by Alex Ames
“Movement in the house,” he said finally. One of Bernie’s gang was keeping an eye on Rip’s house from another angle of the housing complex where he could oversee the terrace and the living quarters. “Rip and his bunny just got up and are fixing breakfast now.” He looked over to my pitiful self and my drink. “Cal, you look like shit.”
“Tastes like I’m drinking it, too,” was my best night-without-sleep reply, hugging my mini-cup. But I knew what he saw: dark rings under my eyes, grayish skin, and my unwashed hair had turned worse by the hour. After I had made sure that Henry had left, I had alerted the gang and had driven up to Van Nuys again.
Bernie asked, “Could you please explain for us amateurs the next steps involved in getting him nailed?”
I looked at him patiently. “Before he had last night’s date, he robbed the house of some Hollywood executive in Redondo Beach.”
“Why did he bother to rob someone down there? Out of the way,” Mick interrupted.
“First, the exec fits into his scheme of Hollywood burglaries; the family’s home was just further south. Second, to discredit me with the local police. It happened on my turf, close to my home. Too close,” I explained. “And I assume that Rip even tipped off insurance agent and professional Calendar-hater Fowler Wynn. Fowler came waltzing in the very same moment that the sheriff was showing me around the location. After the burglary, Rip rode home again. He was spotted by you guys, and you followed him here.”
Bernie asked, “And you saw pictures of the loot, and it matches from what you—”
“What we retrieved from the pool,” Mick, always the business man, interrupted.
“But tonight’s finds are not the jewels you wished for. They are not the ones stolen from your shop.”
“Correct. I am in trouble because the police currently can blame the Swan Collins’ thefts on me. Two diamonds called Acura and Metro Imperial.” I gave up on my coffee and rubbed my eyes. “Tonight’s jewels can link Rip to the other Hollywood break-ins, but it is weak evidence for my case. I want the big diamonds found to clear my name without a trace of doubt.”
“Okay, your old uncle understands that. But where would we start looking next? He may already have fenced the diamonds.”
“That would be the worst case scenario. I don’t dare to think about it too much, to keep me motivated.”
“Rip is hiding them somewhere else, outside of his home, like any ordinary thief would. Any idea what to look for?” Mick stated.
“Either with a partner he trusts, which I doubt, or at a place that is reasonably safe and innocent enough. A safe deposit box at a bank, a mailbox, self-storage service, something like that.”
Bernie sighed. “Calendar, I’ve known you since you were born, and if there is one thing in this world that I don’t need, it is you bragging about techniques of hiding stolen things or breaking into other people’s homes.”
I looked at him playfully and challenged him. “Seems to run in the family, don’t you think?”
Mick laughed, the Mountain rumbled humor, and Bernie waved it off. “Oh, shut up.”
“So, all we will do is follow him around today and see where he stores it.”
“To do what?” Bernie asked again
“We retrieve it from his hidey-hole and stash it in the pool. And then tip off the police.”
Bernie shook his head again and sipped his coffee—the perfect aging uncle in the form of a hard core rocker. “You are an evil little bitch, Cal.”
“Rip is the evil asshole,” I muttered and drowned my caffeine dope ration.
Bernie looked up again. “Do I assume correctly that tonight’s find will not be retrieved by the police?”
“You assume correctly.” I nodded. “If you like, it can be our service fee to finance the operation.”
We argued about who of us was most likely to get the best deal for the Propers’ jewelry from his or her fence for the next five minutes. It was very annoying due to my sleep-deprived condition.
“Maybe we will be very lucky and even find some more stuff in his hidey-hole,” Bernie hoped, changing the topic at last. “For example, the stuff he got from your safe.”
“I don’t have high hopes for ever seeing my semi-finished collection again,” I said. “The generic jewels Rip stole from the Hollywood homes and my safe probably went to the fence very quickly. Easy to break up, easy to resell. The more specific jewels with a recognized provenance are stolen-to-order, and he has to arrange for a specific drop-off with the ordering party.”
Mick leaned forward. “Something I don’t understand: what about the jewels we got from the pool outlet! That makes no sense, if he has a good hiding place outside of his home. I mean, he incriminates himself if it is found there.”
Bernie shook his head. “I bet he timed it wrong. Rip had to do the break-in in the afternoon and then simply had no time to stash it away properly, so the pool was the next best thing.”
I nodded and put my head into my hands on the table and dozed off.
Rip and his girl left the house an hour later. Thank you, Rip, for not playing rabbits after breakfast, were my exact thoughts as we followed him at a safe distance.
Mick held a radio finder in his hand and tracked him on a street map of the area. I was hardly able to keep my eyes open on the backseat while we rode through anonymous, all-American neighborhoods that all looked the same everywhere and had similar names. Same shops, same cars, same signs, same malls. Mick gave economic commands to Bernie, who was driving, and we’d been driving for about twenty minutes when Rip steered toward a mini-mall near Burbank. We drove past, turned legally, rode back, and stopped at a supermarket parking lot on the other side of the street. Mick had his telescope out and checked Rip’s activities.
“He brought some shirts into the Chinese laundry over there.”
“A little far from home for laundry, don’t you think?” Bernie commented.
“Maybe the Chinese owner keeps it for him? Maybe even fences it?” I suggested.
Bernie cleared his throat. “Is there a university where you learn all that shit?” We exchanged glances, and I felt that Bernie was torn between our deal and the fact that I was family.
“Jewelry is my trade, and the West Coast jewelry fencing is in the hands of the Chinese.”
Bernie’s growl grew longer, and he shook his head in despair about my knowledge. He finally turned toward our target.
Mick continued watching the other side. “There he is. Minus the laundry bag. Walking back to the car. Past the car, he has something else on the agenda.” We could see Rip’s figure walking from afar, not making out details. He wore jeans and a leather jacket and carried nothing in his hands. “Walking on past the pizza shop.”
“Mick, get out and follow him into the next shop. Right now, quickly!” I shouted suddenly. My eyes had wandered past the next few shops and had stopped at a mailbox rental unit on the other side of the row.
Mick reacted immediately; he passed Bernie the scope, jumped out, and crossed the street in a hurry. On the other side, he timed it in a way that he would arrive a few seconds after Rip at the mailbox rental. Rip entered, the door closed behind him, and Mick reached the door and followed him inside.
“What was that all about?” Bernie asked and shook his head after he had found out that the scope couldn’t see into the mailbox rental shop.
“It is another one of my favorite methods to store things. You rent a mailbox under a fake name, get handed keys. When you have a hot item you want to get out of your hands temporarily, you simply wrap it up, make it look like a regular parcel, and either send it to your new mailbox or put it in there when you visit the shop,” I explained while we stared over to the shop.
“Clever,” Bernie stated simply. “The store clerk just notices a letter or a small package that hasn’t been picked up yet. And that could take weeks.”
I almost started biting my nails; sleep was pushed back to a different part of my mind. After two minutes, Rip
left the shop and got into his car. Bernie was on the phone already, calling the Mountain to keep an eye on Rip. After Rip had left the parking lot, Mick left the mailbox rental, came back over to us, and slipped into our car.
“Number 338. I could see him shifting something around within the box when he got out some letters. Maybe a parcel the size of a small cigar box.”
“We need that parcel,” I simply stated.
“Good luck. That store is video operated, and a clerk is in his office twenty-four hours a day, keeping an eye on the pigeon holes all the time. It is a professional operation with a good standard of security. You will have problems opening box number 338 with your tools without him noticing, trust me.”
“I know! That is why I use that system, too.”
We sat and stared over to the mailbox rental.
Bernie asked, “How long will he keep that package in there, do you think?”
I wagged my head. “Less than a week.” My head felt fuzzy. I wasn’t able to think straight without sleep. “I am too tired to hatch a spontaneous plan. Can’t you organize a bazooka and tear that place down?”
That drew no laughs.
Mick said, “At least I used my time in there productively. I rented a mailbox under a fake name. At least we have an excuse to get in there whenever we want.”
Bernie sighed. “We have to find a subtle and quiet method, somehow….”
After a few frustrating minutes without divine intervention or inspiration, Bernie and Mick drove me to a Courtyard Inn that was around the corner. We arranged that they would keep up the surveillance of Rip.
“If you watch him breaking into another home, we contact the police and let them bust him. Maybe he is so desperate or danger-hungry that he will try another home tonight.”
“Fat chance,” Bernie grunted. Mick waved cheerfully, and they left me at the hotel.
I entered my room, hung up the “Do not disturb sign,” took off my shoes and jeans, and fell into bed, dead to the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A Subtle and Quiet Method
I had forgotten to adjust the air conditioner. The chill woke me around five in the afternoon, and I shivered under the thin sheets. A hot shower and a coffee from the lobby managed to regulate my body temperature back to normal. And no signs of having caught a cold, yet.
While I flipped channels, I listened to my voice messages on the cellphone answering machine. Three from Mick, giving quick updates. Rip had spent the afternoon at home, taking a swim in his pool, doing a workout on the deck, working on his bronze, and reading a book. Two calls from Mundy, asking first about lunch and then, in the afternoon, about dinner. Another call from Mrs. Otis, the first batch of replacement diamonds for the summer collection had arrived, and would we get back to work soon? Margaret called, just leaving her name.
I informed Mick that I was back among the living.
I called Mundy back.
“Burbank? Made your break into the film business, yet?” he asked.
I explained the situation and asked him for any ideas.
“I thought your specialty was to break into companies and homes?” Mundy said dryly.
“But the mailbox rental thing is a system that I use personally, and when you pick the right mailbox provider, the system is close to perfect. You just make sure that you are not followed to the store, your package will be guarded 24/7, and you can pick it up at any time, very flexible. And mailbox shops are rarely burglarized, at least not the boxes themselves.”
“From what I understand, your problem is the clerk, who is watching the mailboxes so that no one meddles with them,” Mundy analyzed. “How much time do you need unsupervised to get into Rip’s mailbox?”
“Mick rented a mailbox, and judging from the key, it would take me about twenty seconds to open Rip’s box, five seconds to get his package out and a fake package in, twenty seconds to lock it again.”
“With getting in and out, that is close to a minute. That is a lot of unsupervised time.”
We digested that, exchanged some other chitchat, and hung up.
I called back Mrs. Otis, and we discussed plans for opening hours of the shop without me being present. Just when I tossed the phone on the bed to get ready to leave, Mundy called again.
“I think I have an idea. A criminal inspiration,” Mundy suddenly said.
I groaned. “Not you, too, Mundy. You are the good, honest guy in our friendship, remember?”
Mundy was unfazed. “Did I ever tell you about my aunt Clarabelle and her fateful trip to the hair dresser? It was on the news then, big time.”
“Mundy, you are killing me….”
I met Mick, Bernie, and the Mountain at our diner for dinner. I had taken a taxi back to retrieve my car and had brought some hygiene articles to spend the night in Van Nuys.
My three collaborators sat stunned before me after I had finished laying out the plan. After a few moments of grace, they shot questions at me.
“How will you make sure that you won’t be recognized afterward when someone checks the video tapes of the store?”
“I will change my appearance. Wig, heavy makeup, plaid skirt, bad shoes. Payless and Woolworth will have a new customer tomorrow morning.” I looked around at them and still saw doubt. “Hey, what part of that brilliant plan won’t work?”
“Shit, everything,” the Mountain rumbled and crossed his arms to underline his opinion. Those were the most consecutive words I had ever heard emerge from his mouth.
Mick rubbed his eyes, then rubbed his fingers, shaking his head. “This is a lot of fireworks, and we have to make sure that no one gets hurt.”
Bernie added, “And that no one gets caught.”
I deflected that one. “In the end, it is mostly insurance damage. And the one most exposed is little old me. You guys will have all the fun and get away clean in the meanwhile. Had you come up with a better plan, we could have followed that one, but it would probably have involved masked men, a shooting spree, and fast motorcycles in the back alley.”
“But, I mean, isn’t your plan a little bit crude?” Bernie tried one more time.
I raised my left eyebrow and said, “Are you in, or are you in?”
The preparation took the night and some of the next morning. I took that trip to a department store and a supermarket and brought some clothes that were as far away from my personal style as possible: a wide plaid skirt with black stockings, pumps, a flower shirt in beige, worthy of a sixty-year-old lady. Plus a fancy summer straw hat. To buy a wig was the most difficult thing because I would most likely be remembered as a buyer. Finally, I simply put on my new disguise and stole a wig in another department store that turned me into a curly, black-haired thing. A little dye and some cheap reading glasses on top of my nose turned me into an old spinster. Around noon, Bernie called from the lobby. When I came down, I walked past him, selected a Van Nuys city brochure from a stand right beside him, and asked him for the time. He irritatingly gave it to me, his eyes searching the lobby for me. After I stood up close to him, he looked a little unsure—no sane person would ever think about standing that close to a hard core, middle-aged rocker.
“Would you consider having sex with an old lady?” I croaked, barely keeping my urge to laugh out loud to myself.
The old rocker grew beet red and took a step back. Then he recognized me and took another step back.
“Holy. Shit.”
“Admit it, you almost said yes.”
“You are a scary piece, niece!” Bernie said.
The odd couple left the lobby.
We had decided to use the afternoon to pull the stunt because the long shift of the morning guy ended at four and he probably was dead bored by then and not that motivated anymore. Plus, business was pretty slow in the early afternoon.
We had a last lunch meeting at the diner. Mick and the Mountain were stupefied when they saw my disguise and for the first time showed some spirit of success. Our diner booth looked like a cros
s between the Golden Girls and Reservoir Dogs.
“The cars are ready?”
“Ready as you are, lady!” Mick grinned.
“Remember the timing, and take into consideration that the second stage may need a few seconds to go off. It is crucial that it is timed seamlessly to give me the most of my time.”
“What about Rip?” Mick asked Bernie.
“He just left for his gym. Two-thirty, so he will be probably tied up there for an hour at least. Free rein.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Showtime
The middle-aged lady walked into the mailbox store at three o’clock sharp. She stopped to check the community board near the entrance, holding her almost-empty brown leather handbag close to her. The clerk of the mailbox store was sitting bored behind his counter; another customer was just checking his box, browsing through his mail first before closing the box again and leaving the store without a second look at the aged, gray-haired lady in a hideous, unfashionable dress. The aged lady left the community board; a quick glance to the shop door assured her that no other customer was entering the store. She had a slow gait, like the first signs of arthritis were beginning to settle in.
The lady reached the left row of mailboxes and searched her handbag for the mailbox key just as the first car, a large SUV vehicle stolen ten minutes earlier from a shopping mall parking lot, drove into the shop next door. First there was the loud revving of the engine, the thud as the front wheels hit the pavement step, then a large bang, and the breaking of glass.
The whole shopping strip shook with the impact. All that could be heard was still the revved-up engine screaming loudly, howling in the highest gear, crunching deeper into the shop, but it got stuck in the frames of the shopping window.
