A Legitimate Businessman

by Dale Nelson

  Jack knew the answer to that question now. Right down to the penny.

  Compounding his feelings about his crew and adding to that mountain was the depth of Reginald’s betrayal. It sunk in as he drove and had the time to truly consider it. Reginald brought him up in the trade, discovered Jack when he was boosting cars and pulling bullshit B&Es. He’d taught Jack, made him a thief. In their heydays during the mid-nineties, man, they pulled some crazy, reckless, and dangerous jobs. They worked all over the United States and started expanding into Europe on Jack’s suggestion. Then, when things got a little too hot at home, when a few too many of their contemporaries were getting popped, Jack decided to take an extended vacation to Italy. Reginald stayed behind.

  Jack lived a couple years in Torino during the middle part of the decade, and it was something of a renaissance. In parallel, law enforcement, particularly the feds, were getting pretty good in the nineties. Jack suspected that since the FBI wasn’t chasing Soviet spies anymore and had basically broken the mob, they could focus their attention back on criminals. That, and the technology was starting to catch up with the criminals. But Europe was another story. They had some good years, until Reginald decided to break the pattern and pull a domestic. He tried to get Jack to go in on it with him. It was supposed to be a quick million, an exclusive boutique in Beverly Hills. Jack passed—too risky—and tried to talk Reginald out of it. The stubborn bastard did it anyway.

  And he got caught.

  And he’d gotten ten years in San Quentin.

  While Reginald was in the system, Jack provided, because he knew that when Reginald got out, he was done. If Reginald got popped again, he’d go up forever. So every job Jack took, he put some aside. By the time Reginald got out four years into his term, he had a kitty of just over a million dollars to start his life with. Jack also talked his mentor into semi-retirement. Stop taking jobs, stop taking risks. Jack convinced Reginald to use his connections both in the U.S. and the ones they’d made working in Europe and become a fixer. Reginald would set up jobs for several crews of thieves that he knew and trusted. Jack pointedly advised Reginald to spread the wealth around. While he did his best to keep crews isolated, crooks talked, and it was still known in certain circles that Reginald and Jack were working together. By not reserving the high profile jobs just for him, Jack reasoned, Reginald was less likely to incur the wrath of the thief who thought he should be getting bigger scores. That, and Jack wanted nothing to do with those kinds of jobs.

  Because of Jack, Reginald had a steady, reliable, and relatively safe source of income. Without that, the old thief would have gone and done something hasty, trying a large score to make up what he’d lost to the government, and he would have gotten nailed. He’d have gotten twenty-five years, which at LeGrande’s age, would’ve been a death sentence.

  Reginald’s betrayal was as inexplicable as it was unfathomable.

  Jack hit the outskirts of Rome around four in the afternoon with no more answers than when he started. From there, it took him another hour fighting Roman traffic to get to the house that Rusty set up for him. The place in Cannes was nice, a perfect Mediterranean retreat from which a gentleman could plan and execute a job in both comfort and style—as a gentleman should. But this one, this was a place where Jack could live. The home was a long, single story of yellow stone with large square windows, totally hidden from the street by a twenty-foot tall hedge that encircled the entire property and cypress trees that were three times that. The grounds, the only fitting description, were a sprawling expanse of cypress and palm into which sat a secluded a ramada latticework covered by grape vines.

  He took a lot grief for his expensive, seemingly pretentious lifestyle and his penchant toward the finer things, even when on a job. Sure, Jack enjoyed those things, but that wasn’t why he did it. That was something people like Reginald would never understand and people like Rusty always would.

  The police never looked for jewelry store thieves in Roman villas.

  Jack parked the GranTurismo, grabbed his bag and the motorcycle case, and walked to the front door. The key was in a lockbox attached to the handle. He input the code Rusty had given him and unlocked the door. The interior was white walls with light walnut shelves and accents, recessed lighting and marble floors. The home was classically decorated with Italian artwork and sculptures, some of which he suspected were originals. He found the master bedroom and set his things down. Then, he made a quick tour around the place. There was a window on nearly every exterior wall, which made for some spectacular natural light, but Jack was also a little paranoid. Otherwise, the home had everything—five bedrooms, a sauna and an exercise room, even air conditioning, a rarity for most European homes. Rusty had even left him some gifts. There was a bottle of 25-year-old Talisker, a 2001 Villa Cafaggio chianti on the kitchen counter, and a takeout container of penne arribiatta from one of Jack’s favorite Roman cafes. There was also a note, not in Rusty’s handwriting but a flowing feminine Italian script, reading “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Hendricks.”

  Jack leafed through the drawers until he found a foil cutter and split the protective covering around the scotch and the wine. Then, he hunted for a bottle opener, so he could let the chianti breathe for a few hours before dinner. Jack poured a scotch and walked into the study. He liked this room immediately. You entered it through the antique walnut bookcase that formed the entire inner wall. There was a low, square table in the center and a plush, cream-colored couch on the far wall beneath a wide window that ran the length of the room. Jack sat, put his feet on the coffee table, and clicked on the flat screen television set into the bookcase. He clicked through the local stations. He was unable to find CNN International on this cable system, but his Italian was a lot better than his French and Jack could follow the local news well enough.

  Deciding instead on accuracy, Jack scrolled through various news sites, mostly British, on his phone, his Frank Fischer phone—though GPS location was disabled on that as well—and learned that if there were any substantial leads in the Carlton job, the Cannes police weren’t sharing. In fact, other than a basic recounting of the events, there wasn’t much reporting that offered insight beyond the initial stories from the day before, and there was no mention whatsoever of a motorcycle.

  The reports did, however, state that the thief had apparently “jumped out of a hotel window” and that when he landed on the street, he spilled the contents of his briefcase, which he hastily scooped up. Jack sipped his scotch. The only thing to pull him out of his black mood was the knowledge that he’d executed a nearly perfect job. The only mistake he’d made was mistiming his jump from the patio—the media even got that wrong—and lost a few jewels. He could see why eyewitnesses would think he’d jumped out of a window. No one had seen him clearly, and it was probably the motion of his jumping from the balustrade to the street that drew attention.

  The declared value of the jewelry collection was much higher than the eighty-five million initially reported. It appeared now that Hassar insured the collection for nearly double its originally reported value, declaring the loss at one hundred forty-five million dollars.

  But then, Jack already knew that.

  Here’s to being a step ahead of the competition.

  Solemnly, sadly, he raised his wine glass, and thinking of Enzo, he said, “Sorry, old friend.”

  Jack exchanged texts with Megan to make sure everything was okay at home. He was guarded about his conversation with “the distributor,” saying only that the guy didn’t seem aboveboard to him. Megan agreed, saying he dressed like used car salesmen did in 80s movies.

  Not far off the mark.

  It didn’t seem like Reginald said anything to her. So far as he could tell, Jack was in the clear for the next twenty-four hours or so. He was meeting his buyer in the morning. He had between now and then to think of a plan to resolve the Reginald question.

  Jack ate dinner around seven, reheating his dinner on the stove with olive oil rather than the mic
rowave. He took his meal at the antique-looking table underneath the ramada and a perfect Roman summer sky. After dinner, Jack had another glass of wine and watched the sun set. As the evening sky faded into night, Jack grabbed his glass and the wine bottle and walked back inside. He needed to think, and to do that he’d need a clear head.

  Jack stepped into the house, accessing it from the patio door off the kitchen and set his wine glass and bottle on the counter to the immediate right of the door before turning around to slide the door shut behind him.

  As soon as he put a hand on the door handle, Jack heard a hammer click.

  He turned to the sound.

  Ozren Stolar stood in the center of the kitchen with a glass of Talisker in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  It would’ve been hard to see Ozren when he first entered the kitchen. The counter next to the door extended out about eight feet where it housed the stove, above which was a large hood that extended down from the ceiling. Ozren was in the center of the kitchen, standing at a diagonal from Jack. The Serb held up his glass of scotch but never took his eyes of Jack. “I helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Jack’s pistol was in the bedroom on the other side of the house. To get it, he’d need to execute a serpentine dash, weaving through the house designed like a child’s pencil maze. It could be done, Jack thought quickly. The dining room was to his left. From there, he could dash across the main living room, cutting behind Stolar. If he got to the hallway before Ozren could shoot him, Jack could duck into the study and from there to the hallway. Then, finally Jack would have to weave around to the master bedroom. The odds were better than even that Ozren tossed the house while Jack was outside drinking and stewing in his guilt, which meant that he’d already have both Jack’s gun and the jewels.

  Ozren picked up on Jack’s thoughts immediately.

  “Don’t,” he said, setting the glass of whiskey on the counter without taking his eyes off Jack. It’d served its purpose. “I’ve got two men outside covering the exits. You step one foot out that door…” the Serb let his voice trail off. There wasn’t the superior ring of satisfaction that Jack would’ve expected to hear.

  Jack considered his options, and they were none of them good. Jack was not a violent person and had never resorted to it throughout his long years in the trade. He carried a gun like most people carried life insurance. It was a bet against the world that he never expected to call in. Jack had only ever fired at a target range, and that was worlds different from trading shots with an ex-commando who had done it for real. Jack’s close-quarter possibilities weren’t any better. The best Jack could hope for was to rush Ozren, try to knock him off balance, and wrestle the gun away.

  And hope he didn’t get shot in the process.

  “Let’s not waste a lot of time, Jack,” Ozren said quickly. “Place your hands behind your head.”

  Jack complied.

  “Now, slowly, kneel down.”

  “Fuck you, Ozren. You killed Enzo.”

  The Serb only shrugged in response. He wore a nonchalant look on his face. Jack lowered his arms in a show of defiance. He didn’t care. The Serbian fuck could shoot him.

  “And Gaston and Gabrielle,” Jack continued.

  “On the floor, Jack. Now.”

  “How’d you find me?” Jack said instead of moving to the floor.

  “It wasn’t easy,” the Serb said, indulging him momentarily. “I followed you from Cannes but lost you on the highway. You just drove too fast, but I figured that you’d spend the night in Rome, so I wagered that I’d have time to catch up. Problem for you is that your pal Rusty and I know a lot of the same people in Rome. I was able to call in some favors and buy a few more. I’m more than happy to spend the money I’m about to make.”

  “No,” Jack said. “I mean in Cannes. How did you find me in Cannes?”

  “We were watching the hotel. Enzo’s plan was to go on Sunday, and I assumed he’d move up the timetable after I left, so we staked it out for two days waiting for them. Then, I saw you. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. You and Gaston are built about the same. I actually assumed he was the one riding the bike. We followed you on your little roundabout trip back to your villa, still thinking we were following Gaston and that they’d moved the safe house as a precaution. It was the Maserati that gave you away.” Ozren wagged a finger at him. “I rolled past just as you were walking into the garage. That’s then I saw that red Maserati. I knew it wasn’t them, and I knew there was only one person in the world who was that arrogant.” Ozren shook his head slowly, and Jack could see the Serb’s anger building. “And to think you argued with me over a fucking Fiat. I drove back to Enzo’s safe house and found them still there.” His voice took on an exasperated tone, as though he could hardly believe the story himself.

  “And then you killed them. Even though they had nothing to do with it. You knew they were innocent and you murdered them anyway.” Jack stared cold hate into the Serb’s eyes, but Ozren only shrugged.

  “They knew I was here. What else could I do?”

  “You’re a fucking coward, Ozren. And you’re scum.”

  “The words of a dead man echo in no one’s ears, Jack.”

  “What is that, some bullshit Serbian proverb?”

  “No,” he said, sounding perplexed. “Sounds like it, though, doesn’t it?” Then Stolar cracked a frozen smile. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said in a clipped tone as he raised the pistol into a modified Weaver stance. “Now, on your goddamned knees.”

  Silently, Jack lowered himself onto the floor.

  Fourteen

  Jack knelt with one knee on the hard tile. His left leg was still up so that he could propel himself forward if he saw the chance. There was about five feet between the two of them, so it would need to be a fast and powerful lunge if he was going to connect, hoping to drive his shoulder into Ozren’s sternum and knock him off balance before he got a shot off.

  But again, Ozren seemed to sense Jack’s intentions and shook his head, just slightly, side-to-side.

  “Don’t,” a third voice said from the shadows of the living room. “Lower the weapon.” The speaker was firm but calm, clearly trying to avoid provoking or startling Stolar. When the Serb didn’t immediately comply, the speaker informed him, “I’ve got a forty-caliber Glock aimed right between your eyes.” He pulled the hammer back so there wasn’t any question. “Bad luck for you, it’ll need to go through your brain to get there. So, why don’t you use that brain and do exactly as I tell you.”

  Rusty stepped into the kitchen from the living room. He was wearing a tan linen suit, an open-collared, lime green shirt, alligator shoes and a silenced .40 caliber Glock. There were a handful of people in the world who could pull that look off, pistol or no.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Ozren spat.

  “You were right about one thing, Ozren. You and I do know a lot of the same people in this town. Problem for you is they all think you’re an asshole. Oh, they’ll take your money and answer all your questions...but the next phone call goes to me.”

  “What does that say about your friends?”

  “I never said they were my friends, just people I pay.”

  “You must be Rusty.”

  “That’s right. Now, I know for a fact you’ve been arrested before, so you should be pretty familiar with this next part. I want you to get down on your knees, slowly, with your hands out to your sides.” Ozren did. “I want you to very carefully lower the weapon, de-cock it, and then set that weapon on the ground. Easy now,” he said like he was a firing range instructor. Ozren de-cocked the pistol and brought it to his side.

  Jack saw something flash in Rusty’s eyes.

  “Jack, down!” Rusty shouted, pivoting his stance about five degrees and fired three shots just as Jack cleared the space they traveled through. All three rounds went through the sliding glass door behind him in a tight group. Jack heard nothing but the sharp crack as they passed through the glass and the
n a hard thud of something falling behind him. Jack hit the floor, going as prone as he possibly could. Kissing tile, the stove and its ensconced peninsula of cabinetry blocked most of his view of the kitchen, but he could still see Ozren grabbing his pistol off the floor and then raising it as he turned around to face Rusty. Rusty, having pivoted toward the unknown assailant behind Jack, was at a terrible angle in relation to Ozren, and the Serb was already inside his reach. Ozren would have his pistol into Rusty’s gut before the other man had a chance to react.

  Jack watched Ozren move into position, as if from a stop-motion camera, and Rusty countered much too slowly. Just as the Serb was about to fire, another form appeared out of an open doorway next to Jack and shot Ozren twice in the side of his face.

  Ozren crumpled to the tile. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Enzo Bachetti stood over the lifeless form and spat on the Serb’s body.

  “This is for Gaston, you fuck. He was my friend.”

  Jack watched Ozren hit the kitchen floor, blood already pooling beneath the pulp that remained of his face. Then, he looked up at Enzo and said, “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”

  Jack stood.

  Enzo dropped his pistol, also with a large silencer attached, onto Ozren’s corpse, suddenly detesting the very existence of the thing, like it was poison in his hand.

  Behind him, Jack heard the sliding glass door push violently open, landing at the end of its track with a hard bang. A hunched-over figure emerged from the darkness, one hand holding a large pistol and bracing against the open doorway. The other hand clutched at his midsection. He was a large man and well-muscled. He looked familiar to Jack but no one he could immediately place, like a half-remembered detail from a dream. The man stumbled into the kitchen, growling curses in a guttural language. He brought his pistol over from the doorway.

  Jack was the closest and the only one in a position to act. In one sweeping pivot he reached for the whiskey bottle on the counter, and turning the motion into a lunge, he stepped toward the man with the gun. Jack connected, braining his attacker with the Talisker bottle, sending a dull wet crack through the otherwise silent kitchen.