Chapter 21
Whiteside pulled the Mercedes to the corner and made a U-turn. He kept the headlights off and coasted just under three miles per hour as he craned his neck back to watch the Cadillac’s direction of travel. The Caddy turned down Fifth Street, temporarily out of his line of sight. He turned on the headlights and accelerated in that direction.
By the time he reached Fifth Street, he could make out the distinctive old car’s tailfin lights. A car like this stood out and would be easy to follow from a distance, which made him happy. All of these unknown people that kept popping up around this damn dog unsettled him. He liked his plans detail specific with little margin for error. If it looked like they would be gone for any length of time, he knew that this would be his window of opportunity. His rudimentary plan would be sufficient enough to accomplish his goal and take possession of the St. Bernard.
As he drove a few blocks behind the Cadillac, he wondered why Gionelli chose such an elaborate plan. Who surgically implants information on a dog anyway? What happened to the simplicity of couriers, dead drops, and hand to hand switches? Still, he did admire the plan for the unusualness of it all. Gionelli went to a great deal of extra effort to make this work, and if it hadn’t been for some nimrod’s logistical error in shipping, it probably would have gone off without a hitch.
But instead he got a call from Chief Christos Gionelli in the middle of the night, rambling on that things had become altered. Gionelli actually used the word altered. All Whiteside could think about was altered states of mind. Somebody went crazy and went on a shooting spree? You’ve been up all night boozing with your cohorts and now you can’t remember where you parked your car? Yes, it did involve getting fucked up, but not in the inebriation sense of things. The plan had gotten totally botched, and he had to jump on it before the whole thing unraveled. He wasn’t much of a partier, but when this job was complete, a few strong drinks were sure to be in his future.
Whiteside eased the Mercedes around a hairpin turn and continued following the Cadillac. He thought about using the license plates to find out who this new set of people were, but decided the tag said it all. Nevada plates that read GMBLR. With the personal information he gleaned from O’Fallon’s files, he surmised these people were family and no real threat to his operation. Bad timing for a visit, but Murphy and his damn law had his hands all over this assignment.
Whiteside sat two timed traffic lights behind the Cadillac as the signals turned green. As he crested over the interstate and rolled down over another viaduct, Whiteside saw the neon sign for the Slippery Beaver. He smiled and drummed the steering wheel with both hands. Any time spent here would surely provide him ample opportunity to get the dog. Whiteside parked a few blocks away at a convenience store/gas station. He pulled alongside the air hose, which sat at least fifty feet away from the pumps. A rusted green dumpster missing its lid sat cockeyed between the C-store and the air hose. A mercury vapor lamp was the only source of light, and it was halfway across the parking lot. The Mercedes blocked what little light there was, casting the air hose into complete darkness. The Cadillac drove into the Slippery Beaver parking lot and came to a stop in between two parking spaces.
“Nice parking job,” Whiteside spoke under his breath as he watched Andy, Sylvia, and Vincent climb out of the Caddy and proceed inside the restaurant.
Surey Whiteside waited 15 minutes to see if they were making a quick pit stop or staying for a prolonged period. Whiteside calculated he did not need more than 10-15 minutes to get the dog and be on the road. He lowered his driver side window a few inches to feel the cool evening air and get a wafting scent of fresh pine. As he glanced at his watch, a Ford sedan pulled into one of the gas pumps. Whiteside adjusted his side mirror to keep a visual on his backside. He learned over the years that constant vigilance pays off in the long run.
“I gotta hit the latrine,” Swartz said in the parking lot. “Fill this hunk of junk up, and then we’ll go cruise the parking lot for the Caddy with the Nevada tags.”
Whiteside sank into his seat, trying to drop the top of his six foot seven inch frame into obscurity. He watched Schwartz walk from the fuel pumps to the convenience store until he disappeared through the front glass doors. Marty Schwartz wore a wrinkled pair of khakis and a pair of black rubber soled shoes, most likely patrol officer boots. The Hounds-tooth blazer barely made its way across his midsection, covering what was sure to be a short sleeve dress shirt adorned with meal stains and no tie. The jacket was probably the same one he wore twenty years ago and the only ties he’d ever known Schwartz to wear were clip-ons, and even that was a rare occasion.
The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and his heart thundered under his silk shirt. Whiteside scanned back to the car and watched a young black man insert the gas pump nozzle into the sedan and begin filling the tank. If Schwartz was old school, this guy was new breed. He was dressed to the nines, right down to a yellow tie with matching socks. His light brown leather dress shoes were a far cry from Schwartz’s tactically correct footwear, and his finely pressed dress slacks stood in stark contrast to Schwartz’s Dockers. His camel hair blazer hung smartly across his shoulders and perfectly molded around his midsection. He was definitely younger and in far better shape.
Whiteside’s eyes darted back and forth between the young black man at the pumps and the convenience store’s front door. Each second seemed to drag out like several minutes as he processed the few words he’d just heard. As his heart continued its tachycardic pace, Whiteside realized the car he followed from the house on Elmwood was likely the same car Schwartz and this newbie were looking for, too. Perspiration began to accumulate on the back of his neck as a cool breeze blew in from the open window and danced under his shirt collar. Whiteside shivered as his body went from hot to cold in a manner of seconds.
“Damn, is that thing still sucking down taxpayer’s dollars?” Schwartz bellowed as he strode out of the C-store, a cup of coffee in each hand.
“These are the slowest pumps I’ve ever seen,” Winston said. “I’ve got this thing about halfway filled. Nothing works fast outside of the city limits.”
“As opposed to the inner city where nobody works,” Schwartz snorted back at Winston. “Hell, if this was an inner city station, I’d have probably had to step over a dead clerk to get my shitty cup of coffee.”
“Your white ass would have never made it inside.”
Schwartz paused for a few seconds and looked down at the ground as he kicked lose gravel with his scuffed up black shoes.
“No, you’re probably right. Good thing we never relocate anybody there.”
“That would be a trip if we did. Just think of Johnny Mafioso, shacking up in brotherland,” Winston said laughing as he visualized the scene.
“You think that’s funny, try that out with some of those Irish crews out of Boston. Better yet, the Aryan Brotherhood!”
“Fuck that shit. The AB can stay the hell out my backyard. You always gotta cross a line, don’t you?”
“As they say in Nascar,” Schwartz responded, “if you’re not bumping cars, you’re not racing.”
The two bantered back and forth for several more minutes, some of it audible to Whiteside, most of it lost in the early night’s breeze and noise from the road. The fuel pump clicked off, and Winston placed the nozzle back in the pump. Both men jumped into the sedan, pulled out of the station, and made their way to the Slippery Beaver.
Whiteside’s hands were sweating profusely as he threw the Mercedes in gear and backed away from the air compressor. His relaxation breathing techniques calmed his heart rate, but not to its normal pace. As he pulled in the opposite direction of the Slippery Beaver, he looked back to see the sedan cruising the east end of the parking lot. The Caddy sat on the west end, but was easily visible once they rolled up on it. Whiteside pondered why they were interested in the car that was just at the house where the dog and his mi
crochip were located.
“Who cares,” he said to himself. “It’s time to see this thing through.”
As he drove back to the house, he did his best to convince himself of what he’d just said. The problem was that he cared, and all of this extraneous information sat preloaded in the front of his mind, and he couldn’t shake it. It was beginning to interfere with his decision making process as things became cloudy, more gray than black and white. And he was definitely a black and white guy.
The Bernie Factor Page 21