by Pete Lister
Shiv provided all of his employees with cell phones. This was the only number he would use to call them, and they were required to answer promptly.
Each employee also earned a salary far more than commensurate with the job. Shiv had learned a long time ago that high pay and respect earned more loyalty than fear, and Shiv valued loyalty. Shiv knew his people liked and trusted him, and he took good care of them and their families. Each employee received a turkey at Thanksgiving, a turkey and a personally-signed card at Christmas, a ham for Easter, and birthday gifts for their kids. For their part, they knew that if he ever felt he couldn’t trust them, well, they didn’t want to go there.
The ramp entrance was also served by another faux-dirt road, accessed via a county service road, three-quarters of a mile south of the bunker. This was the road the employees used to get to work. The entrance looked like an old pasture access road, sporting the usual cattle guard. After crossing the guard, the road turned left behind a thick stand of pine trees, out of sight of anyone on the public road. Just past the turn was another faux barbed-wire fence like the one behind Curtis’ Place, also controlled from Ops.
The bunker employees were all required to drive older, but well-maintained, four-wheel drive pickup trucks or SUVs, in case anyone saw them entering the old drive. The trucks looked like they belonged there. One Counter often drove his tractor, a twenty-year old John Deere 1070. In winter, he plowed the roads with it, except for the parts visible from the outside. These were fitted with buried solar-powered heaters, so it looked like the snow had melted naturally.
Employee starting times were staggered at one-hour intervals, so that there would never be a traffic jam at the back gate. There were eight work stations, or posts, in the bunker. Every hour, around the clock, one of the eight reported for work, slipping seamlessly into the position being vacated by his or her off-going counterpart. Each post was identified by its starting time, e.g., the zero four hundred post, or the thirteen hundred post. Weapons were passed, counts were finished and cleared, and the operation never stopped. Once a week, each weapon was field-stripped and cleaned by a designated security guard, in the interval between trucks.
There were no kitchen facilities, since there were no lunch breaks, but Ops, Count, and the Dispensary each had a coffee pot. Eight hours meant eight hours. Hungry? Bring snacks to nibble while you work. No waste baskets, either. If you brought trash in, you took it back out. No one complained.
This bunker serviced Shiv’s far-flung network of heroin dealers, stretching across Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, both Dakotas, and the U.P. Shiv was eyeing Iowa, Indiana, and the rest of Michigan, as well. Nothing quite this ambitious had ever been tried in the Midwest. As the jobber to dealers in six states, Shiv had refined his operation to run smoothly from this one central location.
Shiv provided a quality product, no poison, no crap, for eight bills a finger, and he only accepted hundred-dollar bills from his distributors. The smaller denominations were a pain in the ass to launder in bulk, he said, so he wouldn’t mess with them. In keeping with his personal creed, valuing loyalty, Shiv believed that if he provided his customers with a quality product at a reasonable price, he didn’t have to worry about them straying. They also didn’t stray, of course, because Shiv ruthlessly eliminated any competition he discovered working ‘his’ territories. Competitors either disappeared or were absorbed into the network.
When the disguised pickup trucks were ready to leave, the Ops supervisor scanned the area around the old loading ramp. Verifying that no one was in sight, he pushed the ramp lift button, holding it until the pickup was clear.
The crate of eggs, the only part of the load that was genuine, provided the cover for the truck to drive around to the back of the diner. Each truck delivered a different commodity: lettuce, peppers, cooking oil, bread, even cash register tape.
This truck’s driver, Curtis’ brother, wore his year-round uniform of jeans, motorcycle boots, and a flannel shirt, topped by a ratty Saints ball cap. When the temperature dropped, as it often does in Wisconsin, he added an insulated Saints jacket and black leather gloves.
This particular truck never made it any farther than the diner on its way out, though, because his brother always stopped in for dinner with Curtis, having dropped off the eggs in back. Since there were no parking spots behind the building, no one was ever there to watch him return from the bunker and drop off the eggs, after which he drove back to the front of the diner, parked, and went in to eat with Curtis. He never stayed too long. He didn’t want to be sitting there when the next truck came through. It was a routine everyone was comfortable with.
But, tonight would be different.
Tonight, Curtis’ brother had driven the Chevy pickup down to the loading dock, where he waited while Tracy Wilson pushed the cart full of cash to Count. Ten minutes later, with the load of heroin in the back of his truck, he emerged from the concrete orifice and the ramp closed behind him. But, this evening, instead of driving to his brother’s place for dinner, he stopped where the track passed the old barn.
It was almost dark when he stopped, and while he could make out the barn well enough, it was dark enough to obscure any details. Climbing out of his truck, he strapped on a small backpack and walked to the barn. There was dew forming on the weeds and his sneakers were already soaked as he bent over and picked up a new aluminum extension ladder, now wet with condensation. The temperature was dropping, and the air smelled and felt like rain, so he tried to hurry.
As he leaned the ladder against the side of the barn and started up, his foot slipped off the wet second rung, and after dropping to the ground, he stepped back and took a deep breath. Inside Ops, Lawrence, watching on one of the exterior cameras, swore under his breath. The driver’s pulse increased and his breathing quickened as he considered the audacity of this plan that was going to make him rich.
Feeling gingerly with both hands and feet, he carefully worked his way back up the wet ladder, climbing to the edge of the roof, where he located the air vent. He slid off the backpack and dropped it onto the roof. Extracting a canister the size of a one-pound coffee can, he set it on the roof next to the vent. He could hear the air softly being sucked into the vent.
Without having to look, he pulled a cordless drill from the pack and drilled out the soft aluminum rivets holding the vent cover in place. Pulling a pin on the side of the canister, he dropped it down the vent shaft. In the quiet country dusk, he was only dimly aware of the crickets chirping in the background, chirping that stopped in response to the sound of the canister tumbling down the ventilation duct. Abandoning the backpack on the roof, he climbed down the ladder, leaving it leaning against the barn. Curtis was waiting for him at the truck, and they drove back to the loading ramp, and waited.
Inside Ops, Lawrence heard the drill going through the rivets on the roof vent. He had already donned the heavy neoprene gauntlets from the duffel bag that normally contained his coffee thermos and lunch, using duct tape to seal the cuffs over his pullover windbreaker. He went back into the duffel and retrieved a neoprene scuba diver’s balaclava, pulling it over his head. When he heard the canister dropping down the vent shaft, he quickly went back to the bag a final time, removing a gas mask. Pulling it over his head, he sealed it just as a light hissing sound came from the air vents throughout the bunker.
Tracy Wilson, carrying a stick of bills into the vault, heard the hissing. He stopped and looked around, quickly spotting the light gray mist flowing from the air vent. Thinking it unusual, he hesitated for a moment, before turning back to the vault. Without warning, he threw up violently as he dropped the money and clutched his gut. Head swimming, he slumped to the floor, only dimly aware of the descending blackness.
The other guard, en route to the bathroom, watched Lawrence don the gas mask through the glass wall of Ops at the same time the hissing started and, realizing what was happening, drew his Glock and opened fire. The glass wall began sprouting spider webs, but it held. Wi
thin seconds, the firing stopped.
All around the bunker, Shiv’s employees dropped, until Lawrence was the only one left conscious. He pushed the ramp release button and watched the monitor as the old pickup returned to the dock. The tonneau cover rose and the Thibodeaux brothers climbed out of the truck, wearing protective gear of their own. Lawrence opened the loading dock door and watched the brothers enter Count. They quickly went to work, ignoring the bodies, several of which still twitched.
Entering the vault, they started laying the sticks of cash in the bed of the cart. Curtis bent over to pick up the last stick off the floor, where Tracy Wilson had dropped it when he fell, while his brother stripped the counting machine of its unwrapped load, stuffing the bills in his pockets. When the vault was empty, fifty-two sticks had been taken to the truck. After clearing out the vault, they rolled to the Dispensary, where they found 48 bricks of heroin, loading them on top of the sticks of cash. Finally, they rolled the cart back to the dock and loaded their haul into the pickup, on top of the 16 bricks loaded earlier. While the brothers were busy loading the cart, Lawrence took a roll of duct tape from the duffel and taped down the Ops door-release switches for his own exit, as well as laying down the fence behind Curtis’ Place.
Cash and drugs loaded, the truck pulled away from the dock. The ramp opened and it climbed through, rolling to a stop in front of the barn. With no moon, the night was fully black, now. The brothers stepped out of the truck and peeled off their protective gear, then returned to the truck. They sat there for a few minutes, listening to the radio, until Curtis nudged his brother. A parallelogram of light pierced the night from the ‘root cellar’ door.
“They he is.” A figure was emerging into the light drizzle, a four-cell Maglite in his hand. Neither brother said a word as Lawrence approached the truck, peeling off his gauntlets and gas mask.
“Get it all?”
“Sure did.” Curtis was looking satisfied, while his brother just sat there grinning.
“Can I see it?”
Curtis’ brother reached down to raise the cover, then joined the other two behind the truck to admire their haul, displayed in the cone of light from Lawrence’s flashlight.
“Lawrence, I swear,” Curtis told him. “I don’t know why somebody ain’t done this before. This got to be our easiest haul ever, y’know?”
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Lawrence said. Suddenly, his head snapped up. “What was that?” He spun, dropping to a crouch, hiding behind the truck, looking down the drive toward the diner. Both brothers followed him, sinking to their knees behind the tailgate.
Lawrence peered into the darkness. “Ya hear that?” he whispered.
“I ain’t hear nothin’.” Curtis whispered back. As Lawrence looked around one side of the truck, the brothers peered around the other side. Curtis never felt the slug that killed him, and his brother heard the shot, but died before he had time to recognize it. Blood sluiced off the brothers, as the rain washed it onto the dirt drive.
§ § §
Curtis, his younger brother, and Lawrence John had grown up together in one of the seedier sections of New Orleans’ Storyville, just north of the French Quarter. Curtis was the oldest, his brother two years younger, the same age as Lawrence. The three were friends, grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and struggled to survive in their low-income community by committing the petty crimes so common in that area. As teenagers, they had come to the attention of the NOPD once too often, and started looking for somewhere safer. They dropped out of high school together and stole a car, driving north to Chicago, hoping for a new start somewhere that the police didn’t already have them on a list of ‘the usual suspects’.
They were pan-handling on the El when Curtis was jumped by a Chicago gang, angry about the intrusion onto their turf. One of them had already put a slug into Curtis’ leg when Lawrence came from the next car, emerging behind the shooter. Driving his fist into the gang member’s kidney, he spun him around as he crumpled, punching him in the throat and killing him. Snatching the gun, he quickly shot each of the other gangbangers before carrying Curtis off at the next stop. Of course, he kept that gun.
As they grew into adulthood and middle age, nothing really ever changed for them. Until Shiv came along, they had managed to survive, but even with Lawrence taking the leadership and protector roles, they never really exceeded subsistence level. Shiv gave them regular incomes, more than they had ever earned before. For the first time in their lives, the brothers and Lawrence had security and a direction. Their lives had meaning as cogs in Shiv’s far-reaching criminal machine.
For most of Shiv’s people, this newfound wealth and security created a loyalty to Shiv and to each other. The work was not difficult and the rewards were generous, and for most of them, it was the happiest and most secure time of their lives.
For the three old friends, however, it served as more of an awakening. While others were content with the direction their lives had taken, the three Cajuns became aware of how much they had missed, and how much more was available to them for the taking. Treachery was nothing new to them and, in reality, was probably their most ingrained trait.
For Lawrence, participating in the day-to-day operation of Shiv’s empire served as the impetus to take that treachery one step further. Throughout their lives, Curtis, his brother, and Lawrence had developed a bond formed of necessity. The almost unimaginable wealth gleaned from the bunker theft eliminated the historical need for that unity and, in Lawrence’s mind, for Curtis and his brother.
§ § §
3
Lawrence peeled off the rest of his protective gear, leaving it piled next to his former partners. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he closed and locked the tonneau cover as he eased the truck into gear, leaving the brothers where they lay.
The lights were off in Curtis’ Place, the parking lot in total darkness. As Lawrence pulled around the side of the diner, he doused his headlights. When he was certain there was no one coming down the highway, he turned them back on, pulled onto the blacktop, and gunned the engine.
The pickup cruised up Highway 12 to the Ho-Chunk Casino, where Lawrence turned right into the first driveway. Turning left, he pulled into the far corner of the customers’ lot, where he parked next to a gray ’96 Monte Carlo. He worked quickly, transferring his load into the trunk of the big Chevy.
He left the pickup in the back row of the parking lot and left the driver’s door open, the engine still idling. With any luck, somebody’d steal the damned thing and provide him with a diversion. He walked back to the car, tucking his cell phone into the sun visor as he slid into the driver’s seat. Easing the Monte Carlo out of the parking lot, he turned right and accelerated smoothly up the road into the darkness.
He drove through the night, running north on 12 almost to the Dells, turning onto I-90, then east to where it intersected I-39 north. There were no lights on the highway this far from any town, except for the occasional vehicle coming south. It was like driving through a tunnel, the walls alternating between woods and fields, interrupted by the occasional billboard, building or crossroad. Flying through Coloma, Lawrence was watching for his first waypoint, The Ledge, an eleven-hundred foot ‘mountain summit’ just south of Bancroft. Anyone who’d ever seen the Rockies, or any of the Alps, would have scoffed at the moniker, but for Lawrence, whose experience had run the gamut from Louisiana to Wisconsin, eleven hundred feet qualified as a mountain.
He stopped on the outskirts of Stevens Point for gas and coffee, then continued running north along the Wisconsin River, watching for Lake du Bay, where he often went fishing in his off-time. After three and a half hours on the road, Lawrence pulled into the parking lot at the Lake of the Torches Casino Hotel in Lac du Flambeau. He had been up most of the night before, towing his car to the casino, and reviewing his plan to make sure he’d covered everything. He had worked most of his eight-hour shift, and then driven for the last three and a half hours. It was after midni
ght and he was exhausted.
Figuring that Shiv wouldn’t know where he was headed, he parked the Monte Carlo in the far corner of the lot. He had always driven his Bronco to work, and had only recently purchased the Monte Carlo, so he didn’t think Shiv would know to look for it. He backed into the end spot, closest to the lake, where he was hidden behind a tour bus.
Finally, he made his way to the casino’s hotel desk. He was so tired his hand was shaking as he signed the register. Lawrence used the name of his high school English teacher on the registration card, which he viewed through bloodshot eyes while yawning, and asked for a room in front, where he could see the parking lot.
“Excuse me, sir, are you okay?” The little redhead behind the counter looked concerned.
“I be fine, soon’s I get some sleep. I been up over twenty-four hours. You lucky I didn’t park here in the lobby.” Smiling at her, he took his key. “Wake-up call for eight?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Walking to his room, Lawrence realized that Shiv would certainly know about the heist by now. Duke, his relief, would have called the boss as soon as he got to work and realized what had happened. The shifts being staggered by only an hour, Lawrence was pretty sure that the alarm had been raised before he turned north onto I-39, but Shiv still wouldn’t know where to start looking for him. If Lawrence just got a couple hours sleep, he’d be in Canada before Shiv had time to mount a thorough search. After that, well, he hadn’t thought about ‘after that’. He’d just figured that if he could get his haul to Canada, somehow he’d be safe from Shiv and the world would be his oyster.
The room was comfortable, with a single king. A hot shower soaked the tension from his body, and he had barely dried off before falling into bed. As he pulled the heavy quilt up over his head, his last thoughts before falling asleep were that he probably should have driven into Canada before stopping for the night, and maybe he shouldn’t have used his own car. He should have used a vehicle registered in some name besides his own. But, since he was certain that Shiv couldn’t find him before he left in the morning, his car shouldn’t be a problem. He’d cross the border in the morning and ditch it there. Then, the world faded as he slept a dreamless sleep.
