by TG Wolff
“Sounds like you just about covered everything.”
“It is a wonderful city though a little too noisy and messy for my taste. But my wife, who comes from a big city herself, Chicago—” he winked, “—that toddling town, found it quite enjoyable. I promised her I would bring her back some day. But today is not that day. Today I come alone to see you.”
As we pulled onto the highway Charlie Floyd turned to me and said, “Okay, Manny, now’s as good a time as any to tell me exactly why you’re here. Tell me more about this Francis Hoyt guy, why you’re looking for him and where I fit in?”
“Francis Hoyt is nothing less than a master thief, Charlie Floyd. He has been taking things that don’t belong to him since he was a child. Candy from candy stores, bicycles from neighborhood children, wallets from pocketbooks of unsuspecting ladies. If there was something of value, something he wanted, he did not purchase it like the rest of us, he stole it. Over the years, he worked his way up from candy and bicycles to jewelry and now to antique silver. After years of practicing his trade he became so proficient that he was stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry a night. His modus operandi was one of genius. He would break into the homes of the wealthy at the perfect time. Dinnertime. When the wealthy homeowners were home, downstairs, enjoying their meal.”
“Sounds a little crazy to me. Why the hell didn’t he wait till after they went to sleep or better yet, when the house was empty? Less chance of being caught in the act, no?”
“When it comes to stealing, he is smarter than we are, Charlie Floyd. If the house was empty then perhaps all the jewelry would not be there, especially the most desired pieces. Instead, they would most likely be worn by the owners on their night out, or packed away in suitcases with them if they were on vacation. But if they were home, ah, then he knew exactly where the jewelry would be. Upstairs, in the bedroom, of course. In the early evening the family would be downstairs having dinner, watching television, playing board games, whatever families do at that time of night. The upstairs would be empty. And at dinnertime, it was far less likely that the alarm system would be activated.”
“I see what you mean, Manny. This guy is obviously a thinking man’s thief.”
“Precisely, Charlie Floyd. And that is what makes him so successful, so dangerous, and so difficult to apprehend.”
“How does he gain entry?”
“In addition to being brilliant in the art of crime, Francis Hoyt is an extremely athletic man. He climbs like a monkey, runs like a jaguar, and he is strong like a lion. To get into the houses he would climb a drainpipe, a column or a trellis. And if there were no drainpipe or trellis he would use his skills as a free climber, using mountain climbing apparatus. He is not a big man. He is only five feet four inches tall, and he weighs no more than one hundred and thirty pounds and most of that weight is comprised of muscle.
“Once inside the house, on the second floor, he knows exactly where to go and exactly what to take. He does not bother with jewelry that is fake or of dubious value. He only takes what he knows he can sell. And since most thieves are fortunate if they get ten or twenty cents on the dollar, he is very discerning as to the quality of the jewelry he steals.”
“I’m impressed,” said Charlie Floyd, and I could tell that he was. But there was so much more to tell him.
“He leaves absolutely no forensic evidence, Charlie Floyd. Not a fingerprint, not a hair, not a thread. He appears dressed like a ninja, all in black, with a black mask covering his entire face, except for slits for his eyes and holes just largest enough for him to breathe where his nose and mouth would be. He never comes armed. All he carries is a diamond tester to check the jewels, a long screwdriver to pop out windowpanes, and a small pen-size flashlight. He slips through second-story windows, almost always in the master bedroom and after he is done, he sometimes run for miles to get to where he parked his getaway car. Sometimes, he has been known to even take public transportation.”
“If he’s never been caught in the act, how do you know how he dresses, what he brings with him, how he gets away?”
“No plan is perfect, Charlie Floyd. On occasion, he has encountered his victims and they have given what description they could. And when he has encountered his victims he has always been the gentleman. When a woman once complained that he had tied her hands too tight with her husband’s neckties, he loosened them. When another woman began to suffer an asthma attack, he gallantly handed over her inhalator.”
“A gentleman bandit, huh?”
“Make no mistake, Francis Hoyt is no gentleman. Under the right circumstances, he is capable of violence. He has been brought in for questioning on suspicion several times. He has even spent a night or two in jail. But there has never been enough evidence to hold him for long. It is possible he never would have spent time in prison at all if he had not made one crucial mistake.”
“Which was?”
“He stopped working alone.”
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Here is a preview of the second Scotland Ross noir thriller Tushhog by Jeffery Hess.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, May 12, 1981
As Dougie Gibbons exited the Fox Den, he passed two guys in blue jeans and muscle T-shirts, standing in the parking lot smoking menthol cigarettes, their hair greasy and unkempt. Cubans, most likely. It didn’t matter. The odds were never good for a black man alone in a parking lot. Technically, Dougie was only half-black, but that was all it took most places. He kept walking without altering his pace until the taller of the two Cubans stepped up to him.
“Dougie Gibbons?”
Every muscle in Dougie clenched and he halted. His tortoise defense. It also gave him the best odds as his lack of height was a disadvantage in fights. His abundance of weight made running a bad idea. He carried a .38 in the waistband of his pants. It wasn’t time for that yet.
Dougie chewed his lip around a crooked tooth that arrowed toward his upper lip—like a bulldog with an underbite. He wiped his dry nose with the back of his thumb as a way to appear tough. “Weird place to serve a summons,” he said resuming his pace.
“You Dougie, yes?”
Dougie stopped again and turned to them. Saw a BMX bicycle chained to the light pole on the corner. Reminded him of his son. He wondered what kind of bike the kid would want for his birthday.
“Dougie Gibbon,” the taller guy said.
“Maybe, man. Maybe not.” The mispronunciation tore Dougie’s attention from the bike. “Why? Who wants to know anyway?”
The other guy said something fast and Dougie assumed the guy meant, “It’s him.”
Dougie had learned a thing or two in his life but when to keep his mouth shut wasn’t one of them. You’d think someone who had to work harder than most to offset his physical shortcomings would’ve kept a lid on it to minimize the beatings. Nope. Life was cruel for a mulatto boy in high school, especially one standing only five feet four inches tall.
The two guys crowding him now reminded him of the intimidation between those school yard lockers. The same elevator feeling in his gut.
Dougie hiked up his pants. Pulled his waistband tight enough to feel the reassuring pressure of the .38 against his lower back. “Look, fuckhead,” he said, “you and your greasy boyfriend can go whack each other off for all I care. Just don’t expect me to cheer you on.”
Neither guy so much as flinched. That unnerved Dougie enough to get him sucking at his lip around that tooth.
“Answer our question, we no bother you,” the taller of the two said.
Dougie had never intimidated anyone. He was used to that. He’d lost his share of fights, many where he gave away upward of a hundred pounds or so. He never backed down. He wouldn’t now either.
He knew Jakki had a dark-haired boyfriend, but he’d never met the fucker and never saw his face. He figured this confrontation was a misunderstanding. On any other day, he�
��d smooth things over and maybe buy them a beer or two. Tonight was different.
“Look, boys, if one of you dates a girl in this strip club who happens to earn my affection twenty dollars at a time, then tough shit. That’s her job. I’m just being a good patron and contributing to the economic growth of southwest Florida. So, dig that!”
Dougie felt like compressed muscle and bone, a fire hydrant of hardened steel. His weight was high, but so was his pain threshold. Always had been. His had been a sink or swim childhood. Never living in one place too long caused him to face what he called “indignities.” Being the new kid only accounted for the easy part. His size and his mixed-race parents brought the rest. After the first time, he’d channeled his anger into sports. Being a natural athlete made it easy to make friends on the team. He’d lettered in four sports all four years of high school. When he got to college, he had to drop football, track, and wrestling to focus on baseball. He was a fleet-footed second baseman and decent at the plate, hesitant to bunt. The fact he was small only came up when an overhead liner was too high for his jump. He was used to the taunts and he knew not every athlete was popular. Then he’d gotten caught with a pound of marijuana he stole from an undercover officer and was summarily expelled before the end of his second year.
The two Cubans didn’t respond, which meant neither guy was Jakki’s boyfriend.
The parking lot held a couple dozen cars, and there was space for twice as many. There wasn’t much traffic passing by so things were quiet.
A thought struck Dougie then. The Cubans didn’t taunt him or make any jokes about being the world’s tallest midget, so that meant they were professionals. They’d called him by name, so they’d done their homework. Two guys such as those doing homework meant they worked for somebody.
The taller Cuban pointed. All Dougie noticed was a gold ring with a diamond the size of a pencil eraser centered in gold nugget inlay atop a thick shiny band. If a diamond that size was real and the gold was fourteen karats, he figured it cost a couple thousand bucks easy. He pointed and said, “You stole a boat.”
The accusation was a spear in Dougie’s sternum. As crisp and straight as a filet knife peeling flesh from bone. Of all Dougie’s skills, concealing his facial expressions was never one of them, and he was sure he failed to hide his surprise the Cubans knew about the boat he’d heisted last week.
Dougie shook off the sensation. “Think you got the wrong guy.”
They blocked Dougie’s path. “Give us the boat or give us the money you sold it for.”
Their commitment to this seemed solid. They knew about his extracurriculars, but he was sure it wasn’t their boat he’d stolen. These guys were hired guns. So be it. He was not backing down. He just wanted to get his ass home. “Seriously. You got the wrong guy, fellas.”
The taller Cuban swung a punch. Dougie ducked just in time. His downward momentum drove his face into the other guy’s rising knee. The impact on the side of his head wrenched his neck and slashed that jagged tooth into his lip.
Cartoon stars danced and twirled around Dougie’s field of vision. He staggered back, determined to stay on his feet, and reached for the revolver tucked in the waistband of his pants. Felt the familiar knurl of walnut handgrips and the smoothness of pearl inlay. Before he unscrambled his vision to take aim, the shorter of the two Cubans cracked Dougie in the face with a forearm and snatched the gun out of his hand. It happened too fast to believe.
The guy aimed the nickel-plated barrel at Dougie’s face.
The taller guy hollered in Spanish what Dougie understood as, “No shoot. Burnt face. Bring boat, money, or information.”
Dougie had always exaggerated his Spanish comprehension, but he was never more appreciative for his basic vocabulary than now. He couldn’t tell for sure if those words would stop the guy from shooting. He also didn’t know if they implied they’d burn his face or what they meant. He could work with the boat information. “Okay. Okay.”
The taller guy yelled again, too quickly for Dougie to comprehend.
The gun lowered and the guy tucked it into his own waistband without taking the time to cover the handle with his shirttail.
They grabbed Dougie by the arms and dragged him to a van parked on the street. It was a cargo van with no rear seats or windows, which was lit by a spotlight plugged into the cigarette lighter. They shoved him in.
No one started the van. Instead they all gathered in the back, out of sight. The corrugated floor was harsh on Dougie’s knees. It was the most uncomfortable place Dougie had been. It took everything in him not to let his imagination get away from him. He leaned on his hands to reposition himself.
Something flew through the air a split-second before Dougie felt pain in his left hand. He pulled his hand to his chest and rolled onto his side. “Motherfucker,” he yelled.
The shorter of the two Cubans held a bowling pin and rested the business end on his shoulder like a major league slugger holding a bat.
The back of Dougie’s hand burned with heat from the inside and his fingers barely moved. Pain shot through his wrist when he squeezed. “Who the fuck are you guys?”
“Boat or money,” the taller Cuban said. “Then pain stops. Not before.”
Dougie cradled his broken hand to his chest. “There was no money. And I don’t have the boat.”
The shorter guy raised the bowling pin again. “Boat or money.”
Dougie held out his good hand as if to slow things down. He’d never snitched on anyone. Would never snitch. “I’m the one who stole it, so it’s not snitching. I’m just telling you where it is now. There’s nothing wrong with that, now is there?” He nodded, happy to have sorted it out in his mind so he could sleep at night with a clean conscience if he survived this shit show. “There was this woman,” he said, “a hot number with tits and hair like Loni Anderson. No tan lines or modesty.”
“Loni Anderson,” the taller Cuban said with a smile, nodding toward his friend.
“She threatened to stop sleeping with me unless I got her husband a boat. He’s got it. It’s on the north side. Waterway Marina. It’s been painted, but it’s there. Same name, too. The Golden Noble. Horrible name. It’s not even gold anymore. It’s red.”
“You go. Bring to me.”
“You want me to steal it again? Well tough. I can’t steal shit with one fucking hand.”
“Something else then.”
“How did you know about the boat, anyway?”
“Give us something else of value or your pain doubles.”
Pain in Dougie’s hand flared and he shifted his shoulders to put it farther away from the pit bull with the bowling pin. “What are you talking about?”
“We must take something.”
“Face it. You struck out. It happens. At least you don’t have a busted hand to show for it.”
The pit bull cracked the bowling pin into Dougie’s leg, causing the leg to contract, rolling Dougie onto his side. He recoiled as lightning surged behind his eyes after bracing himself with his broken hand. He rolled to his back, hugging his hand, which felt even more broken now. He grunted. “What the fuck do you want from me? I rent a one-bedroom duplex on the Intracoastal and ride an old ten-speed bike,” he lied. “All I’ve got is this twelve-dollar Timex. You’re welcome to it if you’ll let me out of this shitbox.”
“I speak as plain English as it gets. Something of value or your life.”
The earnestness in the guy’s face impressed Dougie. Whoever he worked for was lucky to have this kind of focus.
“Look.” Dougie held out the sides of his polyester shirt with silhouettes of clipper ships. It was a holdover from when he flew through discos and scooped up blondes in tube tops with coke habits. Being a little older and in a quieter town meant different venues for the same indulgences. “Shit,” he said. “I enjoy my money when I get it. I don’t save it or buy things that’ll be worth more someday I may not live to see. Hell, no. I spend it on women, booze, and blow, man.” The spee
ch winded Dougie. Or maybe it was the pain catching up to him. He wished he would’ve skipped seeing Jakki for one goddamn night.
The taller Cuban rested his fist under Dougie’s chin. Dougie felt the diamond on the guy’s ring digging into the skin on his jawbone. The guy leaned in and said, “Then it’s your life.”
The other guy, the pit bull, raised the bowling pin over Dougie’s head.
Dougie flinched, then straightened and made it up to his knees. “Hold up, fellas.” His broken hand hung limp as he tried to slow them down. “Hold up. There’s got to be a way to work this out.”
Cara Quemada drove her white Lincoln Continental into the center of a warehouse east of the airport and kicked open her car door with the heel of an ankle-high boot. She’d just come from a nightclub where the lighting was dim and she’d danced with strange men and stolen their wallets. She wore heavy hose to hide the veins in her thighs and because short skirts made her self-conscious. She had the physique of a woman five or ten years younger but was old enough to know how to disguise weaknesses, including the disfiguration on her face. She stood next to her car as her two best men approached.
“No boat or money, Cara Quemada, but we brought you a hard case,” Miguel Lopez said as he pointed to a tight-lipped mulatto with a broken hand and a face as swollen and purple as an eggplant. He didn’t stack up to much, not just because of his breeding, though his teeth were white and straight except for on the bottom. Cara understood all too well how he might’ve embraced this defect all these years. She couldn’t understand someone living with something so easily repaired. In her research, she’d seen worse teeth made perfect. Yet here he was, practically drooling. Still, she knew he had something to give.
This wasn’t how she’d wanted it to be. She’d started in this country with smuggled cigars and plans to go legit. She figured the high-end product had to get her near fatter wallets and a higher class of people to help her plan come true. A month into her venture, some creep from Camaguey got to her supplier, who refused to do business with Cara anymore. She tried other cigar suppliers but met the same fate. That had left her with few options.
