The Double Cross

by Michael P. King

  “The serial numbers have been filed off.”

  The old man shrugged. “Mighty handy if you need to drop it.”

  “Can’t explain it to the cops.”

  “Then don’t let them find it.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred for it.”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Six hundred if you kick in a box of shells.”

  The old man reached around on the shelf behind him and then put a box of shells down next to the gun. “You can load it when you’re off my property.”

  Roy laid six one-hundred-dollar bills down on the desk. The old man picked up the top one and held it up to the light. He nodded.

  “Is there a place around here where a man could pop off a few rounds without drawing attention?”

  “Turn left out of here, turn right at the second crossroad. You’ll come to an old quarry a few miles down.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve never been here.”

  “You’re exactly right.”

  The quarry was a long limestone scar in the wasteland beside a farm field planted in corn. Roy drove down the dirt road and parked out of sight of the highway under a scraggly tree. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, fast-food trash, and condoms. Steel drums and crates of various sizes had been set up at different distances to make a shooting range. “This is definitely the place,” Roy said. “But I don’t want you starting with the .44. Too much kick. We’ll use my .38.”

  Roy put the .44 and its shells in the trunk of the Cadillac and brought out his Smith & Wesson .38. “Come on.”

  They walked over to the shooting range. “First off,” he said, showing her the gun, “this is a tool. You don’t take it out unless you need to use it. You don’t point it at anyone you don’t plan on shooting. You don’t hold it with your finger on the trigger. You always assume it’s loaded.”

  He pointed at a crate about fifteen feet away. “Let’s shoot at that one. That’s as far as you’ll ever need to shoot right now. Watch me.” He held the gun in a two-handed grip. “I’m using both hands so that I’ve got the most control. I’m going to point at the crate, take a firm grip, aim down the barrel so the front and back sights line up, and squeeze the trigger. Just squeeze it.”

  He stood with his right leg slightly back and his left leg forward, raised his arms, and shot off a round into the center of the crate. “Nothing to it.” He handed the gun to her.

  She mimicked what he had done and hit the left center of the crate. “Wow. This is easier than I thought.”

  “Fire a few more. Use a little more of your trigger finger.”

  She shot twice more with the same results. She grinned. “This is fun.”

  He nodded. “The gun range is always lots of fun. But when you’re scared and someone’s shooting back, it’s a little different. So you’ve got to know what you’re doing.”

  They heard a car coming down the road. “Hand me the gun.”

  Roy put the .38 in his jacket pocket just as a Sheriff’s department cruiser came into view. They stood with their hands at their sides while the cruiser stopped, and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy got out. “Hello, folks. I heard some shots as I was driving by.”

  Roy spoke. “We were just firing off a few rounds, sir.”

  The deputy had his hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol. His eyes shifted from Roy to Carol and back. “You’re carrying?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a carry permit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about you, ma’am?”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  The deputy stepped forward. “Where’s your gun, sir?”

  “In my jacket pocket.”

  The deputy gripped the butt of his pistol. “I want you to hand me that gun. Move one hand only.”

  “I’m moving my right hand.” Roy slowly reached into his pocket and took out the .38, holding it out in the palm of his hand. The deputy took it. “Any other guns?”

  “No, sir.”

  The deputy released the cylinder on the .38 and shook the remaining bullets and spent shells out into the palm of his hand. Then he handed Roy the empty gun and the shells. Roy put them back in his jacket pocket.

  “Let me see that permit.”

  “In my back pocket.” Roy took the permit out of his wallet.

  The deputy glanced at it. “Mr. Stevens, this is private property. We’ve had some trouble here in the past. The owners don’t want people trespassing.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. We must have been given some bad advice. We were just looking for a place to practice.”

  Carol cut in. “It’s all my fault, Deputy. I’ve been begging my cousin to teach me to shoot. I hope I didn’t get him into trouble.”

  The deputy glanced at her. She gave him the soft, appreciative look that always worked on the marks. He turned back to Roy. “There’s a gun range in town. I don’t want to see you out here again.” He handed Roy’s permit back to him. “Get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roy and Carol got in the Cadillac and drove back out to the road. “That was a close call. Thanks for pitching in. If he had searched the trunk and found the Colt, we would have been on our way to jail.”

  “Then what?”

  “We would have had to post bail and skip town. Change our names. Guns would have been lost. Just a lot of hassles that would have messed up our timeline.”

  “You wouldn’t have left me?”

  “Leave you? Have I been showing you what I know? Helping you to make your own way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I invest the time if I was going to dump you? You’re going to be watching my back. Jacob, Stevie, and Pooch are going to wish they never even thought about screwing me over when I get through with them. And don’t you want some payback of your own on Pooch?”

  “So are we going to the gun range in town?”

  “No, that’s way too public for us. It’s time we got going anyway. It’ll take most of the day to drive to Roosevelt Heights.”

  “I have to see Terry first.”

  * * *

  A deputy sheriff ushered Carol into the visitor’s room of the county jail. The room contained a row of cubicles that faced a matching set of cubicles on the other side of a glass partition. The walls were yellow. Women were sitting in most of the cubicles, leaning on the tiny desks as they talked on the phones with their men on the other side of the glass, whispering for privacy. Terry was already there. He was dressed in orange coveralls. He had a mark under his left eye, and there were scabs on the knuckles on his right hand. She sat down in the cubicle facing him. She kissed her hand and pressed it against the glass. He picked up his phone. She picked up hers.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m finding my way.”

  “You’ve been fighting.”

  He shrugged. “What are you doing for money? I could use some cash in my commissary account.”

  “How much? A hundred?”

  “Where would you get a hundred bucks?”

  “I’m working with Roy—the Cadillac guy. He’s teaching me some new tricks.”

  Terry frowned. “I told you to stay away from him.”

  “This is different. I can’t work our game by myself. This is the only way I can make any money.”

  “I don’t trust that guy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”

  He studied her face. “You’re already sleeping with him.”

  “I am not.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. I’m doing everything I can for us. You just need to stay strong.”

  “Bullshit. You’re fucking him.”

  “Don’t be jealous. You’re my guy. I’m just working with him until you get out.”

  “You’re going to do what I say.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

&n
bsp; “Stay away from that guy.”

  “Really, Terry, how can I make a living—”

  He slammed the phone down and scooted away from the table. She watched him mouth the words “do what I say,” and he was gone. She stood up. God, why did he always have to be such a jealous pain in the ass? If the glass hadn’t been between them, he would have smacked her for sure. It was a good thing she lied about the sex. That would have made him even crazier. He’d be picking fights with other prisoners over nothing if he really believed she’d slept with Roy. But she’d made the right decision partnering with him. Everything she was learning was going to come in handy when Terry got out of jail. Once he saw that, he’d feel differently about what she’d done.

  On her way out, she stopped at the clerk’s window in the outer waiting area and deposited $100 into Terry’s commissary account. Visitors—women and children mainly—sat in plastic chairs waiting their turns. There wasn’t a happy face in the room. She was glad when she finally pushed through the door to the parking lot. Roy was waiting for her in the Cadillac.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “I told him I was working with you.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “How do you think?”

  “If Terry was a player and not just muscle, you wouldn’t have been rolling drunks and he wouldn’t have ended up in jail. You’d have been picking pockets, and he’d have been using the credit cards. Safe and easy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. This is your best shot to helping Terry and helping yourself.”

  “I know.” She looked out the window. “He accused me of having sex with you.”

  “I see.”

  “I told him I didn’t. And I’m not going to anymore.”

  “That’s your call.”

  7

  Shadowing the Marks

  Sunday at 12:30 p.m., Roy and Carol were sitting in their Cadillac on the street two houses down from the little house on Elm Street where Jacob, Stevie, and Pooch had parked. They’d followed them from the Roosevelt Heights Holiday Inn. The neighborhood consisted of shabby rentals occasionally interspersed with well-maintained residences where old people sat on the porches.

  “So this is where they’re at?” Carol asked.

  “Jacob likes this kind of setup. It’s easy to blend in. You keep you nose clean, you keep quiet, nobody notices you.”

  “Where are we going to stay?”

  “Someplace even more nondescript.”

  They drove out to the freeway interchange and turned onto the access road. Roy ignored the value motels with their tourists and business travelers. Finally, on the corner of a side road, he spotted a rundown rent-by-the-week motel. Half the lights in the street sign didn’t work. A number of old cars were parked in the far side of the lot.

  “Really?” Carol asked. “This place is a dump.”

  “The trailer park I found you in? Look who’s talking.”

  They got a room at the end of a row. The beds were worn out, the towels were thin, and the tub had rust stains. Carol set her suitcase down on the bed closest to the door. “I’d pull off that bedspread,” Roy said.

  Carol looked at him quizzically.

  “I doubt if the hookers around here are so choosy about getting in the sheets.”

  She made a face.

  “No one’s going to find us here. That’s what counts.”

  “Which bed are we going to sleep in?”

  “If you’re sleeping in the same bed as me, that’s the one farthest from the door.” He set his suitcase in the floor of the closet. “And I wouldn’t unpack. We might have to leave in a hurry.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “We’re going to drive around—learn this town, cut down on the number of possible surprises. Tomorrow we start tailing the guys.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Jacob, Stevie, Pooch, and Darius were standing in the kitchen of the Elm Street house. Darius hadn’t bothered to take off his motorcycle jacket. They all had beers in their hands. A city map was spread out on the kitchen table. “Listen up,” Darius said. He pointed with a tattooed hand. “The black dots are cars Jimmy has parked on the street to hold drugs or cash for delivery. These two circles are houses he uses. One is a collection point. The other—his girlfriend’s—is where the money finally lands.”

  “And these locations never change?” Jacob asked.

  “The cars move around, but I know where they are all the time.”

  “So how we going to do this?” Stevie asked.

  “Hit the girlfriend’s house?” Pooch asked.

  Darius shook his head. “Ellie’s house is the wild card. The money always ends up there, but I don’t know how long it stays there. Jimmy doesn’t trust anyone that much. I carry the money from the collection house.”

  “The Jackson Street house?” Stevie asked.

  “Yeah. So you guys are going to hijack me along the way.” He pointed at the map. “There’s a shuttered Save-U-Mart right here. It’s on the most direct route, but there’s very little traffic, so chances are nobody’s in the way.”

  “You’re alone?” Jacob asked.

  “Always. Driving a minivan.”

  “So we divide the money at the Save-U-Mart and go our separate ways.”

  Darius shook his head. “It has to look real. You guys are going to T-bone me, come out running and gunning. That way there’s a wrecked van and bullet holes.”

  “So when do we do it?”

  “Friday. We take in the weekly cash from the street dealers on Friday, so that’s the big day.”

  “Why are you even doing this?” Jacob asked. “You could just be skimming.”

  “Three guys count the money. How long do you think three guys can keep a secret?” Darius looked from Jacob to Stevie to Pooch. “We done here?”

  Jacob nodded. “Here’s the phone number for this place. Keep us posted.”

  Darius left. Stevie was looking at the map, studying the streets. Pooch got another beer. “So all we have to do is gear up and wait until Friday.”

  “No,” Jacob said. “We’re going to check out the stash cars and stash houses. We want to know who all the players are. We don’t want any surprises when we pull this job, and we’re going to be sure Darius isn’t fucking with us.”

  * * *

  Shortly after 8:00 a.m. the next morning, Roy and Carol drove through a Caffeination coffee shop for coffee and two egg croissants on their way to the Elm Street rental. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper on Richardson Drive, but once they were on the other side of the business district, it was clear sailing. Elm Street was just as quiet as it had been the day before.

  Carol scrunched up her croissant wrapper and put it in her empty coffee cup. “You know we’re way conspicuous on this street, don’t you?”

  “We’ll be okay today. Then we’ll decide what we need to do.”

  A little before 10:00 a.m., Stevie pulled out of the driveway in a blue Dodge Charger. “Here we go,” Roy said. “We drew the short straw. He’s their driver, so if he spots us, he’ll probably shake us.”

  They followed Stevie down into the southeast part of town into a neighborhood of mainly blacks and Latinos. He pulled into the on-street parking next to a row of well kept ranch houses with wrought iron fences. They drove past him, came around the block, and parked half a block back on the other side of the street.

  “Why’s he here?” Carol asked.

  “Don’t know, but I want to see him and whatever he might be looking at. Can you see the street sign?”

  “Sycamore.”

  About an hour later, a white man wearing a hoody and jeans and carrying a book bag over his shoulder opened the trunk of a tan Toyota Corolla up near the end of the block, put his bag in, took out an identical bag, and walked away. Stevie pulled away from the curb. Roy followed him.

  “What was that?” Carol asked.

  “Not really sure. We’ll have to see
.”

  They followed Stevie into another neighborhood, this one middle-class and white, and parked on Jackson Street next to a strip of brick, two-story homes. A mom came out of one of the houses pushing a baby stroller. A twenty-something man wandered down the sidewalk walking three dogs. The mom and the young man chatted for a moment before continuing in opposite directions. After a while the mom circled back home. The occasional car drove by. Finally, about two hours later, the white man who’d been wearing the hoody earlier pulled into a driveway in a white Subaru and got out carrying four book bags. He went into the house. A few minutes later, he came out empty-handed and drove away. Stevie followed him, and they followed Stevie. The man left the Subaru parked at the Northgate shopping mall and went to the bus stop. They followed Stevie back to Elm Street.

  “So what’s happening?” Carol asked.

  “Hoody guy must be gathering drugs or drug money from around town. That would be my guess. Stevie was shadowing him, which means they’re probably planning to rob this crew. We need more pieces of the puzzle.”

  * * *

  Back on Jackson Street, in a house with a real estate agent’s For Sale sign in the yard, a state investigator and a city detective working on a drug taskforce sat on kitchen chairs at the living room windows watching the money collection house through the curtains. A video camera on a tripod stood in front of them. Clark Benson, the state investigator, a thin ex-smoker in a leather jacket and jeans, turned off the camera. “That was definitely Bobby Reese making the delivery.”

  “Yeah,” Tom Smiley, the city detective, said. He was a pudgy guy with a gray moustache who was dressed in a blue blazer and tan slacks. “But what was up with the other mopes? The redheaded guy in the blue Dodge watching the house, and the couple in the Caddie watching him. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Maybe Jimmy’s gone paranoid. Maybe he’s got someone following Bobby to make sure he isn’t dipping,” Benson said.

  “But what about the other two?”

  “Who knows? We need to take all their pictures if they show up again. See if they’re in the database.”