by Ryan Gattis
After the security door bangs shut and I hear the trucks going out, I hear people talking in the street. I can’t hear words. Just voices. I don’t do anything different than I’d normally do. I get set to drill through the bottom and into the door. I line it up, brace myself, and put my full weight into it.
I’ve had guns pulled on me plenty when I’m alone like this. People that scattered when the badges arrive usually come right back after they go. It’s why Frank never went alone. Always had me along to call or at least watch the door. But I don’t got an apprentice and I won’t be taking one.
Tell you what, though, takes work to talk someone out of trying to shoot you. Believe that. Funny thing is, I never tell anybody that they shoot me and get the death penalty, because that threat never kept anybody from doing a crime.
I get raw. I tell them I’m an officer of the court, motherfucker. I tell them the government takes this shit personal if one of us ever goes down. I tell them the address I’m at is known, it’s in official court documents already, and that whoever’s hitting it will be back, and that means the fool standing in front of me and aiming is known too. And if I get shot, it’s not like some kid getting shot in the hood. You will get caught. Not in days, in hours. Guaranteed.
You’ll bring so much heat on your clica that they’ll fucking turn you in because you’re bad for business, it’s happened before, and then next thing you know, you’re getting booked up, charged, held without bail, and chain-walked the fuck into court for pretrial so fast you’ll wonder why all of a sudden the system is actually working. I usually pause there. I let it sink in before saying, because I am the system. That’s why. You take a swipe at the machine, you get chewed up. And that’s all there is to that.
It works too. I mean, I’m still standing here. There’s no trick to it. It’s simple. I tell a story and wait for it to hit.
See, people will kill if they feel like they can get away with it. That’s why it goes down. Conviction rates in the heavy gang areas are the worst. Detectives don’t got resources to clear cases there. Poor communities don’t help the cops because they’re more afraid of gangs coming back on them. Everybody knows which motherfucker killed somebody on the block. That info goes around.
But when you tell somebody that he’s going into handcuffs quick and forever if he pulls that trigger, then that’s worth thinking on. It’s a stone-cold motherfucker that still pulls it after that. I’ve met a few of those in my life, and I guess I’m just damn lucky it’s always been a low-totem homie that walks in on me trying to crack.
I feel the drill punch through the bottom of the safe and go into the door with a lurch. I look at my watch. Not even ten minutes. Good, I think. Real good.
I grab one of my rounded-off drill bits and push it up through the hole I made. Too many people think cracking is like how they see it in movies. People standing around with a stethoscope in their ears. That’s picking. And there’s no point to it if you ask me. It’s not time efficient. What I do is boxing. There’s art to this too.
Safecracking is with your eyes and your hands. Not with your fucking ears. But people don’t always see it. In the ring, they only see a dude getting knocked flat. Like, how you might see me open a safe and think it’s all about the last punch and not everything that came before it.
Like how I had to make the opening and now I go through it. Not with a hook or an uppercut. Nothing with an angle. I jab away at it till I get that mechanism off its angle, then I give it a straight shot to jolt it. If you were in the room, you wouldn’t even hear it pop. But me, I feel it give under my fist and go through. Like, I had an opponent in front of me and I lined up a combination but he went down with one shot so after that I’m just swinging at air.
That’s it. I’m in. Just like that.
I check my watch. Almost sixteen minutes and tomorrow never comes.
This moment, that’s all there is.
I breathe like I haven’t been breathing all morning, take my vise grips, turn them like they’re the handle, and there’s no clank sound because there’s no mechanism connected to it anymore. There’s just me opening the heavy metal door straight up to the ceiling and letting in the air.
I don’t even look at first. I can’t.
I’m putting gloves on. Little blue plastic specials.
The kind you can get at any drugstore.
5
With the safe’s mouth busted and just hanging open in the middle of the carpet, I reach in, hit paper, and pull my hand right out like it’s hot. That’s when I look in and see every shelf full. Six of them, deep like a library bookcase. I even pull both little drawers at the bottom up and out. One is empty. The other has coins in it. Coins, I can do nothing with, so I drop that back down into its slot, but then I stand up because I got to stand up or I’m going to go all light-headed, and I walk over to the front door and look out the peephole. Outside, neighbor voices are going, but nobody’s standing in front of the apartment, or near my Jeep. The coast’s clear enough.
I’m feeling it. Adrenaline burning in me like getting tattooed on the inside. That’s how I know I’m still taking the money. As much as I can get away with.
I kneel back down at the safe and pull cash out by the fistful. There’s a problem, though, as I’m laying it out, and I feel a knot getting tight inside me. This isn’t small bills from street slinging. It’s not a mess of tens and twenties or wadded-up fives pressed flat from junkies. It’s all fucking hundreds. Too neat.
Safe guts never look like this, all clean.
This is good news, but also it’s very bad news.
All this cash might mean a delivery was coming. Cash on hand to get sent back to Mexico. That’s the likeliest. I’m still wondering why the runners didn’t take what was in here when they bounced, but then I get to thinking that maybe they didn’t have the key. Maybe only their boss had the key and he wasn’t here or couldn’t get here quick enough before la DEA came knocking or—
I tell my brain to shut up.
I even say it out loud to calm me down, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
That tattoo machine’s still going inside me, ripping my lungs up. Making it hard to breathe.
Thinking won’t do anybody good now. Only taking will.
I check my watch. I’m at twenty-five minutes.
Shit.
Fast and messy, I unload my drills and pull their foam linings. Last week, I cut some deeper compartments into the plastic underneath, enough to stick about eight stacks in each, so I do. Thick as eight books. I overfill it, though, because when I put the foam and the drill back in, it won’t close, so I have to take some out.
Half a stack comes back on the floor, and then I fill the other drill case and get both closed up. The loose stuff goes into my toolbox, in its false bottom that I added.
My brain’s back on again. All this cash, it’s trying to tell me, there’s no way I get away with it. There’s too much here.
The owners of this cash will come looking. They’ll come looking hard.
“Shut up,” I say to my brain. “I don’t need to get far with it. I just need to drive.”
Getting caught, that’s happening. As sure as breathing, that’s happening.
You can’t take from these people without consequences. They’ll catch me. The only problem is, I definitely have less time now. If it was just a little money here or there, I might be able to go on for a while. That was always the plan. Like that Johnny Cash song Frank’s always humming, “One Piece at a Time.”
But not this.
This is the kind of thing that makes me glad I took some precautions, so I can stay moving. When I take this money, there’s no going back.
I know that as I wrap my ankles with rolls and then pull my socks way up like I used to, back in the day.
Me, I’m not worried about. I know I’m going out the bad way now, but there’s power in that guarantee. I’ve been doing bad almost my whole life. Hurting people. Innocent people. People that n
ever did deserve it. Like how I said at group once, when I was on drugs, I was a Tasmanian devil of pain and bullshit. All through my growing up. A whole mess of people got caught up in my tornado.
So now, knowing this is it for me, it’s a gift. It’s a chance to go out clean. And that’s all I need. A chance. Like a tablecloth getting pulled off a table without disturbing the plates or forks on it. That’s the best case. Because I lived messy too long. And I done so much shit I should’ve been dead for, twenty times over. How I even made it to wearing this laminate on my chest without a criminal record is a goddamn miracle. Because I’ve been up in some shit. And I got so dirty living stories where I’m the villain that they’re all sunk into my bones now, and never letting me go.
“So fuck it,” I say.
If this’s the end, it might as well be a good one.
I get up, go to the sink, and I’m surprised to find there’s more of them decent-sized plastic shopping bags in there. I take the biggest one, from a cowboy-boot store, and stack almost three whole shelfs inside. I eyeball it, smoosh it down flat, tie the top, and test it to make sure it’ll fit under my passenger seat. And then I walk outside. I carry it to my Jeep and get it situated before locking up and taking my phone out as I walk back in.
I call Collins at thirty-two minutes. “It’s open.”
“Sending someone now,” he says before hanging up.
I mess up the rest of the safe. I make it look like any other we bust. Not neat. Not stacked. Crumpled up. Thrown in. I even pull the coins from the drawer and toss a few around inside to hear them ping.
I pull my gloves off and stuff them in my back pocket.
And then I wait.
Sure, there were eyes on me when I walked that bag to the car.
Doesn’t matter if the block was looking. The people that put that money in the safe in the first place will know I took it anyway. Soon or late, they’ll find out. They got people to hand over police or Fed reports. That’s a given.
They’ll know I walked a bag out. And then they’ll read those reports and know the numbers that went confiscated by the government don’t match up the numbers they know for sure were in the safe. They’ll suspect me first but will be real thorough. They’ll check to see if somebody on DEA is dirty and they’ll run with that till they’re sure. And maybe they even got somebody dirty on the inside already. Somebody that can help them get to the bottom of it even quicker. They’ll check with the house runners too. Just to make sure nobody is taking off the top from inside the house. When they’re done with their inventory, after all that, they’ll know for sure there’s only me. They’ll know I’m the only one that makes sense.
And then, they’ll figure out what to do about me. A problem like Ghost.
Maybe then they’ll rat me out to DEA or Sheriffs or anyone else I work for so they can get me thrown into prison so I can get dealt with while I’m in there. But most likely, they’ll just find me, scoop me up, walk me out somewhere quiet, and after I tell them where the money is hid at, they’ll shoot me low caliber under the chin so it doesn’t make a mess before pushing me in a hole that maybe they don’t feel like filling up. It’s not rocket sciences. It’ll happen. There’s too many of them and only one of me. That’s just how it will go down.
And I’m okay with that.
Fast is how this needs to go so they don’t focus on someone else. Not Frank. Not Laura. Definitely not Mira. Just me. They got to catch my ass first, though, and I intend to jab and move, and jab and move, and do a whole lot of damage before they corner me. More damage than they ever thought one dude could.
Glasses
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Evening
6
Three hours into my niece’s quinceañera party, things are popping off pretty good. Most everybody’s eaten, and the XV girl’s done her choreographed dances with her little court of chambelanes. The theme color is pink times a million.
People of all ages have been through the Caballo Dorado line dancing, going faster and faster to “No Rompas Más Mi Pobre Corazón.” Leya went out there with her sister and got through three plays of it, but I don’t go in for that type of stuff.
Bateman Hall is across from the Senior Center on Ernestine in Lynwood. What I like about the front of it is, they have a whole row of fountains on either side of the entrance.
For most events, they’re all bubbling up like little geysers. But they don’t have them on tonight for some reason. Just lights and still water.
Walking in, I remembered Hosler Junior High close by, how fools used to jump the fence to ditch out of there, how security would chase us and we’d run across the street and through Bateman since it was open during the day. We’d run in and out of the big room, bigger than a basketball court. White ceiling, white tile floor, brick walls painted white with tall brown wooden slats breaking it up every few feet.
Stage up front, where the DJ is right now. He’s got all his lights up and running, shooting pink snowflake patterns over the Lynwood banners hanging in the middle of the room, and onto the big wooden clock in the back that tells me I got maybe ten minutes left to be here.
We’re sitting on the right below one of them banners, closest to the back wall so I can see the whole room and every person in it. My sister-in-law got mad about it and said I needed to be in the middle, but that’s not a good idea. Too exposed.
So I’m with Leya and Felix in some little headphones like guys at the airport wear when they’re waving planes around. That’s not something I fought Leya on. I was all for it. The older I get, the more I hate this type of party. The music is always too loud at these things.
“Disculpe.” This guy off to my left almost shouts it.
I turn at him and he’s got a longsleeve, button-up pink shirt, open three buttons too many. His face’s a little red from dancing but he’s still paper-bag brown underneath. His hands are shaking from being nervous to meet me. I don’t know the guy.
He introduces himself in Spanish and says hello. Turns out I know his brother. He smiles at that and asks how I’m doing. Always the answer is good. Am I enjoying? Yes. Por supuesto. Do I need a beer, or anything? No, but thank you. He leaves backing up, with a smile and too many nods.
Hey, I know this is just paying respects, more to Rooster than to me, and I’m just the way it gets to him. I’ll be asked about it later too. I’ll have to remember which of them said what, and which didn’t. I always do.
But this is the fourth guy tonight to come up acting too nice like that. I don’t like people seeing it in public. Leya always notices. Her family does too. It’s this thing they don’t like putting up with but have to. The worst part is tonight it’s taking attention from the XV girl, and that’s just about unforgivable.
The only thing saving me right now is that the food is good. Big tin trays of tangy beef birria in a red sauce, pollo al pastor with half cuts of pineapple in it, carnitas, rice, beans, salad, and marinated vegetables that Leya picks the cauliflower out of.
This type of birria reminded me of corned beef a little. When I said that to Leya, she gave me a look. What it said was Birria es birria. Also there was the decision in there that I been spending too much time with Rooster. Prolly she’s right about that.
But it’s not like I can do anything about it. I’m just happy the food’s good since I was padrino of it. I didn’t pick it but I paid for it. Can’t be working for Rooster and having anybody upset where food’s concerned. That’s just not happening.
I wanted to be cake padrino since it would’ve been cheaper, but Leya’s sister wasn’t having that. There was no recuerdos padrino. I asked about that too.
But the Reynoso ladies made those sitting up in their living rooms for three weeks, doing beads and drinking too much coffee. It’s like a rosary bracelet strung together around a cross with wings on it, for your wrist. The beads are pink too.
The good ticky-tack sound of cumbia comes on the speakers then, “El Viejo del Sombrerón�
� by Sonora Dinamita. Since that’s one me and Leya danced to at the restaurant after our wedding, she’s grabbing my hand and telling her mom to watch Felix as we pass the main table.
The clock says I got four minutes as we take the back right corner of the dance floor, and it fills up with older couples but there’s some kids too. The chambelan de honor is right next to us, dancing with my niece. I look at him there, so serious as he’s doing some steps, thinking about getting them right, not yet feeling the music.
I tell him to make more room between them. Don’t dance too close. Leya digs a finger into my ribs since she wants me to shut up, and my niece looks like she’s never been so embarrassed in her whole entire life, but he does it, he backs up.
What I think by looking at him, I can’t help seeing Felix being that age someday, being some girl’s special little chambelan, wearing the hat and the suspenders and the bow tie. Memorizing dances. Doing it for a woman.
It makes me happy and scared at the same time, like maybe I’ll never get to see it, him being that old. And I must wobble a little or something since Leya can tell I’m thinking sad things again, so she turns me and I spin her.
I pull her close then. She knows I’m not that guy that gets out there and does the twirls and the two-steps and junk like that. I hold her. I focus in on her eyes so she knows I see her.
Even with all the lights around, the three shades of pink, light, regular, and dark. Even with all the other women around, I’m only looking at her for the good seconds I got left.
After, I’m looking to the clock and seeing it’s time, and then to the back doors, where Big Danny is already standing, blocking the view of the courtyard. I know he’s got the stuff in the car. I know it’s time to do something I don’t want to do but got to.