about swimming in, much less surfing without a wet suit. With freshly stolen money in his pocket and nothing else to do, he decided to follow through on his threat and get a motel room by the beach. It was certainly less frustrating than staying around Chloe's house.
He went by the Crew's HQ just long enough to get his suitcase. The operation had taken over almost the entire house. The living room had become a staging area and a storage place for spare parts and malfunctioning computers, without even an outlet left to plug the TV into. The kitchen overflowed with dirty dishes and pizza boxes - a sure sign that Chloe wasn't spending much time there. He never saw Chloe at all, and Bee seemed to be the one in charge of running the house-based portion of the operation. The only place where there was any peace and quiet was Chloe's bedroom, and he didn't feel comfortable there.
He had spent the first few nights after his talk with Chloe trying to figure out just what the hell they were up to. He didn't have much luck. The Crew was very security conscious and most of the really "sensitive" stuff happened in the garage or the server room, neither of which Paul was allowed even a glimpse of. Still, they were all perfectly nice to him, if a bit closed mouthed.
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Despite their best efforts however, he overhead and saw enough small details to piece together some vague notion of what they were up to. From the constant whispered references to "him" and "the guy" and "he," Paul surmised that they had one specific person as their target. Furthermore, from what he gathered, they seemed to know an awful lot about this man, whoever he was. That meant they were probably spying on him, and not just looking at his credit card records and what not.
One thing that did confuse him was that sometimes it seemed that they were spying on this person and other times it sounded like they were actually working with or at least talking to him. Or maybe there were two
"hims." Paul couldn't tell for sure. But there was no way of telling without some serious snooping, and he knew the Crew was watching him too closely for that. Getting out of the house and down to the beach was the only option he had left before his curiosity and imagination got him into trouble.
After a few days by the chilly beach and a few nights spent in bars filled with college kids, Paul started to get restless again. He'd hit the local comics store and loaded up on comics. He'd even bought a new X-Box just so he could play games in the motel room. But once he'd watched all the movies playing at the local theaters and drunk more bourbon than he should while listening to local bands, he was bored once more. He called the house to see what was going on and if it was safe to come home. He talked to Kurt, whom he hadn't seen since the comic book gig. Paul asked him to tell Chloe that he called and Kurt promised he would, as soon as he saw her again.
Two days later, just as he was thinking of driving down to Monterey for a few days (another Northern California thing he'd never done), his bag started playing the theme song from The Greatest American Hero.
"Believe it or not, I'm walking on air.
"I never thought I could feel so free-ee-ee.
Flying away on a wing and a prayer,
Who could it be..."
It was the cell phone Chloe had given him. He'd never used it and never heard it ring, although he kept it on and charged just in case she called. He fished the singing phone from his bag and looked at the caller ID.
CALLER UNKNOWN it said. Paul pushed the talk button and put it to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Paul. How's it going?" It wasn't Chloe. It was Raff.
"I'm good, Raff. What're you up to?"
"Too much to even think about, man. Listen, can you do me a huge favor?"
"Um, sure, I guess." Paul assumed Raff was going to ask him to pick up some take-out or batteries or toilet paper, all which he'd fetched for them before he checked into his beachfront vacation. "What do you need?"
"I need you to pick up something for me."
"I'm down in Santa Cruz right now. I can't really just swing by the house or anything."
"This is important Paul." Raff actually sounded a little anxious.
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"What is it? What happened?"
Raff was silent for a long moment. "We've run into a bit of a snag. With the score." He paused again, "We really need your help or, well, we're kinda fucked. I was ready to scrap the whole thing, but Chloe said I should call you."
"Is she there? Maybe I should talk to her..."
"She's busy man. All tied up in this thing. Deep in it if you know what I mean."
"Not really. I mean, I don't really know what you mean."
Exasperated, Raff started to lose his patience. "Listen, can you help us out or not Paul?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course." Of course he'd help them - what else was he going to do? "Just tell me what you need."
"Great. Do you have a pen and paper? You're going to want to write this down so you get it exactly right."
The line was silent for another moment. "There's no room for error here, Paul. No room at all."
"Ok," Paul said as he pulled a pad of paper from the bedside table drawer. "I'm in."
An hour later, Paul stood in Gillespie Park, near downtown San Jose, waiting. Raff had told him to look for the man in the red tie and simply take the briefcase from him. Sounded simple enough, especially since there didn't seem to be anyone within five blocks wearing a tie, much less in the park. There were a few homeless; a few parents watching their kids play in the grass. Not a lot of business types in view. No red ties in sight.
Paul sat on a bench, staring blankly at the paper and listening to his heart thump. There was nothing to this simple job. Certainly nothing compared to the comic con job. All he was doing was picking up a briefcase. He didn't even have to talk to anyone. Raff had actually been rather insistent that he not talk to the man except to give the code phrase. Still, whatever this con was, it was big. That much was obvious from how everyone in the crew had been behaving the last few weeks.
A car pulled up beside the park, stopping in a no parking zone and disgorging a pair of middle aged men.
Bingo. One of them had both a red tie and a briefcase, an oversized case, twice as thick a
s the typical lawyer's accessory and finished in dull steel. The men peered brazenly around the park, challenging anyone who met their gaze. Even Paul looked away when Red Tie fixed his glare one him. But he stood up and concentrated very hard on folding his paper as he moved towards the men.
Red Tie's companion, a gaunt, white haired man in a gray suit, noticed Paul's approach and the pair stopped in their tracks, staring with open menace at him as he approached. Red Tie looked to be in his late fifties, pudgy and angry, with thinning brown hair and a wrinkled blue suit. He didn't look like he'd been getting much sleep lately.
As soon as Paul came within earshot the gaunt man called out in a deep voice. "You him?" Paul stopped walking.
"I'm here for the package. Christmas comes early this year," said Paul, wincing inside as he uttered the code phrase Raff had given him.
"Very fucking funny," replied Red Tie.
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They just stared at each other, the two men waiting for Paul to say or do something else. For his part, Paul decided to just wait them out.
"Well?" asked the gaunt man. "Are we going to do this?"
"Yep," said Paul. "Give me the package. Christmas is early this year."
The two men just looked at each other. "So you said, asshole," growled Red Tie. "Now don't you have a phone number for us?"
Paul of course didn't have a phone number. What was he talking about? Thinking back to his encounter with the maids at the beach house, Paul said "Sure. You better have a good memory though. I'm only saying it once. Now give me the case and I'll give you the number." He held out his hand expectantly. After a moment's intense thought, Red Tie stepped forward and handed him the case. "408-349-1969." It was his old work number, the first thing that came into his mind.
"A local number?" asked the gaunt guy. "You're kidding right."
Paul's heart raced. He took complete custody of the case and started to walk away. "Nope. Call it, you'll see."
But the gaunt guy was way ahead of him, already pulling his cell phone out and dialing. Paul tried to hurry without looking like he was scared. His car was all the way across the park.
It wasn't thirty seconds before they started shouting and came running at him. Paul broke into a sprint, racing for his car. The gaunt man was surprisingly quick for his age and Paul wasn't. As red tie huffed and puffed along, the other guy was gaining on Paul fast.
Then a white conversion van Paul had noticed earlier roared to life in its parking place on the street. It jumped the curb and came careening onto the grass, headed right for Paul. Startled beyond comprehension he froze, holding the briefcase to his chest for either protection or comfort. His pursuer turned out to be more fight than flight oriented and a moment later he smashed into Paul's back, sending him hard to the ground right on top of the heavy case.
Before his attacker could follow up his tackle, the van's driver slammed on his breaks right in front of them, tearing up grass and dirt. The side door swung open and three men with pink bandanas wrapped around their faces jumped out and rushed the prone duo. One of them came running forward and swung his leg up like a football player making a punt. The foot connected with the gaunt man's shoulder, sending him spinning away from Paul. The kicker went down in a heap as well, having lost anything resembling balance as he executed the kick.
The other two grabbed Paul, who still gasped for the breath that had been knocked out of him when he'd been tackled. He struggled for a moment against the two of them before the taller of the masked intruders whispered harshly in his ear. "C'mon Paul! Make it look good but don't fight too hard. Play along!" It was Raff.
Paul screamed and kicked in mock futility, even as relief flooded through him. Thank God they'd come for him. Red Tie was still running their way, shouting unintelligibly. The gaunt man may have been quick, but he hadn't planned on getting kicked, and all the fight had gone out of him. He just sat there, glowering at the three masked men and Paul as they piled into the van and raced off through the park. Paul wondered if the man could hear Raff laughing like a maniac as soon as they closed the door.
"That was just great," Paul said.
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"You're right, that WAS just great," Raff agreed.
"I was, you know, being facetious," said Paul, as he awkwardly twisted in his seat in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the huge bruise he was sure the gaunt man had left on his back when he slammed Paul to the ground. "What the hell happened?"
"What's the problem Paul? You were great. Awesome even. We didn't have to resort to plan B or anything."
"So this was plan A? You might have told me."
"Told you what?" asked Raff, although he'd turned most of his attention to the briefcase's combination lock.
"That they were going to ask for a phone number. I had to pull that out of my ass."
"And you did a great job!" Raff tried the lock but the combination he'd spun didn't work. He began again. "To be honest that was their mistake, not ours. They must've misunderstood. We told them we'd call with the number after they handed over the case. They must've gotten cold feet."
"Yeah, but what about the stupid Christmas comes early shit you had me say. I thought it was a code word but they didn't have a fucking clue as to what I was talking about."
"I thought it would make you sound cool." Another attempted combination failed.
"You were wrong. I sounded like an idiot."
"Maybe it was in the delivery. If you'd put a little more Clint Eastwood into it you could've sold the line."
"I'm gonna have to say it's the writer's fault this time Raff. You gave me shit to work with, no matter how much Clint I put into it."
"Ok, ok, you're the writer. You can come up with your own lines next time." The lock popped open this time.
"Ha!" exclaimed Raff. "If it's not 666 or 911 it's always 321. People are so predictable it would make me sad if I weren't stealing from them!" Raff didn't open the case. Figuring out the code seemed to have satisfied him for now and he placed it by his side.
"What? You're not going to open it?" asked Paul.
"Why? I know what's inside and there's nothing I can do with it right now."
"What is in there anyway?"
"That would be telling," said Raff with a smile.
"What is this, the fucking Prisoner?" asked Paul. "I'm a partner in this now. I figure getting my face driven into the turf entitles me to at least know what I risked my neck for."
"That was unexpected wasn't it? I didn't think he would bring anyone with him, and even when I saw the second geezer I never would've figured he'd chase you down like that. He was pretty spry for an old guy, huh?"
"So that wasn't part of Plan A either then? Sounds like you're flawless strategy almost crapped out on you completely."
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"No battle plan survives contact with the enemy Paul. That's something you've got to learn in this game. But hey, you brassed it out and made it work."
"And I've netted you one briefcase containing what exactly? Or does only Marcellus Wallace get to know what's inside the case?" said Paul, referencing the Ving Rhames character in Pulp Fiction.
"So does that make me Samuel L Jackson or John Travolta?" asked Raff.
"You can be Travolta, Raff. You've got the hair for it."
"You sure about that Paul? If Chloe's Mia in our little Pulp Fiction drama, then that means I get the big dance number, not you."
"But on the plus side, you're the one that gets gunned down by Bruce Willis," replied Paul. "I like to play the long game."
Raff laughed and picked up the case, handing it over to Paul. "Go ahead, sport, take a look. No glowing orange light I'm afraid."
Paul took the case and balanced it on his lap. He popped that latches and was disappointed to see nothing inside but what looked like four smoke detectors and a Ziploc bag full of portable hard drives. He shut the case.
"Not very sexy, huh?" sa
id Raff. "I told you there wasn't anything I could do with them right now."
"Well, what's on the damn drives then?"
"That really would be telling Paul and we don't have time to go into it. Suffice it to say that your friend in the red tie has just fucked over his employers big time and the stunt we pulled on your former friends pales in comparison."
"And that's all you're going to tell me?"
"That's all getting tackled earns you. At least for the moment."
They rode on in silence. Paul was angry but still excited. Raff's teasing was intended to be good-natured, and Paul really did appreciate being allowed to help on the score. He hoped that his part in today's snatch and run excitement might be his ticket back into the group. At the very least it would give Chloe something to think about next time the discussed him joining up.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled into a parking garage in Cupertino and quickly unloaded everything in the van into two rental cars. They split into two groups and headed back to Chloe's house. Mission accomplished and time to debrief.
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CHAPTER 18
The whole crew came together again at Chloe's house, which looked the same as when Paul had last seen it.
Computers still crowded every flat surface and serpentine cables crisscrossed the floor on their way into the server room. None of the crew trusted wireless networks; they had too much experience hacking them. The Crewmembers moved with purpose, wrapping up the final phases of the operation by wiping hard drives and otherwise covering over any digital tracks they might have left.
Raff had come in the other car, which arrived behind Paul's group. As had become the norm, no one paid much attention to him as he stepped through the door. It took the lanky leader's arrival a few minutes later to spark some excitement in the group. Raff bounded into the room, ducking through the doorway, and held the briefcase aloft with both hands, like an athlete showing off a championship trophy.