by Sean Rodman
Chapter One
Like most of my brother’s plans, this one is stupid and illegal.
And I’m going through with it. Like I always do.
Big O squints through the rainspattered windshield of our old Ford pickup. Cars are lining up to be fed into the belly of a big ferry that looms in the evening twilight over the dock.
“What I’m saying is, it’s a long ride from here to Seattle. And we could use a little entertainment.” Big O shoves the pickup into gear and nudges it forward.
“You want entertainment, you could read a newspaper,” I say.
Big O shoots me a quick look, like he doesn’t appreciate me being unreasonable.
I shrug. “What? You like the comics, right?”
“You’re supposed to be the smart one. So stay with me here and do the math,” he continues. “There’s what, like, four hundred cars on this ferry.
We’ve got two hours. We wait until everybody goes upstairs, leaves their cars behind. Then we take a little walk.
Figure out who’s left us a present in their car.” As he speaks, Big O carefully steers us up the loading ramp into the ferry. Following the directions of a guy in a blue uniform with an orange Final Crossing flashlight, he pulls right up to the suv in front of us.
“So nobody’s going to notice us taking their stuff?” I say.
Big O kills the engine. “I’ll stand lookout. You’re awesome at boosting windows and doors.” There he goes, trying to butter me up. “Look, it’s a simple plan. And it doesn’t break any of your rules.”
Being the brains of our operation, I had set a couple of ground rules for our partnership. One, nobody gets hurt. That’s how Dad went down. Two, no drugs. Duh. And three, never steal anything so big that it’ll attract attention.
I unbuckle my seat belt so I can swivel on the vinyl seat to face him.
My older brother, Big O, is chubby.
Not fat but baby-faced, people call it. Although he tends to smack them if they say it to his face. That layer of fat hides some pretty solid muscle.
Me, I’m the opposite. Thin. Messy brown hair. Like a ferret with glasses.
But we both have the same sneaky blue eyes. A little shifty, like our dad.
“Okay, it’s not the worst plan ever,”
I say. It is, in fact, a terrible plan. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I need to break this gently. “There’s a lot of things I like about it.”
O nods enthusiastically, his Oakland A’s ballcap bobbing up and down.
“But here’s a problem,” I continue.
“This ferry is basically a giant floating box. If we get caught, and we’re in the middle of the friggin’ ocean, where do we run?”
But O is ready for this one. He smiles serenely, like an evil version of one of those little Buddha statues.
“Will, open your mind to the possibilities.”
Big O reaches over, puts one arm on my shoulder and, with the other, gestures to the rows and rows of cars Final Crossing now parked in front of us. Like a herd of cows, people are already leaving their cars behind and heading for the stairs to the upper deck.
“Where do we run? That’s only a problem,” drawls O, “if we get caught.
So let’s not do that this time, all right?”
I rub my face, thinking it through.
The real problem, when you get right down to it, is money. Even if we sleep in the truck, we’ll need some money for food and gas.
“How much cash have you got left?”
I ask O.
He pulls out a brown leather wallet, white and worn on the edges. He opens it up wide to show me a couple of quarters.
I snort. I have a few bucks. Maybe enough for a coffee or two. Everything else, we blew on the ferry ticket.
Maybe Big O is right. If we’re careful, maybe his plan will work.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
Big O shakes both fists in the air like he’s just scored a touchdown. “That’s one for me!”
“But,” I continue, “I’m adding a couple more rules.”
“Seriously, man?” Big O says, fists dropping to his sides. “You are the most uptight criminal. Ever.”
“We do this, it’s by my rules,” I say, crossing my arms. “Take it or leave it.”
Big O heaves a sigh, like this is killing him. “Fine, whatever. What are the rules?”
“First, we’re going to take cash only. We look for jackets, purses, whatever. We don’t take anything we have to sell.”
Big O nods reasonably.
“Second, I figure we need about a hundred bucks to get us to Uncle Steve’s. So once we get that much, we stop.”
Now O looks less certain. He shifts his big frame in the driver’s seat.
“What if it’s something really nice?” he says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like…like a gold ring.”
“What are you,” I say, ”a pirate?
Why would someone leave a gold ring in their car? You’re an idiot.”
Big O punches my arm. “No, you’re the idiot,” he mutters. “You’d leave a perfectly good gold ring behind.”
“Moving on,” I say loudly, “third and final rule. You’re the lookout, so I’m the only one going into the car. You keep your eyes up at all times. If there’s any chance of us being seen, we don’t do it. And if something goes wrong, if we get split up, then we meet—I dunno, at the cafeteria.”
Big O fiddles with the gearshift for a moment, thinking it through. Then he holds out his hand for a high five. I slap it.
“Y’know, we make a great team. Like Ben and Jerry,” Big O says as he opens his door. “Or wait—Bert and Ernie? Which ones are the puppets?”
I rub my face again. This is going to be a long night.
Chapter Two
The two of us are walking a couple of cars apart, trying to look casual. I can feel the rumbling of the ferry’s engines through the deck as it makes its way out of the port. Pretty much everyone has cleared out of the car deck now, drawn to the upper deck by the lure of fried food in the cafeteria.
There are still a few people sleeping in their cars, which makes me nervous.
We continue to walk forward, scanning left and right. Big O is looking for trouble while I’m looking for targets.
I think the key to being a successful small-time crook is setting out some rules for yourself. I’m a rules guy.
Which seems a little ironic given my current occupation, which involves breaking a lot of rules.
Rule number one is knowing your limitations. For example, I walk right by a shiny black Audi. It’s new, beautiful and probably loaded with all sorts of goodies inside. But it’s likely also loaded with a state-of-the-art alarm.
Movement sensors and a computer brain that will figure out what I’m doing as I try to open the door. And the car is smart enough to call its owner. Or the cops. Nope, I’m moving on.
Next up, a minivan. Two car seats in the back, colorful kids’ stuff scattered about. A shapeless purple purse Final Crossing lying on the passenger seat. I pause for a moment, thinking about rule number two—weigh the costs and benefits. The costs? It’s a relatively new model of vehicle—nothing like that Audi, but it might still take a little time to get into.
The benefits? That purse could contain some cash. I study the purse, trying to figure out what the lumps inside might be. You know what? I bet it just has a bunch of spare diapers, wipes and soothers. Moving on.
Finally, something I can work with.
A big Toyota sedan, about fifteen years old but in great condition. Veteran’s license plates. A stack of cds under the stereo. And a suit jacket lying neatly across the back seat. Bingo. This is clearly an
old man’s car. Old guys like to keep cash around and tend to forget where they put it. The car is ancient enough to have locks I can deal with and no security system.
I give a low whistle to Big O.
He holds up, then comes back to the driver’s side of the Toyota. He pulls out his cell phone and pretends to be talking into it while he rotates around. Keeping a lookout.
Lockpicking was always a thing with me. When I was a toddler, Dad let me play with his practice locks in the workshop, the ones he used to sharpen his skills. By the time I was ten, I was getting pretty good and had made my own lockpick set. Hey, some kids are good at soccer or video games.
Everybody has to have a hobby. It was just that mine was illegal.
Locks on automobiles are a whole different breed from your average house lock. Some special tools are required.
I stay on the passenger side and consider my options. I have a slim jim tucked into the lining of my jacket. It’s a long, thin piece of metal with a notch at the end.
Same thing a mechanic might use to get into your mom’s car if she locked herself out. Slide the slim jim down the side of the window. Fish around until you catch the lock mechanism, then pull up hard. It works, but it can take a little while and you look pretty suspicious while you’re at it. So instead, my first choice is always my tryout keys.
Dad left these babies behind along with some other tools I scooped up before we got moved into a foster home. I pull them out and flip through the set. They look pretty much like an ordinary set of car keys on a ring, nothing special. Except that each key is designed as sort of a “master key” for particular models of cars. They’re meant to be used by auto mechanics and car dealers but occasionally fall into the wrong hands. Like mine.
I select one that has worked on other Toyotas and slide it into the lock.
Gently rocking the key up and down, I jiggle it for a minute until I feel the lock give. I turn firmly, and there’s a satisfying clunk as the lock pops open.
Quickly, I open the door and slide over to unlock the driver’s side. Big O squeezes in.
“I’d give that an eight out of ten,” he says. “Good form, but a little slow.”
“I’ll never make the Olympics, coach.” I reach back and hand him the suit jacket. “Check that out while I do the rest.” Working efficiently, I go through all the compartments and pocket anything valuable.
“Cha-ching,” says Big O. He pulls a twenty-dollar bill from the jacket.
I close the glove compartment after scooping up a couple of loose quarters.
“We’re outta here.” I start to get out, but Big O doesn’t move. Instead, he pulls out the cds from the shelf under the car stereo. Not this again.
“Aw, come on. We don’t need any cds. Let’s go.”
“I’m sick of all our tunes,” he says, like it’s obvious. I sigh heavily, but I don’t freak out. I’ve seen this before.
Big O likes his music. He can be a real snob about it, but I have to admit, he does know his stuff. From jazz to hip-hop, the guy is a walking Wikipedia of songs.
“Most of this is crap,” he says darkly, nearing the end of the pile. Then he brightens. “This’ll do—Muddy Waters.
Some righteous blues.” Big O flips over the cd and starts to read the cover.
“You know, the Rolling Stones ripped off Muddy Waters in a big way.”
“Focus, dude.” I reach over and snatch the cd from him. “Moving on.”
He sighs at my lack of interest, then grabs the cd back and pockets it.
At the same time, we both get out of the Toyota, carefully locking and closing the doors behind us. Don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.
Too late.
“Hey!” It’s one of the crew, dark blue coveralls and a bright orange traffic vest. He’s walking up the alley between the cars toward us. I stare hard at Big O, hoping he can read my mind. Don’t freaking panic. Don’t run, because there’s nowhere to run to.
We have to bluff our way through this.
I lean in to look at the guy’s name tag. “What seems to be the problem, Mr.—uh—Dorkney?” I say, friendly as hell. Too friendly—he looks at me a little strangely.
“Everybody needs to get above decks,” Dorkney says firmly. “We’re going to be in open water soon, and there’s some heavy weather. It’s regulation that you can’t stay with the vehicles down here.” He gestures toward the car we just got out of. “You have everything Final Crossing you need from your car? Might be a while.”
Big O clears his throat. “From our car? Yeah. We were just getting a couple of things to take with us. We’ll head right up.” I nod enthusiastically. We walk in the opposite direction of the crewman as he raps on the window of another car to wake someone up.
I don’t say anything until we’re headed up the stairwell. Our feet clank on the metal steps.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
I say quietly.
“That my great idea was worth about twenty bucks,” says Big O. “Crappy luck, huh?”
“No, no. Might be pretty good luck, actually.” I pull Big O to one side of the corridor, letting a mother cradling a baby walk past. “Now the crew is making sure nobody will be down there.
As long as we’re careful, the car deck is ours for the taking.” Big O pulls off his ballcap and wipes a hand through greasy hair. And smiles his evil Buddha smile.
We wait, watching the dark ocean outside the windows and feeling the ferry shudder each time a big wave breaks over the bow. Finally, Big O can’t stand it anymore, and I’m pretty sure no one is watching. We slip back down the stairwell.
Chapter Three
I lose count of how many cars we go through in the next half hour. Pick a target, jiggle the tryout keys, pop the lock, raid the inside. Big O and I get into a rhythm, and it feels good. There are a few hiccups. I nearly snap one of the tryout keys because I’m rushing.
We have to slide behind a big truck when two crew members walk by, talking loudly about union wages.
But for the most part, it’s smooth.
After a while, we end up crouched beside the tire of a big suv. Big O’s face is red, and he’s sweating.
“What have you got?” he says quietly.
I pull a handful of bills and change from my pocket and start counting.
He does the same.
“Forty-five bucks and some coin. You?”
“Forty-two,” Big O says, passing the money over to me. “Still short.”
“Close enough to one hundred,”
I say and slide our combined money into my wallet. “Let’s call it a night.”
“You always were a quitter,” Big O says. He’s half-joking. “You said one hundred dollars. One more car and we’re done. There’s got to be something easy around here.”
He stands up and looks quickly left and right. He looks like a prairie dog Final Crossing with bad intentions, beady eyes jerkily scanning the deck for a target. Finally, Big O sees something he likes and drops down next to me again.
“Got it. Old Ford van. Something from the eighties. Looks like a piece of cake.”
I puff out my cheeks and shake my head. “I dunno. We’re pushing our luck.”
Big O looks at me and slowly lifts one eyebrow. “Quitter.”
“All right, all right,” I say. “I’ll take a look.” We quickly duckwalk along, Big O in the lead. Staying low and weaving between the cars. The ferry is starting to really rock in the storm. It’s not so bad that we can’t move around, but some of the cars are shifting noisily on their suspensions. I can hear the dull roar of the waves hitting the bow of the ship.
“This one,” whispers Big O. He jerks his thumb at the van looming over us.
“See? Piece of cake.”
“Piece of crap, actually,” I mutter.
It’s an Econoline van. Big and boxy.
Originally blue but now decorated with orange patches of rust around the wheel wells and doors. No windows in the back, jus
t siding with faded letters advertising Speedy Mechanical Repairs.
Big O is right about one thing—it should be easy to get into. Maybe a few dollars in the glove compartment. If we’re lucky and the owner is a contractor, maybe he keeps some serious cash on hand.
“All right,” I say quietly. “Keep an eye out.” I creep around to the side of the van, leaving Big O peering over the tops of the cars around us. Pulling out my tryout keys, I select one and slide it into the lock. I’m about to start jiggling the key when I hear a muffled thump.
From inside the van.
I freeze, straining to hear it again.
Waves. Creaking. Wind. Big O appears around the corner.
“What’s the holdup?”
“I thought I heard something. Like, from inside,” I say. “Dog, maybe?”
“Don’t want that,” Big O says quietly, then snorts a laugh. “You remember the Chihuahua in the Jaguar? Sleeping behind the backseat, right? You came flying out of the car, and I swear, the dog’s teeth were longer than its body.
Hilarious, totally—”
I cut him off with a gesture and put my ear against the cold steel side of the van. “Let me listen for a second.”
Seconds tick by. Nothing. All I hear is my own blood pumping in my ears.
My armpits feel sticky with sweat, and my fingers ache a little as I start with the tryout keys again. “Okay, I’m going to get this over with.”
I work one tryout key after another, shaking and twisting each one in the lock. Finally, I feel a solid click. The lock gives a little—then pops open. I grab the silver door handle above it and pull. With a rusty grinding sound, the door opens.
Big O smiles and slaps my back.
“Let’s get in there and get paid.”
I slip into the interior, then reach over to unlock the passenger door for Big O.
The windows are so dirty, not much light is getting through, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
The floor is littered with old fast-food wrappers and cups. Big O flips open the glove compartment and retrieves a handful of cds. I shake my head. Man, he’s obsessed with his tunes today. Then I look into the back of the van.
