Shares

by A. W. Gray

  Basil looked down and tugged at the front of his shirt.

  Money reached in his inside breast pocket and brought out a tiny envelope. “This is the key Darla mailed me. It’s to a lockbox at the Delta Terminal, DFW Airport. Now, when we land—”

  “How we find these lockboxes?” Basil said.

  “Listen. Just listen. Don’t say anything else, okay?”

  Basil closed his mouth and picked his nose with his thumb.

  “As for the lockbox,” Money said, “just go to the information desk. They’ll tell you. Inside the lockbox are car keys and a Texas driver’s license with your picture on it. Name of Daniel Hay. Also an American Express card under that name, but for God’s sake don’t try to charge anything on it. The credit card’s for ID purposes only. You with me so far?”

  Basil stared.

  “Basil?” Money said.

  “You told me not to say anything.”

  Money rolled his eyes. “You can answer in response to a direct question. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the lockbox and I got the keys and the license. Also the credit card, which I ain’t leaving home without. I wish you’d quit acting like I’m stupid.”

  Money sighed. “You’re brilliant. It’s just that a lot of you geniuses get preoccupied. Also in the lockbox, Darla’s left an envelope. In it are a map, showing you how to get to the place where we’ll be holding the…merchandise. Merchandise—remember that word. From now on that’s the code. Don’t call it the victim, the target, nothing like that. From now on it’s the merchandise, okay?”

  “Merchandise. Yeah, okay, the merchandise.”

  “Righto,” Money said. “Also in the envelope are two more keys, one square-headed, the other flat with triangular teeth. Oh, also there’s a note, telling you exactly where in the terminal she’s parked the car. Now, the keys—”

  “What about the parking fee?”

  Money frowned. “The what?”

  Basil propped a knee against the seat in front. “The parking fee. It paid, too?”

  “Christ, how could I overlook something so critical? I don’t know, Basil. I assume it isn’t. If it’s not, she’ll have left a ticket and you can pay when you exit the airport.”

  “Just want to make sure we got things planned out.”

  “They are,” Money said. “Trust me, they are. Now, the two keys. The square-headed one will let you in the lake cabin, the one on Darla’s map. The other key, that’s to the cage.”

  “This thing a cage, for real?” Basil said.

  “That’s my understanding. Came from a dog kennel. The physical description isn’t that important, as long as it’s secure and gives our…merchandise some room to move around. There are two bathrooms in the cabin, and the cage is set up in the larger of the two. It surrounds the toilet and provides access to the shower. There’s a cot in there. The merchandise shouldn’t have to leave the cage for any reason, as I see it.”

  “What about feeding it? Him. Her. What the fuck are we snatching, anyway?”

  “You’ll learn soon enough. For now, you simply don’t know. No reason for you to get sympathetically involved at all. You’ll know the identity when and if it’s necessary.”

  “ ‘Cause I’m so fucking stupid, I guess.”

  “Intelligence has nothing to do with it. As far as you’re concerned, the merchandise is a thing. An item. A means to an end, nothing more. Something I learned when I took control of Data-tech.”

  “This ain’t no company,” Basil said.

  “No, it isn’t. But it’s the same principle. I had to cut half the staff in that one, and the persons I laid off, every one of them, had a sob story. I distanced myself from all that. As far as I was concerned, those people were merely items. I had no feeling for them.” Money paused to let his point sink home, then said, “And as for your original question, there is a food slot in the front of the cage. You’ve got provisions for a week, which should be plenty. A stove, refrigerator, the works.”

  “I ain’t no fucking short-order cook.”

  “Your culinary skills won’t be an issue, either. Most of the stuff is frozen dinners. I gave Darla a shopping list. I think there’s some peanut butter and whatnot, but cooking won’t be a problem. I’ll be dropping in on you in a couple of days, to make sure everything is ready. We’ll make our transaction, hopefully, on Sunday night. Three days from now, assuming we’ve got our ducks in a row.”

  “How’m I supposed to get it? The merchandise. Jesus, am I supposed to call it that when I’m with it? ‘Hey, merchandise, you hungry?’ “ Basil grinned.

  “I’ll give you the transfer details when I drop by. For the next two days, concentrate on getting everything ready, making sure you have everything you need.”

  “And where you going to be while I’m doing this shit?” Basil said.

  Money looked out the window. The eastbound jet had outrun the cloud cover, flatlands below now, farmland dotted here and there with planted fields and country towns. “I’ll be making some arrangements,” Money said.

  “With who? Oh yeah, this fringe asshole. The guy we ain’t supposed to know.”

  Money blinked. “Possibly.”

  “I don’t like it, working with somebody I don’t know who the fuck.”

  “It’s the means to getting paid, Basil. We’ve been over this, and the only explanation I’m willing to give is, it’s necessary.” Money waved a hand. “Enough about that. Now, you’re clear on this traveling with the parole people.”

  “Slicker’n owlshit.” Basil touched his back pocket, leaning forward. “Got my authorization right here.”

  “And what did you tell them you were going to do?”

  “Got a thirty-day permit to look for a job. Told the guy I was thinking about relocating.”

  Money’s expression tightened. “Any conditions on your travel?”

  “I got the name of a parole officer in Dallas. I’m supposed to check with this guy once a week while I’m in town.”

  Money leaned back and closed his eyes, grinning. “Christ, I love it. Brilliant, as I see it.”

  Basil cocked his head. “Who’s brilliant?”

  “The whole thing, you reporting to a parole officer. Last thing they’d suspect, you’re involved in something like we’re doing and all the time you’re reporting.” Money laughed aloud.

  “I didn’t figure,” Basil said, “you’d give me credit for figuring out anything. I’m so fucking stupid.”

  Money studied the guy: bushy eyebrows on a wide, square face, the lower lip pooched out like a seven-year-old’s. Time to pump the bastard up, Money thought. The secret to success, getting the maximum out of poor, dumb slobs. Money grinned. “I’ll tell you something, Basil. In my estimation, aside from our fringe person, you’re the most important cog in our entire operation.”

  Basil sank lower in his seat, dubious. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

  “It isn’t bullshit. There’s one thing you’ve got going for you none of the rest of us have.”

  Basil leaned forward and scratched his calf.

  “What it is,” Money said, “is that—face it—somewhere down the line it’s possible we’re going to have to dispose of the merchandise.”

  Basil did a double take. “You mean we could have to off somebody.”

  “Exactly. Not the most pleasant of prospects, but necessary for success. So maybe Darla could deal with that, maybe not. Her lover boy probably could, but he couldn’t do it right. He’d have to give it some theatrical flair, but not you. You, my friend, I’ve got no doubt. If elimination becomes a factor, you’ll do it without thinking twice. No remorse, no hesitation. And leave no evidence. Am I right?”

  “Would I off somebody?”

  “Right.”

  Basil looked up front toward the other passengers, people
reading magazines, munching their dinners, businessmen rattling keyboards on laptop computers. Finally he said, “In a New York minute. Listen, okay I eat them dinners now? I’m so hungry I could eat the ass end out of a mule, if you understand what I’m telling you.”

  Joe Breen kept thinking, Two more years, seven more years. It was a big decision. Biggest he’d ever made. He glanced out the window, at one-way eastbound traffic far below on Commerce Street, at the stream of pedestrians crossing at the light in front of the Earle Cabell Federal Building, at the old red brick Dallas County Courthouse across the way. Lots of people out, must be noontime. Damn, Breen thought, am I missing my lunch hour? He checked his watch. Nope, still Five till twelve. He relaxed, rattled the print-out to straighten the page, and scanned the figures for perhaps the hundredth time since he’d reported for duty at 8 a.m.

  The more he thought about it, he had to opt for the seven years. Sure, retiring at fifty sounded good, but what was he going to do? FBI agents could always go the private security route, working for industrial firms, but there wasn’t much demand out there for retired parole officers. Way Breen had it figured, his high three-year-average salary at fifty-five would give him three hundred dollars a month more than if he checked it to ‘em at fifty. Even more if sometime in the next seven years he got the promotion to GS-13. He cleared his Texas Instruments pocket calculator, dug the salary chart out of his desk, and punched in the figures to determine his pension if he should make it to GS-13, eighth step. Damn, he thought, that’d be…His phone rang. Breen looked in irritation at the cradled receiver, then checked his watch once more. Two minutes till, as if it were a conspiracy, everybody waiting until lunchtime to fuck with a person. He waited through three more rings, hoping the other party would give it up, then snatched up the receiver and said, “Breen,” with an I-don’t-have-time-for-you edge to his tone.

  The voice on the line was a mellow tenor with a faint West Coast twang. “Joe?”

  Breen frowned. “Yeah?”

  “Joe Breen?”

  Breen’s teeth clicked together. Who the hell did the guy think it was? “Yeah?” he said again.

  “Hagood Lawrence here. We met in Chicago.”

  Breen bit the end of his thumb. Chicago was last October, the nationwide conference over the proper filling out of Form DJ-21, the new probationer’s report. He must have met a thousand guys in Chicago. “I’m thinking,” Breen said.

  “You know, from Los Angeles. We drank the yards of beer, down on the Loop.”

  Breen pictured the guy, tall and thin, with thick glasses magnifying owlish eyes. “Yeah, sure,” Breen said. “How’s everything out there since the earthquake?” His watch now showed one minute after. On my own time, Breen thought.

  “A bit shook up.”

  Breen forced a laugh, stifling a yawn.

  “Listen,” Lawrence said, then coughed and said, “Jesus, it’s your lunchtime in Texas, isn’t it?”

  “Getting close,” Breen said.

  “Well, I won’t tie you up. But I’ve got one coming your way I think you need to know about.”

  Breen reached in his middle drawer and brought out a hand mirror, studying graying, slicked-back hair, a thin face, a dark mole on his chin. He picked up tiny scissors and trimmed his eyebrows as he said, “Somebody moving here, or…?”

  “No, this guy’s on a thirty-day travel permit. Name’s Gershwin, Basil Albert. Supposed to be in Dallas looking for a job.”

  Great, Breen thought, as if I didn’t already have enough of these assholes. “Little unusual, isn’t it?” he said. “Having someone report on a temporary basis. Usually we just let the guys go where they’re going and call us when they get back.”

  Lawrence coughed. “I thought this boy needed watching”

  “The regulations are, if the parolee’s a problem he’s not supposed to be traveling to begin with.”

  “I know all that.” Lawrence’s tone was suddenly brusque, the longtime government guy resenting someone’s questioning his savvy to the regulations. Tough, Breen thought. If they screw up, old Joe Breen’s going to let them know about it. “The trouble is,” Lawrence said, “Mr. Gershwin’s been a model guy. Reports like clockwork, last six months I’ve let him mail in his form every month without coming in in person. Straight from the manual.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t have to report in his own district.” Breen said, “how come you’ve got him reporting in mine? We’ve got plenty to do here.”

  “He doesn’t have to report in this district,” Lawrence said, “because the regs dictate he doesn’t. You’ll have to meet this guy to see what I’m talking about. Dumb-looking bastard, looks like the missing link. He’s not real bright bookwise, but he’s played the system, you know?”

  “I can’t say I’m indebted to you,” Breen said. “Somebody like that’s all I need right now.”

  “On paper this is a model person. Started out in Marion, Illinois, toughest joint in America, but graduated all the way up to the minimum security at Pleasanton, California. Made parole in the minimum possible, ten years on a thirty-year hit. Six years on parole he’s never missed a meeting, not so much as a dirty urine sample. On paper he looks like Mr. Rehabilitation.”

  Breen held the receiver between his neck and shoulder, and angled the mirror to trim the hair from his nose. “If he’s that clean, why do you want him watched? I’ve got guys selling dope every week, I’ve got no time to—”

  “It’s the notes in his file. The things that aren’t in the official record.”

  Breen lowered the scissors.

  “Our Mr. Gershwin is forty-eight years old,” Lawrence said. “Nineteen seventy-eight, this guy and a couple of buddies did four banks in the Los Angeles area. At least that’s the ones they owned up to in the plea bargain. The FBI report says they’re the suspects in a half dozen more.

  “The last one,” Lawrence said, “was a Bank of America branch down in Oxnard, Orange County. Hit the place around two in the afternoon. The police were dumb lucky on that one, a patrolman happened to be inside cashing his paycheck at the time and managed to get out of the bank before the holdup men could get everybody down on the floor. Mr. Gershwin and his friends wound up pinned down themselves, held the employees and customers hostage for six hours. Finally surrendered, entered into a plea bargain with the U.S. Attorney, and took thirty years apiece. Part of the deal was that certain state charges were dropped, and some things about the holdup were expunged from the record at their sentencing. I’ll say this for Mr. Gershwin, he had a bangup lawyer. What I know about the deal comes from informal notes an FBI agent made while he was investigating the case.

  “According to these notes.” Lawrence said, “Mr. Gershwin pistol-whipped the bank manager, broke the guy’s jaw and a couple of ribs. Two women, one a bank employee and the other a customer, this guys supposed to have raped in there. One of them he made go down on him.”

  Breen drummed his fingers. “Jesus Christ, a guy like that’s got no business walking around on parole.”

  “Tell me about it. Problem was, neither of the women would sign a statement. Both of them married, you know how that goes. The FBI agent wrote all of it down and it’s part of Gershwin’s informal file, but there’s nothing in the official record. Far as his record’s concerned, he treated those hostages like royalty. And given his good prison conduct, the parole board had no choice under the guidelines but to turn him loose in the minimum time. Unofficially, there’s a helluva lot more in his prison record, too.”

  Breen took a yellow pad and a ballpoint from his desk. “You say his name is Gershwin?”

  “Basil Albert. You remember the riots at Marion in seventy-nine?”

  Breen tapped the ballpoint on his blotter pad. “Read about it. Killed some guards, didn’t they?”

  “Six guards, to be exact. Worst way imaginable, castrated a couple of them. Marion’s been soli
d lockdown ever since, only let those guys out once a day for an hour’s exercise. One of the dead Bureau of Prisons people was right outside Gershwin’s cell, shanked with a screwdriver. Our friend Gershwin’s laying up in his bunk asleep and swore he never saw anything, of course, and nobody could prove otherwise. In fact his lack of involvement, involvement anybody could prove, won him a transfer down to Leavenworth when Marion went into lockdown. That was the rule, any prisoner with no recorded involvement in the riots got a transfer. People working at Marion at the time swear that Gershwin was among the baddest actors in the joint, and that he’s the one that killed the guard. Nothing official, just like the rest of this stuff.”

  “Jesus, there’s more?” Breen said.

  “You bet,” Lawrence said. “At Leavenworth, Mr. Gershwin’s official rap sheet is once again spotless. A twenty-year-old kid turned in a complaint that Gershwin and two more guys pinned him down, held a screwdriver in his ear, and took turns buggering him. Once again, nothing in the record. Before they could complete the investigation, the boy turns up strangled in the shoe-factory bathroom, no witnesses, zero evidence. Just another lucky break for Mr. Gershwin. As far as official goes, he’s as pure as the driven. Our model prisoner now moves on to minimum security at Pleasanton, where he’s once again a pristine guy and receives his parole right on time. Five years on my caseload he’s never one second late in reporting, gives me all his address changes up to snuff, holds a job a high percentage of the time. You know the rules as well as I do. Under the circumstances if I deny his request for a thirty-day travel permit, I’m in violation.”

  Breen shuddered. “This guy’s not apt to attack me or anything, is he?”

  “You? Not a chance. He’ll come to see you right on schedule. Due to arrive in Dallas today, and I’ll lay you odds he’ll be on your doorstep no later than Friday afternoon. Dumb as he looks, you’ll even like the guy. Has some pretty funny jokes. As his parole officer you’ll get full cooperation, that’s the way Mr. Gershwin plays the system. But private citizens are a different story. One of them he’d kill for a nickel, if you want my true opinion of the guy.”