That was it.
Professional thieves that took an oath not to steal. Laughable, when one gave it much thought.
Seated at their normal positions on the couch, the men looked like they were preparing to watch a football game. Each of them either held a beer or had one within their reach.
I looked at Cash. “Our next job has the possibility of being our most profitable.” I glanced at each of the men. “It’s highly likely that it goes hell in a hand basket, too. It’ll require each of us give our best, a hell of a lot of planning, and one hell of a lot of luck.”
“Biggest potential problem?” Ghost asked.
“Getting caught,” I said with a laugh. “It’s an hour from here if traffic’s good. We’ll make a quiet escape, but we need to be prepared to outrun some small-town cops.”
Just over six feet tall and muscle from head to toe, Ghost was the best getaway driver in the Western Hemisphere. He split his free time between the gym and the racetrack, where he honed his skills to perfection. There were many times we’d certainly have been caught if it had not been for his skills in evading the police.
“I say we ride the Ducatis and use backpacks for our haul,” he said. “Hell, there’s not a car in SoCal that’ll keep up with a Panigale R model. Quick getaway is why we bought ‘em, wasn’t it?”
The motorcycles he was referring to were Italian superbikes built for racing, but sold to any member of the general public who could afford the near thirty-thousand-dollar price tag. With a top speed of over two hundred miles an hour, Ghost was right. No one would catch us.
Hauling a few hundred pounds of stolen gold in a backpack could – and probably would – prove fatal if one wrong move was made during the escape. Furthermore, six matching black and silver Ducati superbikes at a jewelry store in a town of two thousand would draw more attention than cock in a convent.
“The job’s in Rainbow.” I crossed my arms. “Six matching Panigales would have the cops there in less than five minutes. We’ve got to be in and out in ten.”
“Truck and enclosed trailer,” he said. “Put a vinyl sticker on the truck that says Hector’s Horse Barn. It’ll look legit. We could put the bikes in the trailer, and nobody’d be the wiser. I’ll drive the truck. The five of you could haul out the cash.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, other than a truck pulling a trailer would make a slower getaway than a ’67 VW Beetle. Having any of the men stopped and questioned by police wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
“Five Ducatis leaving the parking lot would raise a few eyebrows. Someone would notice the truck and trailer, and then the cop would be there,” I said. “Rainbow’s a town of two thousand with a young night cop that has nothing better to do than become a hero.”
“Two thousand what?” he asked.
“People.”
“Two thousand people and a hotdog cop?”
I nodded. “Correct.”
Cash set his beer bottle on the table. “We’ll have too much weight to haul in backpacks. We need something that’ll haul the six of us and an extra thousand pounds.”
“Thousand pounds of cash?” Goose looked at Cash and then at me. “That’s what, a hundred million bucks?”
“Forty-five,” Tito said. “Twenty-two pounds a million, if it’s hundreds.”
Ghost’s eyes went wide. “The six of us, plus a thousand pounds? Or is Cash smoking weed again?”
“Thousand pounds is a possibility,” I said.
His nose wrinkled. “I thought we were robbing a shit-hole jewelry store?”
“Rumor has it that this guy might have a considerable amount of gold,” I said. “Gold bars, not rings and necklaces. Like I said, this has the potential of being a big haul.”
“I’ll talk to the guys at EAS in Anaheim. They had an X5M I was looking at. If they’ve still got it, I’ll just buy it, and we can use it. Only problem is the color.”
“What’s an X5M?” Reno asked.
“BMW SUV,” Ghost said. “It’s got a twin turbo V-8 with seven hundred horsepower. Zero to sixty in about two and a half seconds, and a top speed of a hundred and seventy. It’ll haul five of us and two thousand pounds, no problem. We’ll just need to take one bike. I say we put whatever cash we haul out of there on the bike, and the gold in the SUV. We can race back to the clubhouse.”
Ghost typically planned the escape routes, serviced our bikes, and made sure we were in good hands when it came to transportation to and from a job. His idea to use an SUV and one bike didn’t seem like a bad one.
“I like that idea,” I said. “Do you think you can get this SUV?”
“It was for sale a week ago. If they’ve still got it, I’ll get it bought. I was considering it anyway. Now, I’ve got a reason.”
“Tell me it’s not arrest me red,” I said with a laugh.
He gave an apologetic shrug.
I had a thing about using red vehicles as getaway cars, and Ghost knew it. Black, white and silver blended in better than anything. Red did the exact opposite.
He hadn’t answered me. I cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s red as fuck, Bake,” he said.
I shook my head. “Forget it.”
“Wrap it in silver vinyl,” Tito said. “Then, peel the shit off after we’re done.”
“Problem solved,” Ghost said.
Wrapping a vehicle with a vinyl film that was in complete contrast to the original color was a popular thing to do, especially in Southern California. It wasn’t uncommon to see a once silver Lamborghini that had been wrapped in neon yellow, tangerine orange, or lime green.
“Get it wrapped in something other than red. Preferably flat black. It’ll be almost invisible in the dark. If you do that, I’m okay with one bike and the SUV. We need to have Andy create a diversion on the other side of town anyway. He’ll ride the bike.”
Ghost’s eyes went thin. “Who the fuck’s Andy?”
I’d fucked up, and I knew it. Regardless, I tried to cover up the mistake. “What?”
“You said Andy,” he said. “Who the fuck’s Andy?”
I shook my head. “I said Reno.”
“You said Andy,” Reno said.
“Sure did,” Goose chimed.
I shot each of them a glare. “I said Reno.”
“Said Andy,” Cash said dryly.
“Look around the fucking room.” I spread my arms wide. “You see anyone named Andy?”
No one said a word.
“Well?” I asked.
Ten eyes stared back at me.
“That’s what I thought,” I said in a stern tone. “Reno will ride the Panigale. We’ll take the BMW, as long as the fucker’s not red. We’ll need a diversion on the far side of town, just to make sure the cop doesn’t show up. Reno, you’ll need to go up there with me and look the place over.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Got it, Bake.”
“A little more planning, and this is going to come together,” I said. “Thanks to Brother Cash, this could be our best haul to date.”
“To Brother Cash,” Ghost said.
Each of the men raised their beer bottles in toast. “To Brother Cash!”
Our club didn’t have dissention in the ranks. There were no cliques, nor was there much variance in opinion. We did bicker and fight at times, but not over anything that really mattered. We were as close as six brothers could be.
I watched as they each took a celebratory drink. The thought of lying to them about Andy churned in the pit of my stomach like a bad plate of Thai food.
It was time for me to make a change.
I simply needed to decide how to do it.
TEN - Andy
The door swung open. Even though I heard Mort coming up the stairs, I acted like I had no idea he’d opened the door.
After pecking at the keyboard for a few seconds, I looked up. “Oh, crap. You scared me. I’m so used to that door being kicked open that I didn’t even hear you come in.”
He pushed against the
door, and then gave a slight nod as it went closed. “New door’s quieter’n a mouse pissin’ on a cotton ball.”
I smiled. “That’s pretty quiet.”
“What’d that set us back?”
“The door? I got a guy from Chula Vista to do it. He had a bunch of used doors advertised on Craigslist. I got the door for a hundred. Installation cost two.”
“Shit. The other fucker cost me nine. We’ll keep this quiet, or Kale might end up firing me for being spendy. He’s as Jewish as Challah bread.”
I laughed until I started coughing. When I caught my breath, I shook my head. “What?”
“Kale. He’s tight-fisted with his money. Makes sense, him being Jewish and all.”
I didn’t know he was Jewish. It didn’t matter, but I nodded, nonetheless. “I’ll keep it hush-hush.”
“Sorry I’m late. Been a bitch of a day.” He sat down and then let out an exaggerated sigh. “So. How goes it?”
“Pretty uneventful, really. The guy in 2-A heard some noises coming from 3-A, but I didn’t see anything when I looked the apartment over.”
“The skinny little fag?”
“Oh wow,” I gasped. “You don’t like him?”
“He’s polite as hell. Always pays his rent on time.” He said cheerily. “I like him just fine, why?”
It disappointed me greatly that he’d called Stephen a fag. As with anything that I took exception to, leaving it alone would be impossible. I consciously lowered my tone to keep from being too abrasive.
“Why did you…Well, why did you call him a fag?”
“He’s as queer as a football bat, that’s why. Hell, he doesn’t even try and hide it. See’s that kid that lives upstairs from him. Why, did you think he was cute or something? Gonna try and get him to switch teams?”
I glared at him just enough that he knew I meant business. “Calling someone a queer or a fag is like using the n-word to describe an African American. It’s derogatory, or whatever. It’s insulting. And, to be honest, it’s beyond rude.”
He scratched the sides of his head and gave me a confused stare. “Since when?”
“I don’t know. Since fifty years ago.”
“What am I supposed to call him?”
“You’re not supposed to call him anything. You should accept him as being just another person on this earth.”
“I ain’t one of them weirdos, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t think he’s going to try and grab my pickle or anything.”
Mort didn’t mean any harm, but he was far from harmless. I felt the need to educate him further on the subject. “I didn’t think you were. I’m just…I wanted to let you know that calling someone that might be grounds for a lawsuit.”
He looked at me like I’d taken the last slice of pizza without asking if he wanted it. “Calling him a fag’s against the law?”
“It’s discriminatory.”
“Well.” His gaze fell to his lap. After a moment, he looked up. “I’ll just start calling him by his name, then.”
I grinned. “Okay.”
“What’s that little homos name, anyway?” He asked flatly. “Do you know?”
I shot him an evil glare.
He slapped his hand against his knee and laughed. “I’m pulling your leg. I’ll call him Stephen, how’s that?”
I rolled my eyes. “Better.”
“Other’n that, how’s it going?”
“Good. A guy’s considering renting 3-A. He looked at it last week.”
“I was going to talk to you about that,” he said. “I completely forgot to mention it, but Kale offers that to the manager for cost. So, if you want it, you can get it for a song.”
It rented for five grand a month. I had no idea what cost was, but I knew I couldn’t afford it. “Just out of curiosity, how much is cost?”
“He divides the yearly taxes by the amount of units, divides that by twelve, and that’s the monthly cost. Taxes are seventy-two grand a year, so the manager gets it for five hundred a month.”
I could hardly contain myself. “Five hundred dollars?”
He nodded. “American money.”
I rested my arms on the edge of the desk and looked him in the eyes. “Five hundred dollars?”
“Due on the third of every month.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Damn, that was quick.” He chuckled. “What about that fella that was looking at it?”
“He was just looking for a place to stay for a while he does some remodeling. I’ve been living with my cousin and her evil twins. He lives next door. I need it worse than he does.”
He leaned against the back of his chair and scrunched his nose. “You talking about the biker that drives the Porsche?”
“Drives a Porsche? I uhhm. I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my palm. “This guy has an eyeball tattooed on his hand.”
“That’s him. Don’t look like it, but he’s a pretty nice fella. Owns some car washes and a sandwich place over in El Cajon. Bunch of his buddies work for him. They drink beer all hours of the night, but they don’t bother nobody. He’s got a shit ton of motorcycles, though. Parks ‘em in the basement. They ride ‘em out of there six at a time. Look like they’re in a parade.”
“In a parade?”
“Sure do. They’re all evenly spaced and side by side when they ride. Same way, every time. Like they’re in a parade.”
“He drives a Porsche, too?”
“Yep. Silver one. Told me it’ll take off from a standstill so fast that it’ll make your eyeballs hurt. Offered to give me a ride, but it sits too low for me to get my fat ass in it. Gettin’ in wouldn’t be bad. Gettin’ out might be a trick, though.”
“You’re not fat,” I said.
He slid his flattened hands over his belly until they came to a stop where I assumed his belt was hidden. “Fatter’n I ought to be.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said with a smile and a nod. “I think you look just fine.”
“Nice of you to say, but I’m still not gettin’ in that thing. You should get that fella to take you for a ride in it, though. Sounds like a bunch of cats fighting when he fires it up, but it’s faster’n a rocket full of monkeys.”
I smiled at the thought of monkeys being launched in a rocket. “I didn’t know he had one of those.”
“Well, he had it when they arrested Todd. Seen him that evening in it. After the cops got done asking questions.”
“Asking him questions, or asking you questions?”
“Asking me. Don’t know that they asked him anything. Probably could have, though.”
I was intrigued. “Why do you say that?”
“He knew Todd. Seen him ‘em arguing a few times. Wondered if that weirdo owed him money or something, but figured it wasn’t my business.”
I wondered if they were friends, business associates, or if they’d simply met in passing. I couldn’t see Baker dealing in drugs, but the possibility crossed my mind.
“You don’t think Baker deals drugs, do you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is Baker?”
“He’s the guy with the tattoo on his hand.”
“Oh.” He shook his head slowly. “Hard saying, I suppose. Wouldn’t be my guess, he doesn’t seem like the type.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
The door swung open. I was surprised to see Baker standing there, and couldn’t help but wonder if he heard us talking about him.
Mort glanced over his shoulder and then stood. “Speak of the devil. Were your ears burnin’?”
“They weren’t.” Baker extended his arm. “Should they have been?”
Mort shook his hand. “We were talking about that noisy piece of German shit you drive.”
“The Porsche?” Baker asked, pronouncing the word Por-shuh, which was different than when Mort had said it.
Mort gave him a look. “Is that how you say it?”
“It’s the correct pronunciation. It’s a two
-syllable word.”
“They should spell it different, then,” Mort said.
“They probably should.”
Baker was wearing jeans, black Converse low-tops, and a fitted black tee shirt that left little to the imagination. No differently than any other time when he was in my presence, I got lost in admiring him. Worried that I’d do something that gave away our little secret, I shifted my eyes away from them and began to fidget with a pen.
“You need anything, Andy?” Mort asked.
I looked up. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m gonna leave you two to it, then.” He slapped Baker on the shoulder. “She’s got some bad news for you, Bud.”
Baker looked at me. “What’s that?”
“Let me get out of here, first,” Mort said with a laugh. “I’ve got to try and get to Chula Vista before dark, and if you two start scrappin’, I’ll want to stay and watch.”
“Thanks, Mort,” I stood and then walked around my desk. “See you next week.”
“See ya, Kid,” he said over his shoulder.
As the sound of him going down the stairway diminished to nothing, I looked at Baker. He broke my gaze and looked away.
He went to the window and stared out at the street for a moment. After an awkward period of silence, he turned around. Worry washed over his face. I wanted to tell him the news, but his eyes told me it wasn’t a good time.
I decided to sit down and wait for the right time to tell him. I faced my desk. Before I took my first step I felt his hand on my shoulder. Hoping he was willing to talk about whatever seemed to be bothering him, I pivoted on the balls of my feet and spun around.
The look in his eyes had changed.
Drastically.
ELEVEN - Baker
Since my introduction to this earth, I’d been tracked by US Marshals, stabbed twice, hit by a speeding truck while running from an ATF agent, chased by local police, shot at, and involved in more fights than I could ever accurately count. I’d been accused of much, convicted of nothing, and suspected of committing dozens upon dozens of various crimes since childhood.
BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1) Page 7