To Sleep Gently

by Trent Zelazny

  The new job seemed simple enough. Down in Canton, security guards transported money in an armored truck from the Swig Time nightclub on Munson Street to the Wells Fargo bank on Frazer Avenue. While an armored car job is typically best handled using at least three, if not four or five men, this particular job seemed low key enough to be properly executed with only two. And plus, the more on the job, the more you gotta split the take.

  Swig Time was the largest nightclub in the area, a swanky dance bar with a 580-person occupancy, a 3,500 square-foot dance floor, a separate shot bar, a martini bar, five service stations and a full game room.

  Frank had done his research. Annual revenue for the place was somewhere around $1,100,000, while the yearly cash flow was around $640,000. Weekends were the best time, of course, taking in just about $12,000 on average. The thing was, on Memorial Day weekend Swig Time had a three-day festival party accompanied by additional holiday drink specials, which brought their numbers up considerably, almost doubling an average weekend. Also, because of the holiday, the banks were closed that Monday, and nothing could be transported until Tuesday, which added an extra day's worth of cash to the pot, bringing the grand total to somewhere around $27,000. Bourland had also learned that Swig Time was the armored truck's last stop on a four-stop route, though he had not been able to figure out what the other three stops were, not that it mattered. There was going to be additional cash already waiting in the truck from the earlier collections.

  On Monday Dempster rented a 14-foot U-Haul truck under the name Benjamin Grant. He drove it to the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Tuscarawas Street and parked it amidst similar trucks and RVs, leaving roughly eight feet between the rear of the truck and the cinderblock wall that separated the parking lot from the street. He then went in and browsed around the store. He came out fifteen minutes later with a tube of airplane model glue and a small blanket, and climbed into the passenger seat of a blue 2001 Chrysler Cirrus with heavily tinted windows and Bourland behind the wheel.

  At four o'clock the next morning the same Chrysler Cirrus as well as a beat up Chevy van parked at the far end of the Swig Time parking lot, where a couple of other cars had been abandoned for the night due to the odd mixture of drunkenness and responsibility. Dempster and Bourland, wearing loose-fitted black suits and ties, got out of their respective automobiles and walked away to have an early morning breakfast somewhere, each leaving a loaded 9-millimeter handgun underneath the front seat.

  Dancing didn't start at Swig Time until six but the bar opened at noon, which meant the employees were probably going to show up around eleven. They returned to their vehicles at a quarter of ten. Each of them had put three coats of model glue on his fingertips.

  At one o'clock they watched the armored truck pull up drastically close to the club's front entrance. A few early bird drinkers had shown up over the past hour but traffic was extremely minimal and the whole area, for the most part, was empty and quiet.

  Two guards entered the club while a third remained up front in the cab, at the wheel. After a moment the driver ran a hand through his hair, bent down out of sight, and came up again with a paperback. Dempster and Bourland put on dark sunglasses, fake mustaches and black fedoras, then got their weapons ready and started their engines.

  Five minutes later the guards exited the club, one carrying a heavy-looking postal bin, the other a ring of keys. As the second guard unlocked and opened the rear of the truck, the Chevy van pulled up leisurely and stopped crossways behind it, making sure to keep just out of sight of the left rearview mirror and blocking the truck in against the front of the club. Dempster killed the engine, removed the key and got out as the Chrysler pulled up at an angle adjacent to both truck and van. Dempster threw the van's key into the street.

  By making it casual, the guards didn't immediately notice anything wrong, and therefore were slower to react. Before either could take action, each had suddenly found himself face to face with a small, dark, deadly gun barrel.

  "Don't drop it," Dempster told the guard with the postal bin. "Believe me, the last thing you wanna do is drop that. Right now that's your life-support system."

  The guard's hands rattled. His visage masqueraded as cool and calm, but just beneath the surface was stark terror.

  To the guard with the keys Dempster said, "Join my friend there."

  The guard slowly crossed between Dempster and the guard with the postal bin, hands raised at half-mast. Bourland had him stop three feet away from him and turn around. He relieved the guard of his Beretta, then told him, "Go up to the passenger side of the truck and knock on the window. Let him see you, and keep cool."

  "Jesus Christ," the guard said, then stepped towards the cab of the truck, Bourland crouched down behind him, gun aimed at the small of his back.

  He reached the window, then hesitated.

  "Do it," Bourland told him.

  The guard swallowed, closed his eyes, then rapped his knuckles on the window. The split second the door opened from the inside, Bourland clipped the standing guard with the butt of his own gun and rushed the driver.

  Meantime Dempster had removed the other guard's Beretta from its holster. "Now set it down really slow," he said, and the guard bent down to do as instructed. The second the postal bin touched the asphalt, Dempster struck him in the back of the head with his Beretta, then quickly dragged him into the back of the truck. At the same time, Bourland returned with the other guard, and they tossed him into the back as well.

  "How was the driver?"

  "Piece of cake. Still looks like he's reading."

  Bourland loaded the postal bin into the back seat of the Cirrus, while Dempster quickly removed five moneybags and three metal boxes from the back of the truck. They didn't take everything; they didn't have time. The van was helping to block sight of what they were doing, but at any second someone could pull in or stumble around the corner or glance out the wrong window. For all they knew someone had already called the cops.

  Everything loaded up, they covered the goods with the blanket, tossed the Berettas, climbed into the Cirrus and drove away, heading towards Tuscarawas Street.

  Wal-Mart was busier than Swig Time had been. Consumer-ridden zombies walked and drove all about like slowly dying fish drifting through a crowded aquarium. It took about two minutes to get over to the U-Haul.

  Bourland pulled the Cirrus into the eight-foot gap between the truck and the cinderblock wall, and the two of them hopped out. Calm and casual, Dempster unlocked the back of the U-Haul, checked for onlookers, saw none, and the two of them transferred their take from the Cirrus to the storage truck. With this accomplished, they both jumped into the back of the truck and removed their mustaches and clothing, under which they wore shorts and loud tourist-style shirts. Two pairs of sneakers were waiting for them. They traded them for their oxfords.

  They got out, closed up the back of the truck and headed for the cab, leaving the Cirrus where they'd parked it.

  The mistake was made when Dempster, intent on getting the hell out of Canton, didn't consider that he was still holding his pistol when he got out of the rear of the truck. Bourland hadn't noticed, but it was the first serious blunder he'd ever made. Walking to the cab he stuck the gun into the front of his shorts but it was already too late. He didn't know if she'd seen anything else they'd been doing or not, but the woman with the infant and the full shopping cart had definitely seen the gun, had seen where it went, and the look in her eyes was as though she were staring at the devil himself.

  He climbed into the passenger's seat of the cab, and tried to forget about it, even though he knew he couldn't. Never in his life had he goofed like that. What in the world had caused him to do it now?

  It took them nearly four minutes to get out of the parking lot. Making their way toward Poplar Avenue, Dempster switched on the radio for any immediate late-breaking news about them. It had now been over half an hour since they'd left Swig Time, but so far there was nothing.

  Bourland merged on
to Interstate 77, heading north towards Cleveland, while Dempster continued changing channels on the radio.

  After a couple minutes everything slowed down. Cars were backed up. With an aggravated sigh, Bourland inched the truck along, keeping with the glacial flow of traffic.

  Five minutes went by, Dempster kept playing with the radio, then Bourland said, "Well I'll be a son of a bitch."

  Dempster looked up and saw the roadblock ahead. State troopers were stopping every car on the road. As they moved closer, Dempster saw the troopers making brief inspections of every car. He quickly went over in his mind what he was to say in the event that something like this happened.

  Then he heard Bourland say, "Oh you can't be fucking serious."

  There were police lights behind them, whirling flashes of red and blue. Over the squad car's loudspeaker, the officer said, "Pull around and up ahead, please."

  Dempster and Bourland exchanged a glance.

  In the rearview mirrors they saw other squad cars on their way, maneuvering and zigzagging through the stalled traffic.

  "Pull around and up to the roadblock, please."

  Hesitantly, Bourland complied. He eased left out of the lane and onto the shoulder, and drove the truck slowly up towards the roadblock, those red and blue lights tailing them all the way.

  Before anyone had even approached them, they heard talk amongst the troopers about a U-Haul. It was then that Dempster realized their other mistake: they should have packed the truck with boxes and furniture and clothing, and hidden the goods deep within it all.

  Such a simple job, they had overlooked the obvious, or overestimated themselves.

  #

  He turned off the shower, climbed out, and as he toweled himself, he heard the front door open, then the inane noise of drunken laughter. He threw his clothes back on, combed his hair, and left his room.

  Evan, Clark and Jimmy were in the living room. They were dressed so nice Dempster probably wouldn't have recognized them if they hadn't been in the house. They looked exactly as Evan had said they would, like high-class businessmen.

  "You should have been there," Clark said as he lit a cigarette. "Evan bought a drink for this blond who was sitting by herself at the next table. When all she did was say thanks and turn away, he got up and joined her, which turned out to be much to her chagrin."

  "I just thought she was shy," Evan said.

  "So they're talking for a few minutes—actually, Evan is doing all the talking. And finally this guy comes up, must've been a boxer or a professional wrestler or something. He asks Evan why he's sitting with his girl. And Evan says, very casually, 'I just need something to masturbate and cry about when I get home tonight.' And the guy loved it so much he bought our whole table a round."

  "I think I could've had her if I'd really wanted."

  "Could've had a broken neck," Clark said. "Guy was huge. A fucking monster truck with arms."

  "I could've taken him."

  "Could've taken a beating from him."

  Evan laughed. It might have been the first time Dempster had seen him laugh, and it was a pleasant sight. An obscure, out of character sight, but a pleasant one nonetheless.

  "You guys learn anything else about the hotel?"

  "Not really," Evan said. "It looks pretty much as Gardner said. There weren't even very many people there."

  "Was Gardner there?"

  "No."

  Dempster sat down on the couch. "Lemme ask you guys something. What'd you think of Gardner?"

  "What do you mean, what do we think?"

  "I mean, do you trust him?"

  "As much as I trust myself," Evan said.

  Dempster looked at him and was surprised to find that both Evan's and his own countenance were almost at ease. "And how much do you trust yourself?" he asked.

  "I'm still not sure."

  "Look," Clark said, searching for an ashtray, "I wouldn't blame anyone for having concerns about Gardner. Let's face it, the guy's a tool. But he's the only one who really knows anything about that hotel. Seems that there's a lot to know, too." He found an empty soda can. "The layout he gave us and what he told us about the place all matches up with what we saw tonight. Also, the little bedtime story you told the other night is gonna keep him in his place." He ashed into the can. "I wouldn't worry about him. He's a helpful hand. He ever thought about crossing us, I'm willing to bet my share that he's tucked any ideas of that away."

  Dempster looked at each of them in turn. When his gaze landed on Jimmy he asked, "What about you? What do you think?"

  Jimmy, surprised at being called upon, as though he hadn't done his homework, said, "Well, I agree. I don't think there's anything to worry about."

  Dempster studied him for a moment. Once satisfied, he said, "All right. I'm gonna check it out tomorrow." He stood up. "I'm gonna go to sleep."

  "Me too," Evan said. "I'm bushed."

  "Too bushed to masturbate and cry?" Dempster asked.

  "Oh yeah. I guess I'll do that first."

  Chapter Nine

  It was a hot day, and when Dempster stepped into the Eldorado, he was relieved to find the place air-conditioned. Taking a tip from the guys, he'd put on the suit Freddy had supplied him with, a casual, lightweight, single-breasted blazer with matching trousers, though he found that it hadn't been necessary. There didn't appear to be a dress code.

  He breezed past the front desk, giving it only the quickest glance and seeing Gardner, who happened to have his back turned at that moment. Past the elevators and just before the lobby's lounge, he made a right and faced the Nidah Spa, where through the giant glass doors he saw a middle-aged woman behind a desk, content with her paperwork. Another right and he was in a nook with bathrooms and two payphones. He stepped into the men's room, washed his hands, waited an additional half-minute, and then stepped out again, and slowly made his way down the concourse. He passed the lounge and the kitchen on his left, while on his right the pavilion was empty save for a coffee cart no one was currently manning. The Tierra-tiled floor in combination with the soft gilding light continued the illusion he'd experienced when he'd first examined the outside. As though the entire place, to one degree or other, was made of gold. A palace in which men like him were not meant to tread. All the while, he was aware of the camera at his back.

  Directly ahead was the Anasazi Ballroom. The doors were propped open. Inside a woman vacuumed while a man cleaned the windows. The hallway made an L that went right and then another that went left, leading past another set of restrooms, the De Vargas Room, the Zia Room, and ending with a double-door exit onto Johnson Street. Here there was another entrance into the Anasazi Room as well, only this door was closed. Aware that the third camera since he'd walked down the concourse was on him, Dempster stood there a moment, fished around in his pockets for imaginary cigarettes, then shrugged and walked back the way from which he'd come.

  Making a right into the lounge, he approached the bar and asked the bartender, "Where's the closest place to buy a pack of cigarettes?"

  "Just go up San Francisco Street until you reach the Plaza," the bartender said. "You'll see the Five and Dime. That's the closest place I can think of."

  "Thank you."

  He walked through the lounge, this time taking in the rope carved glass-topped tables, the loud striped carpet full of zigzags and diamond patterns, the potted cacti strategically placed here and there, and the moderately tacky wood-carved coyote sculptures, predominantly placed in the lounge's center. The lounge was a little dimmer than the rest of the place. Dempster didn't know if it was because of the decor, or if the lights were turned down lower.

  Exiting the lounge, he stopped in the lobby at the brochure stand, grabbed a couple at random, and then watched the front desk. When Doug Gardner saw him his face paled and he went rigid, almost as if panic stricken.

  A guest approached and asked to use a computer. Gardner slapped on a smile and directed them up the stairway to the computer room. When he looked back, Dempst
er was gone.

  Going through the mental photos he'd taken of the hotel's interior, Dempster made his way up San Francisco Street with newfound confidence. The place was pretty much as Gardner had described it, only more elaborate and with a certain class Dempster couldn't relate to. He'd noted every camera that had been marked on the layout, had covered most—if not all—of the exits with the exception of the Old House restaurant, where he would have looked suspicious had he entered, if for no other reason than that it was closed.

  He thought about what it would be like to have that kind of money. What it would be like to actually stay somewhere like the Eldorado. To have enough money—legitimate money that was on the books, with everything kosher and no strings other than taxes attached. Hell, what it would be like not having to worry about things, always having enough to eat, having a roof over your head without having to share it with inmates or drunkards or rats or spiders. To have a nice place, not a mansion or an estate, just a comfy little place to call home.

  If things worked out right, and he sensed they would, then he'd have a pretty good chunk of change coming to him. Not quite enough to retire, he didn't think, but enough to get him going, to hopefully start over from scratch, abandon this line of work and figure out what the hell he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  And what the hell did he want to do with the rest of his life? He couldn't come up with a single answer.

  After two blocks he saw a late 80s model Nissan Sentra, parallel parked in front of Starbucks. What caught his attention was not the car, but rather the woman standing outside it, an unraveled coat hanger in her hands, trying with little success to get it through the top of the unopened driver's side window. The moment he saw her, a tiny flutter started in his chest. He crossed the street and knocked on the hood.

  "You always seem to be having car trouble," he said.

  When their eyes met, Sandra's face lit up, and before Dempster knew what was happening, her arms were around him.