The Highest Stakes

by Rick Reed

  “Sit down, Moon Pie,” Shirl said.

  Moon Pie alternated between pacing the floor and peeking through the peephole in the hotel room’s door. A wooden crate and a cardboard tube sat in the bottom of the open closet.

  Ellert snorted, and said, “Will you stop? You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Shut up, Tin Man.” Moon Pie said.

  “Can’t you do something with this little shit?” Ellert yelled. “Tin Man” was a derogatory term that police officers used to describe the casino’s private security. Ellert had heard it all in the past. He had been immune to their disrespect. But now that he was no longer Chief of Security, now that Kenny f-ing Taylor had stolen both his job and his wife, he was more than sensitive to the slightest disrespect.

  “Both of you shut up. For Christ’s sake!” Shirl said. “Come over here and sit down,” he said to Moon Pie. “If someone is in the room below, they’ll hear you stomping around up here and arguing. They may get suspicious and call the police.” Shirl knew what he just said wasn’t true, but his paranoid partner might think so. People in this kind of hotel didn’t give a shit what anyone else did.

  Moon Pie sat on the arm of the couch, pouting, and Shirl wondered again why he had gotten involved in this. But he knew exactly how he had come here. Four years ago, on a sunny day a lot like this one, he had gone to his favorite watering hole, the 711 Tavern. It was a cops’ hangout, so he didn’t care that he was on duty and no one in the place cared either. He’d had a few. A few too many, but it was near the end of his shift. He was almost home free. But then his radio squawked out a run. “A man with a gun.” He was close. He did his duty. And his whole life had come apart.

  He didn’t know it was a kid. Didn’t know it was a cap gun. He’d heard a pop, saw a tiny flash, and he had responded.

  He hadn’t lost his job, or gone to jail like some people thought he should. But he had been demoted to patrolman, to uniform patrol, and partnered up with Moon Pie. The last four years he had gone through a lot. He’d lost his wife because of his drinking, and had become so depressed and broke that he had considered . . . He’d considered doing a lot of things he would never do. Suicide was the top of the list. And then he’d gone back to the 711 Tavern. He felt at home there. Surrounded by other losers like him.

  And that’s where he met Mr. Smith. At first he’d figured Smith for a cop, maybe from another town, hanging out where he felt comfortable, around other cops. He didn’t figure Smith was his real name, but then a lot of cops, especially ones from out of town, ones with problems like his own, didn’t want to give a real name.

  After a few drinks, Mr. Smith confided he was retired from the Central Intelligence Agency. A spook. A black ops guy. The conversations seemed innocuous enough at first. Just venting, like “So and so ought to get blown away,” or “We ought to have ‘scumbag tags’ instead of ‘deer tags.’” That kind of talk.

  Shirl found himself confiding in Smith about the accident that had cost him his rank and his public humiliation. Smith said cops would never get paid what they were worth. The public didn’t appreciate them. And that eventually led to talk about how a cop could make more money being a criminal. Maybe rob a bank. No one would ever catch them.

  Shirl wasn’t sure who brought it up, but the talk got around to how much money casinos made; how they were profiting from the addictions of good people, how they were cleaning out the life savings of those who could afford it least. That led to the discussion, a “what-if?” discussion, purely theoretical mind you, of how a robbery could go down. What it would take to actually pull it off. Smith had made comparisons to Robin Hood. Shirl liked the idea. The more they drank the more appealing it sounded. The idea moved from improbable to possible to doable.

  At first Shirl acted like he thought his new friend was joking. Like this was still just harmless banter. But he knew better. Each time they met, the subject of the gambling boat came up sooner and was more thoroughly examined. In less than a week, the casino was all they talked about.

  It would feel great to be rich. To get even with a system that hadn’t rewarded Shirl’s dedication and service properly. He had risked his life for what? So he could be the target of activists, scumbag attorneys, and even his own department. And yet the rich were still getting richer for doing absolutely nothing. Hell, he’d even stopped voting. The world had changed and left him behind, broken him.

  The idea had gelled, become a plan, taken on a life of its own. Smith said they would need another guy to make it work. Moon Pie was Smith’s idea. Shirl tried to talk him out of bringing Moon Pie in. He’d explained how the steroids had obliterated what few undamaged brain cells Moon Pie had. But Smith insisted they would need someone like Moon Pie for certain parts of the plan. Just what those parts were, Smith hadn’t shared with Shirl, but Shirl knew just the same. There were some dangerous things, some risks to be taken. Shirl knew what Smith was really saying was they would need a fall guy if it came to that. If Moon Pie were killed during the robbery it wouldn’t be any sweat off Shirl’s ass. He was so sick of the little prick he’d agreed to add Moon Pie to the team.

  Smith also recruited the casino’s ex–chief of security, James Ellert. Shirl knew a little about Ellert, and he’d heard other things. Ellert had gone from being the top dog to a position that paid just a little above “squat” to supervise a bunch of malcontents. Ellert’s wife was a knockout, so it was no surprise to Shirl that she had ditched him and was shacking up with his boss. Shirl got the feeling that Ellert was expendable for the same reason as Moon Pie.

  He was pulled from his thoughts when Mr. Smith came in the room with a finger to his lips. “Keep your voices low. I could hear you down the hall.”

  Moon Pie asked, “You want me to keep watch, Mr. Smith?”

  Smith ignored him and said, “Do you have it, Mr. Ellert?”

  Ellert opened the closet and took out a cardboard tube, popped the cap from one end, and spread several large diagrams across a small desk. The men gathered around.

  “These are the locations and name of the rooms on all levels of the casino,” Ellert said.

  “Did you bring the other items, Officer West?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “It’s all here,” Shirl said, and took the lid off the crate, exposing the sticks of Semtex and the pencil timers.

  “I’ve explained to Major Ellert his part of the plan. He will being the items on board that we need. He will show you officers where you will retrieve your items.”

  Smith directed his next comment to Moon Pie. “This will be the last time any of us meet, so listen to Major Ellert closely.”

  Ellert shuffled through the drawings and selected a diagram labeled BELOWDECKS. He pointed several places on the diagram. “This is the engine room. And here are the fore and aft ballast tanks.”

  He let the diagram roll up and spread out another. “You won’t have to worry about any of those unless something goes wrong.”

  Moon Pie asked, “What do you mean if something goes wrong? If we don’t need to know what those are, why are you telling us?”

  Shirl put a hand on Moon Pie’s shoulder and shushed him. “Go ahead, Major Ellert,” he said.

  Ellert took three sticks of Semtex from the crate and laid them on the diagram. “I’ve used this stuff before in the army. I’m going to blow up three of the ballast tanks and disable the boat.”

  Mr. Smith took over. “The explosions will happen simultaneously. All three at precisely eleven p.m.”

  Shirl squeezed Moon Pie’s shoulder to keep him from interrupting.

  “Five minutes before the explosions,” Mr. Smith said, and turned his attention to Moon Pie and Shirl, “you two will go to the restroom by the cashier’s cage on your assigned deck. You will retrieve a weapon and a mask from the paper towel dispenser. You will then pull the mask over your head, go to the cashier cage, and force them to open the door. You will get as many bags of money as you can carry and bring them to the top deck. That’s the extraction poi
nt, gentlemen.”

  “You said the paper towel dispenser, how do we . . . ?” Moon Pie said, and Ellert handed a small shiny key to Moon Pie and one to Shirl.

  “Those unlock the paper towel dispenser. Don’t lose the key or you’ll have to force it open, and, believe me, that’ll make a lot of noise,” Ellert said.

  “Are the masks are gonna be presidents’ faces? Like in that movie Point Break?”

  “Sure,” Ellert said.

  “Who am I gonna be?” Moon Pie asked.

  “Just listen,” Shirl said.

  Smith took a deep breath and continued. “Each of you will have just two minutes to collect the money, another minute to make your way to the top outside deck. I’ll meet you by the wheelhouse. If you’re not there you may be left behind.”

  “How are we gonna get off the boat?” Moon Pie asked.

  Mr. Smith ignored him and produced a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson handgun, silencer attached, from inside his jacket.

  “You will have one of these. They will be loaded. Shoot anyone who interferes with you. Chaos is your friend. Your only task is to get the money and take it to the upper deck. Remember, you have two minutes to get the money, one minute to get to the top deck. Bring the money to the wheelhouse.” He addressed Moon Pie, “Mr. Walker, I have a way to get off the boat, but you must be on the upper deck no later than eleven-o-three. Do you understand?”

  Moon Pie was still ogling the weapon in Smith’s hand. “Mr. Walker, repeat what I just told you.”

  Moon Pie slowly said, “Two minutes . . . to get the money. Be up there by eleven-o-three.”

  Shirl felt a chill. He knew Mr. Smith didn’t really intend to leave anyone behind. That is, anyone alive.

  Without another word, Smith left. Ellert sat on the sofa and pulled the table near him. “I’ll go through this again if you want.”

  “Won’t the ship’s captain make a distress call? What if some of the passengers or crew use their cell phones?”

  “Mr. Smith said he would bring a jammer on board. No calls in, no calls out. He will make sure the wheelhouse is secured so we won’t have to worry about the captain or first mate. The ship will be dead in the water in the middle of the Ohio. In answer to your next question, I don’t know exactly what Smith’s plan is to get us off the boat, but I’m inclined to trust him.”

  Shirl thought, then you’re a fool.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Jack called Liddell on his way to see Captain Franklin. Liddell had not received a call. They agreed to meet at HQ after Jack met the captain. If he still had a job.

  Jack took his time dressing and drove to police headquarters. Franklin sounded pissed off, so he wanted to give him some time to cool off. If he got lucky, someone else would screw up and get him off the hook.

  He arrived at headquarters. The hallways were empty except for one uniformed officer dragging a drunk toward the booking lobby. The drunk was singing at the top of his lungs and was actually pretty good, but he’d never make it to American Idol.

  He would pass by Central Records on his way to the captain’s office. Central Records was staffed by a gaggle of civilians, mostly women, and gossip was measured in half-lives. The rumor mill was headquartered in Central Records and their Supreme Commander was a fifty-something blond dynamo named Penny Pepper. She knew everything there was to know about everything and everyone. Penny was the ninja master, the Red Power Ranger, and the Xena, Warrior Princess, of rumors, and Jack was in luck. She was sitting at her desk behind a counter protected by bulletproof glass. The precautions were necessary for the public’s safety from the civil servants inside.

  “Hi, Penny,” Jack said, and he saw a Cheshire Cat–like smile spread across her face. “What’s Franklin want with me?”

  She said, “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Detective Murphy.”

  He noticed she had called him by his title and not just “Jack” like she usually did. His mother had done the same thing. When she was mad at him she would call him “Mister Murphy.” As in, “Mister Murphy, you take your hands off that boy’s throat this instant and get in this house.”

  Jack leaned against the counter and waited. Penny leaned against the other side of the counter and, in a conspiratorial voice, said, “The captain is in his office with two FBI men. They’ve been in there for an hour and forty-two minutes. They asked for some personnel files. One of them was yours.”

  She shuffled some papers on the counter, but he knew she was dying to tell him the rest. Being a nice guy, he asked, “What does the FBI want with me?”

  She dropped all pretense and decorum. “I overheard them talking about the murder last night. The one by the twin bridges. That’s out by your place, isn’t it? What did you do, Jack?”

  His hopes sank. She had said, “One of the files . . .” suggesting there were others. He hoped the Feds weren’t on to Moon Pie and Shirl. Killian’s case belonged to him, not these two Federal dickheads. He didn’t want them pulling Moon Pie and Shirl in and ruining any chance he had at finding Killian’s shooter. Khaled was dead; Moon Pie and Shirl were the only ones left.

  Penny feigned a look of concern and asked, “Seriously? Are you in some kind of trouble? You can tell me.”

  He could swear she was vibrating with excitement. She wasn’t interested in Jack’s problem, only the stories it would provide. She could see the Spew-litzer Prize or even the Busy-body Award for Gossip Excellence within her reach.

  “I’m not in trouble, Penny,” Jack said, and she deflated like a weather balloon. He decided to cheer her up and said, “I do know something, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you.”

  She mimicked a zipper going across her pencil line of a mouth.

  “Okay. Don’t tell anyone, Penny, but I heard that Detective Jansen is . . .” he whispered the next words, “coming out.”

  “Oh . . . my . . . God!” she mouthed, a hand covering her smile.

  “Shhh. That’s what this is about. Jansen hit on me and some other detectives. You didn’t hear it from me. Right?

  She hugged herself with glee, saying, “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

  Jack watched Penny disappear into the inner recesses of Rumor Central and he went to meet Captain Franklin and the FBI. He felt a little better.

  Jack was buzzed into the inner sanctum by the captain and then followed him into his office. The captain shut the door. They weren’t alone. The two Feds sat in chairs they had pulled back against the wall on either side of the door. The older guy hadn’t changed clothes. Either that, or he owned a closet full of Walmart suits. The younger agent sat to Jack’s right and he, also, was dressed in the Armani suit he had worn yesterday, which was probably a mortal sin in the fashion world.

  Franklin sat behind his desk. His usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie were accentuated by a pissed-off expression. An empty chair had been placed in front of the captain’s desk where the captain would be to his front and the two Feds behind him on either side.

  Jack’s mind raced. The worst scenario he could imagine was What if they thought he had killed Khaled? He must have left some evidence of his visits to Khaled’s house. But it had all burned to the ground. And he hadn’t killed the man. Still, he might be wise to shut up and ask for an attorney. He’d worked within the system long enough to know not to trust it.

  “You wanted to see me, Captain,” Jack said, and sat down. Franklin introduced the federal officers again and Jack had the same feeling as before, that their names didn’t fit their faces. Franklin asked the one question Jack had hoped not to hear.

  “Why were you at Khaled’s house?”

  “Why was I where?” Jack asked, as if he had misunderstood the question. He turned his chair sideways to keep an eye on John Armani. If he was going to get out of this, he would need a diversion. A fistfight should do the trick, and this guy was the biggest prick and probably the easiest to piss off.

  “Don’t make this any harder than it
has to be,” said Walmart, who was being the good cop.

  Armani glanced over at his partner and leaned toward Jack and said, “If you don’t answer our questions, Murphy, we’ll charge you with interfering in a federal investigation and slap your ass in prison so fast you won’t have a chance to pick out drapes.” In a more professional tone he said, “Do you know what they do to ex-cops in prison?”

  On television, this is the part where the suspect—that was Jack—would break out in a nervous sweat. But this wasn’t television. He stared Armani straight in the eyes without answering or blinking. That’s a Jack Murphy interviewing tool. In body language it means, “Bite me; shoot your best stick.”

  Walmart—the good cop—continued as if Armani hadn’t interrupted. “Jack, we went to the parole office. We got the files. We talked to the sheriff—what’s his name—Elkins. We know everything.”

  If they know everything, why are they talking to me? Getting an attorney was looking better and better.

  Franklin leaned back waiting for an answer. Armani gripped the arms of his chair, feet flat on the floor, like he was going to leap up and make the biggest mistake of his short life. Walmart seemed amused. Jack knew they were fishing, or they would have placed him under arrest. He wished Armani would come at him so he could make a necklace out of his teeth.

  Jack hung his head as if he was giving up, then stood and walked to the door.

  “Sit down!” Franklin ordered.

  Jack locked the door and put his back against it, facing the men head-on. John Armani leapt to his feet and grabbed Jack’s wrist. His grip was strong; so was his cologne.

  “If you want to keep that hand,” Jack said, “take it off me.”

  Captain Franklin said, “You gentlemen are guests here. Unless you’re arresting my detective, I suggest you take your hands off of him and sit back down.”

  Walmart said, “That’s enough.”

  The younger agent gave Jack a menacing glare before releasing him and taking a seat. Jack upgraded his assessment of John Armani. The man was insane . . . and dangerous.