The Day Before Yesterday's Thief: A Prequel to the Eric Beckman Series

by Al Macy

  Fat Phil was imposing but slow. Also, he barely fit between the top of the rear seats and the ceiling of the car. But he made a supreme effort—he knew the value of that kid. He got his fat hand around Andrei’s skinny ankle. Then he got the other hand on the other ankle. He pulled him in.

  Things were going to hell. Would some driver call the police? Bolton checked out the cars behind them. Would they just think someone’s kid was unruly? No. He took the next exit. No one followed them. When they went over a bump, the rear door banged all the way open then bounced shut with a bang. They were private now, but Fat Phil, stuck halfway over the seat, had a tiger by the tail. Checking his rearview periodically, Bolton watched for an isolated spot. He found one that was good enough and pulled over.

  He ran around and opened the back. “Andrei, stop!”

  Andrei didn’t stop, instead bouncing around the cargo area like a freshly landed tuna and moaning like a whale. He’d cut his scalp on something, and the area was getting peppered with blood specks.

  Bolton leaned in and grabbed Andrei’s arm. Andrei bit him.

  “Fuck!” Bolton yelled. What had Viviana said? “Andrei, stop it this instant.”

  Andrei didn’t stop.

  “Andrei, stop or I’m going to hit you.”

  Andrei didn’t stop.

  Bolton tried to hit him but missed. He tried again and connected with Andrei’s cheek.

  Andrei didn’t stop.

  “God damn it!” He looked at the sweat-drenched Fat Phil and found a solution. He shut the back door and ran around to the side door. Opened it. He folded down the half of the seat back that wasn’t pinning Fat Phil to the ceiling. Phil understood. He shifted over so that he could make his way into the spacious cargo area.

  “Lie on top of him,” Bolton said.

  Fat Phil flubbed forward like a mating elephant seal until his bulk was squarely over Andrei. The struggles subsided. The kid either knew he was beaten, or he was just exhausted.

  “Okay. Now don’t smother him. Make sure he’s breathing.”

  “I don’t feel good, Vance.”

  “Yeah, no shit. I don’t feel too good either. This whole thing is going to hell. There’s no way that whirling dervish is going to open a safe. I’m going to make a phone call.”

  Bolton got back in the driver’s seat and peeled away from the pullout. He searched for a gas station, periodically reminding Fat Phil to let the kid breathe. He pulled into a Shell station with a phone booth that was a distance from the building. He dialed from memory. “C’mon. Answer!”

  “Thomas?” He took a breath. He didn’t want to sound panicked. “Thomas. You gotta kidnap Viviana like we talked about … yeah, whoever you need … I don’t give a fuck what Gregor said, we need her … no … yeah … yeah, take her to the gymnasium … okay, I’ll see you there.”

  * * *

  I drove as fast as I dared, heading back to San Francisco. I hadn’t put together my plan yet, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t involve being in Marin County. Stop and call Samuel? Go to the Chabot estate and wait? Call the FBI? Hold on. I looked in the rearview mirror. That car, I’d seen it twice before. One lane to the left and thirty meters back. If someone from the mob was following me …

  I needed to know. I put my foot on the brake, slowing dramatically. The Chevy Caprice didn’t slow fast enough and came up almost even with me. Dwayne Sibbett! The pathetic FBI agent from the sailboat.

  I made a snap decision. The FBI was trouble, but it would be the best—and fastest—way to rescue Andrei. I’d stop him, tell them about the upcoming Chabot heist, they’d set a trap and rescue Andrei. I’d have preferred Elon Bah, but Sibbett was here and now.

  I rolled down my window and waved. He slowed more. I slowed. C’mon. We’re on the same side. La naiba! He took an exit. I was already past it.

  Okay, plan B. Go home, get the silenced pistol from Bolton’s safe. Call the FBI. Call Samuel. Go to the Chabot residence in case the FBI couldn’t get their collective asses in gear. Not a good plan. I worked through several others as I passed over the Golden Gate.

  When I pulled into my parking spot in the condo’s garage, I hadn’t come up with any better plans. Maybe Samuel would have an idea. I hated thinking about what Andrei was going through.

  It happened so fast, even I didn’t have time to react. The last time they’d kidnapped me it had gotten messy for them, with one guy having his foot blown off with a shotgun. This time, they sent in the A team.

  Two men jumped out and grabbed my arms. A third got one arm around my neck and, with the other, pressed a soaked cloth against my nose and mouth. Ether? No, sweet smelling. So, cyclopropane. From one of Cezar’s camps, I’d learned … learned that …

  * * *

  When my wits returned I found myself handcuffed in an echoey room. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting my kidnappers to know I was awake. I listened. Water dripped nearby. The drips echoed. The room was large. Mold. The scent came and went in waves. Not overpowering. No person sounds. Wait. An animal. Small. Running. Probably a rat or a squirrel.

  I opened my eyes. I was alone in an abandoned gymnasium. Light filtered in from grimy windows squeezed against the ceiling. On the far wall, a basketball hoop on a dark brown backboard was flush against the wall. It looked like it could slide up and down. Or perhaps it levered out like a drawbridge. A decaying rope traveled from the backboard to a pulley on the ceiling.

  The ceiling had been white. Now it was mottled with brown stains. A variety of pipes extended here and there near the ceiling, some large and insulated, others small. The brick walls had been painted blue, but everywhere the paint had peeled like skin after a bad sunburn.

  Water covered the floor at one end, reflecting the wall like a still pond. The rat I’d heard, the only other occupant, moved along the wall in stops and starts. Then he disappeared.

  Double doors at both ends of the room had been locked shut with chains and padlocks. Cement stairs rose from one corner of the room, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t see where they went. Probably to a normal door.

  I was handcuffed with one cuff on my left wrist and the other fastened to an oversized eyebolt that had been screwed into the bricks less than a meter above the floor. I had my butt on the floor, sitting sideways to the wall with my cuffed hand near my shoulder. I got on my knees, facing the wall, and took the eyebolt in both fists. I tried to shift it back and forth. It moved less than a millimeter in each direction. I tried twisting it. Unscrewing it. No go. Garbage dotted the floor here and there but nothing that I could use to get leverage. And nothing within reach except some moldy cloth.

  I reached out with my foot and slid the cloth over to me. I wrapped it around the eyebolt and tried twisting again. It was useless.

  I stopped moving and listened. Was that a siren? No.

  I knew that wailing sound. Andrei.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bolton parked next to the gym and shut off the engine. “Is he okay, Phil?”

  Nothing.

  “Phil?”

  Four other mob soldiers stood around across the alley from the gym, smoking. They came over. Bolton got out, went around the back, and opened the Suburban’s rear doors. He froze. Fat Phil lay immobile on top of Andrei, covering him like a hen sitting on top of a clutch of eggs. From what could be seen of Andrei, he wasn’t moving either.

  “Shit, shit, shit! Help me get him out.”

  Two of the four goons helped Bolton drag Fat Phil from the car. He flopped down to the ground.

  “He’s dead,” one said.

  “What?”

  “Fat Phil bought the farm. Look.”

  The huge man lay on his back on the ground. His eyes were open, staring at the sky as if spellbound by a beautiful cloud.

  Bolton looked from Fat Phil to Andrei. Viviana’s nephew was facedown in the Suburban’s cargo space. Bolton flipped him over, put his ear next to this mouth. Nothing. He pinched Andrei’s nose, tilted the kid’s head back, took a
breath, and fitted his mouth over that of the teenager.

  Andrei coughed. Bolton jumped back. Andrei opened his eyes.

  “Okay. Good.” Bolton took a breath. “Marty, you take care of Fat Phil. Josh, Martino, and Gordie, you help me with the kid.”

  “Hey,” Marty said. “I can’t move Phil alone. You don’t need three guys—”

  “Okay. Gordie, you help Marty.”

  Josh looked in the back of the vehicle. “He’s just a little guy. Do you really need—?”

  “Shut up!” Bolton yelled. “All of you. I know what I’m doing. Grab him, now.”

  The goons shrugged in unison and pulled Andrei out. He was dazed but able to stand. They walked him over to the gymnasium entrance.

  Walking backward in front of the group, Bolton watched Andrei’s face. Maybe after all the trauma, the kid would be controllable.

  Then the strange wailing began again, building in volume.

  * * *

  I turned my head, listening intently. Da, definitely Andrei. The sound of a metal door being unlocked and opened echoed across the room. I watched the cement stairs. Two men and Bolton guided my wailing nephew down to the gym floor.

  Think! Bolton doesn’t know that I know he’s with the mob. Can use that somehow? No.

  “Andrei!” I called.

  Bolton said something, and the men let Andrei go.

  A normal child would have run across the room to me. Andrei seemed more interested in the textures of the peeling paint on the bricks. But he made his way to me along the wall. Bolton came over to me, too. The goons hung back.

  Bolton squatted down a meter away from me. “Viviana, I know this will come as a shock to you, but—”

  “Uncuff me.”

  He hesitated.

  “What am I going to do? You and those two men have guns. The place is locked.”

  Bolton waved one of the goons over. He pulled a key from his pocket and undid my left cuff. He had alcohol on his breath.

  Okay, this one might be slow. He had a Smith and Wesson 59 in his shoulder holster.

  I could pull the pistol out, shoot Bolton and then the drinker, but that left the man across the room. He was overweight—a bigger target—and a little older but just too far away. Perhaps that indicated superior training, suggesting he’d be good with a gun. Too risky.

  The man stood and walked back, well behind Bolton. He drew his gun from the holster and held it down by his side as if he knew what I’d been thinking.

  Bolton looked me in the eye. “Viviana, what’s going to happen is—”

  “Andrei. Come over to me.”

  He made his way to me in a distracted way. I pulled him into a deep hug, the kind he tolerated when it came from me. He was still sweaty. But he was in the post-meltdown state that I called the calm after the storm.

  I maintained the hug and turned to Bolton. “What did you do to him?”

  He shook his head. “You and Andrei are going to come with us, and Andrei is going to open a safe. Then you’re done. You both will be free to leave.”

  Yeah, right. I said nothing.

  “I’m going to leave you here with Andrei. Your job is to keep him calm. We’ll pick you up later tonight and take you to the heist.” He turned to one of the men and called across the room, “Josh, do you have the food?”

  The man nodded. His neck was so thick that his head resembled a thumb.

  “Well, go get it.” Bolton pointed to the stairs.

  Good. I could handle two of them. One step to Bolton, take his gun, shoot the other goombah and then Bolton. I visualized it—almost as good as actual practice.

  Josh called back, “Better handcuff her first.”

  I laughed. “Think am Wonder Woman or something?”

  They went back and forth a bit, and although Bolton was clearly Josh’s boss, they went with his suggestion. Once I was cuffed to the eyebolt, Josh headed up the stairs.

  “It’s not going to work, Bolton. Andrei won’t open the safe for you.”

  “I think he will. You’ve told me how he can’t resist safes. And you’ll keep him calm, or I’ll put a bullet through your lovely head. You’re not surprised I’m a criminal?”

  “You’re not,” I said.

  “I’m not?”

  I had planned to say, No, you’re a dead man but reconsidered. Cezar had drilled it into me: Never reveal your plans. I kept my mouth shut.

  Josh returned with a bag containing two sandwiches in those triangular plastic packages that come from a vending machine and two cans of Coke. He placed them on the floor within reach.

  Before leaving, Bolton said, “I’m sorry about this, sweetheart.”

  I held my gaze down, looking at the Coke cans. You are sociopath. Are not sorry. But you will be.

  * * *

  La naiba! One of the guards—Josh—stayed behind, watching us from across the gymnasium. I couldn’t do anything until we were alone in the room.

  Andrei was doing surprisingly well, but it wouldn’t last. It was just the calm after the storm that was keeping him in control. We ate our egg salad sandwiches and Cokes.

  Time dragged on into the late evening. Light from sodium arc lights came into the gymnasium from the windows that hugged the ceiling. Josh was too smart or too well trained to fall for any of the tricks prisoners perform on TV. He ignored everything I said. The smell of his cigarettes filled the large room.

  Then, Josh turned and looked up the steps. He climbed them. Would he leave us alone?

  No. The doors opened, and voices filtered down. Angry voices. Bolton was arguing with someone. The tone told me the man was his superior.

  A parade came down the stairs: Bolton, Josh, and three other men.

  The new man was clearly the boss. Everything about him said no nonsense. His hair—black and white—was like cutoff strands of steel wool. His eyes seemed designed for staring people down, and he had a large mole on one side of his nose. I recognized his voice from the safe house.

  He watched Andrei and me in turn.

  Bolton said, “You have to trust me, Mr. Gregor, he can’t be controlled without her.”

  “He’s just a teenager.” Gregor pointed a finger gun at Andrei. “I know how to deal with teenagers.”

  “Bolton’s right,” I said. “I can get him to open the safe. It will be easy.”

  Gregor gave me a who-asked-you look and headed for the stairs. “Bring the kid. Leave the girl.”

  Bolton opened his mouth to object then closed it again. Several of the goons descended on Andrei, grabbing him with overwhelming force.

  “Wait,” I said.

  They looked at Gregor and stopped.

  “I will trade you. You know I have the Portensia diamond. Let Andrei go, and is yours.”

  Gregor had stopped with one foot on the lowest step of the stairs. I could almost hear the wheels grinding in his head despite Andrei’s building wail. He turned back to me. “Andrei will be much more valuable than one diamond.”

  “Bird in hand. You can have the diamond tonight. Much better than anything in the safe.”

  He stood, thinking. Probably figuring a way to get both the diamond and Andrei. Finally, he shook his head and waved to the men to bring Andrei along. He didn’t even bother to answer me.

  Andrei’s moaning crescendoed. As they brought him past me I had to yell for him to hear what I said.

  “Stop, ascultă!” I said. Stop, listen. Andrei understood Romanian of course, but whether he could do what I told him was unlikely.

  His struggles continued, but he stopped vocalizing. He didn’t look at me.

  I spoke the two sentences of Romanian that I’d planned for this situation. What I would have given for him to say, “I understand,” or for him to even nod his head. I repeated them.

  After they left, I was alone. The room was silent save for the dripping and occasional scratching noises from rats.

  Showtime.

  I mentioned that there are three ways to get out of handcuffs
. I didn’t have a key, and I didn’t have a shim to defeat the ratchet. I picked up the Coke can and worked the push tab free. With the help of my teeth, I bent the ring part back and forth until it broke in two. At that point, I had a semicircular piece of metal, not unlike part of a paper clip.

  I stuck one end of the metal into the handcuff keyway and bent it down, resulting in a ninety-degree bend at the tip. That was the hard part. Handcuff locks are simple—you can hardly call them locks. You just need to raise the spring-loaded pawl that engages the ridges on the ratchet.

  I inserted my improvised key into the keyway and levered the pawl away from the ratchet. I slid out the toothed tongue. Free at last!

  I left the handcuffs dangling from the eyebolt. I sprinted across the gym floor and up the cement steps. The door was locked. They’d installed a deadbolt that required a key from the inside and outside. With my lockpick set, I’d have had it open in minutes.

  I ran back down the steps and with the windows as my goal, started climbing. My foot on an electrical conduit, I jumped and snagged the support for the basketball backboard. I was afraid the rope would break, but it held. I climbed up, put my foot on the hoop and stretched for the pair of large insulated pipes that traversed the room two meters below the ceiling.

  I got both hands on the pipes and did a pullover, just like the ones they teach beginner gymnasts. That is, I powered my waist up to the bar and pulled, flipping my body until I was atop the pipes. The insulation didn’t spin, but one of the supports came loose from the ceiling. The other one held.

  I crawled along the pipes toward the windows. The cement stairs were below me. The pipes made a ninety-degree turn by the window, but I was close enough to reach it. I stretched out and tried the latch.

  No go. It was rusted solid. I’d have to break the windows. They had wire-mesh glass, but maybe I could get through. I looked down. I’d have to climb back down to the floor and find something to break the windows with.