“Were you not listening? I said we’re good at what we do. Sam’s already got McShane eating out of his palm. This is going to happen. Just trust the process.”
“You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.” Cisco stepped close to Rachel, which was meant to intimidate her.
“I came here to give you the update,” she said rapidly snapping her fingers in front of his face. “And now you’ve been updated. Try and keep up.”
She headed for the exit.
“Where are you going now?” Leila asked. Two plain clothed cops entered the lobby and asked the concierge for the manager. As Rachel saw Jorge come out from his office, he gave Rachel a quick nod. Rachel made tracks.
“Officers,” she murmured as she walked past the two cops. They nodded hello and gave her body a surreptitious once over. As she walked out, she spotted Sam leaning against a faux Greek column with arms folded across his chest and one foot crossed in front of the other.
“The pins and tumblers of the lock are lining up,” Rachel said.
“Glad to hear it,” Sam said as they walked away from the hotel. “But we gotta swing by the Airbnb.”
“What? Why?”
With a sigh, Sam said, “I left my zippo back there. You know I usually use the bedside table but I remember lighting that damn candle in the kitchen when I worked up the forgery so I must have…”
“Oh God, you’re like Linus with his damn blanket,” she said. But she didn’t bother arguing that he should leave it behind. Anything else in the world, but not that.
As they walked toward the Porsche they heard Cisco’s booming voice shouting at the police. “Do you know who I am?” he bellowed.
They do know, you bastard, Rachel thought.
When Sam and Rachel rode past the alley behind the hotel, she noticed two black and white cop cars parked at forty-five-degree angles to the Range Rover. The car’s doors and hatch were wide open.
Sam pulled onto the shiny pavers of the Airbnb rental house for what would be the last time.
“I’m coming in with you,” Rachel said, popping her door open.
“You don’t need to. I’ll just be a minute.”
“I like this house. I wanna see it one more time. You know, do a walkthrough and gather some ideas for when we settle into a joint like this.”
Sam unlocked the door and they headed to the kitchen.
Rachel ran a hand along the island as she admired the ceiling fixture. Sam checked up and down the island and on the floor.
“Huh, nothing,” he said. “I’m gonna check the master, start at the beginning.”
“Sure, but hurry we need to be on the road.”
Sam checked the bedside table and found it clean. He looked around at the bureau and was about the look in the ensuite bathroom when he got down on his knees and poked around the bedside table.
“Bingo,” he said when he found it tucked behind one of the table legs. He flicked it on and off a few times as he made his way back though the house. He joined Rachel at the massive island in the kitchen and put an arm around her.
After a quiet moment, Sam said, “Why don’t we check out the view one last time?”
“Yeah, why don’t we?” a voice said from the great room.
Sam and Rachel spun to see a dark-haired woman with a Glock in her hand. The barrel had a suppressor attached to it, its dark opening aimed right at them.
“Who are you?” Sam asked, and slid to his left.
“Don’t move,” she said. “I’m enjoying the look of fear on your faces.”
“Okay, this is fear. Now, why not tell us who you are?” Although Sam had an educated guess based on her strong Italian features. He wondered if they’d ever be free from the mob…that was, if they came out of this jam alive.
“I suppose you should know who shot you as you slowly bleed out. I’m Illiana Tolenti. Rocco’s niece.” she added, taking a lengthy pause. “Ah, there it is—recognition. Now that you’re all caught up—”
Without another word and with the quickness of a cat, she fired a shot a foot to the left of Sam, shattering a glass coffee pot. Rachel flinched and slid two feet to her right. Sam knew the move was to prevent the Tolenti girl from having two easy targets. Sam was able to gain a few more inches before the gun was back on him.
“That was to demonstrate that this suppressor muffles any sound that might be heard by a neighbor, and that’s good for me because this Glock has seventeen more rounds in it.” She flicked the barrel toward the hole in the kitchen wall. “Which doesn’t include the previously chambered round now in the backsplash behind that coffee pot.”
“What happened to your uncle wasn’t our fault, Illiana,” Sam said.
“No? Someone else burned him up in an SUV? That wasn’t you?”
Sam didn’t reply.
“That’s right, you piece of shit!” Illiana shouted. Sam noticed the woman’s eyes begin to fill with water and that she fought to control her breathing. “It’s time to pay for that shit!”
Romantic couples often talk about finishing each other’s sentences. With Sam and Rachel, they knew each other’s instinct for survival. Sam counted on that when he made his move.
Rachel shouted, “Hey!” It was enough to pull the mob woman’s attention off Sam.
Sam lunged forward to grab a wooden knife block that held six butcher knives of varying size and hurled the entire block at the gunwoman. The block connected with the gun then continued on and smacked Illiana in the face. A round tore into the giant glass fixture over the island. Broken glass rained down on Sam and Rachel. The gun hit the floor and slid toward Sam. He dove for it but the crazed Tolenti girl was after it as well. Sam heard Rachel cry out behind him to his right.
Sam was at the gun a second before Illiana but she was quick. She grabbed a butcher knife from the floor and slashed Sam’s forearm. He dropped the gun and instinctively pulled his arm toward his chest. She scrambled for the gun but Sam punched her hard in the ribs with his left, causing her to lose her grip on the Glock and push it further away. She spun back around, regained the knife and lunged toward Sam. Propped on one knee, she faked a slice for Sam’s face, redirected and sliced his thigh. He let out a sharp grunting sound. She pulled the knife back and went for a stab to the stomach this time. Sam blocked the blow with his forearm at her wrist. With his free hand, he grabbed a knife from the floor. As she tried to reposition for another strike Sam got her with a deep slice near the floating rib. She screamed. Sam fell on her. They wrestled like gators, each trying to end each other. Sam was surprised by her wiry strength. He could hear his labored breath as much as hers.
“Move your ass, Sam!” Rachel shouted. Sam managed to rear backward a split second before Rachel’s raised foot slammed down from above and kicked Illiana unconscious causing her knife to skid across the floor.
“Dumb bitch!” Rachel said as she staggered down the island and hauled a bunch of dishtowels and duct tape from a drawer. Sam noticed blood leaking from her neck. It wasn’t gushing, which was a good sign. At least the carotid hadn’t been severed. He watched as she wrapped a rag around her neck like a kerchief then moved to Sam. She did her best tourniquet jobs on his arm and thigh.
As she moved to get up, Sam grabbed her arm. “Hang on. I wanna see your neck.” He gently peeled the cloth down and saw a two-inch long slice. He knitted up his brow.
“From the falling glass,” she said. “Took a shard to the neck.”
She helped Sam to his feet then grabbed the duct tape and gagged and bound Illiana.
“We need to get the hell outta Dodge,” Sam said.
“Uh huh, We’ll call Gerald on the way. He might know a Doc somewhere between here and Oregon who can stitch you up. That cut to the thigh is deep.”
“I won’t say no to that,” Sam said.
“I’m gonna scrub our prints of this place. The Sawkins siblings were never here.”
While Rachel wiped down the
place, Sam bent and retrieved the Glock. He then elevated his leg and attempted to make himself comfortable. When he heard Rachel approach he got to his feet and stood over Rocco’s niece with the Glock in his hand. Rachel came and stood beside Sam and put her eyes on the woman who nearly killed them.
Illiana came-to and screamed all sorts of hell into her gag Sam took a deep breath then slowly let the air out. Rachel placed a hand to his shoulder. Sam peered down the sight and put a bullet into Illiana’s kneecap. She howled into the gag and rolled onto her side. She’d be screaming for a while, Sam thought. But just like the suppressed round, no one would hear her. Rachel rubbed his back then walked toward the front door. Sam ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber then wiped the gun down. He looked at the place one last time then placed the gun and clip on the island. He ignored Illiana’s wailing as he walked out.
With the bullet to the Tolenti girl’s knee she’d be looking at months of rehab before she would be mobile. And who knows where Sam and Rachel would be by then? They’d call a paramedic bus for her once they were a couple hundred miles out of Bullion…or maybe they wouldn’t.
Siskiyou County, South Central
Bullion was sixty miles behind Sam and Rachel when Rachel finally got hold of Gerald.
“Hey, thanks for getting back to me,” Rachel said, putting him on speaker.
“Sounded urgent but I got a guy for you. He’s about fifteen miles south of the Cali-Oregon border.”
“Great. What are we looking at a Veterinarian? Dentist? Any chance of a real doctor?”
“This guys a doctor. Well, he was until the state took his license away,” he said.
“For what?” Sam asked.
“He ran some kinda pill mill or some shit—allegedly.”
“Wonderful,” Rachel said.
“Look, it ain’t brain surgery. I’m sure the guy’s capable enough to do a patch job.”
“That is if he’s not a junkie by now,” Sam mumbled.
“Listen,” Gerald said. “He was one of Porter’s guys so…ya want him or not?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rachel said. “Text me the details.”
“You got it.”
“And thanks, Gerald,” Rachel said then clicked off.
“We’re nearly sixty-five miles out of Bullion.”
“Uh huh, so?”
“So should we call the paramedics for the Tolenti chick?” Sam asked.
“Maybe she’s already worked herself free,” Rachel suggested.
Sam gave her a doubtful look.
“Let’s do it this way,” she said. A half mile up the road, she pulled into a gas station. She went inside and came out with water, snacks and a burner phone. Sam shot her a questioning look at seeing the phone. She dialed a number then held up a one moment finger to Sam.
“Bullion Police Department, this is Officer Brady.”
“Yes, you arrested a Cisco Glanis today for cocaine possession.”
“I cannot confirm that we—”
“There’s a girl that’s been shot at 640 California Poppy Lane, the Clarke’s residence. Do you know the house?”
“Of course I know it but—”
“Listen, Officer, Cisco cut this girl up then shot her. She’s there now bleeding out.”
“Ma’am, please state your name,” the officer barked.
“Get over there now!” Rachel shouted making her voice shaky like a woman on the brink of tears. Casually, she wiped the phone down, snapped in two and tossed it out the window.
Sam looked over at Rachel, “You’re a dark horse, babe.”
“Obviously it won’t stick but it’ll make Cisco’s shitty day even shittier,” she smiled.
They drove another five miles in silence. Finally, Sam said, “Shame we didn’t get the one point two mil. I had some serious fantasies working over here.”
“You and me both,” Rachel said. “But it wasn’t a total loss.”
“How so?”
“At least we got us some travel money.”
Back to TOC
JONATHAN BROWN is the author of A Boxing Trainer’s Journey: A Novel Based of the Life of Angelo Dundee and the novella Moose’s Law…A Doug “Moose” McCrae Story about an ex-football-playing bouncer and “fixer” living in Los Angeles. Brown has also written short stories that have appeared in Out of the Gutter Online and in two Palos Verdes library anthologies. In addition, he has written, recorded and performed an audio children’s book, KANU…A Boy’s Journey. Don’t Shoot the Drummer is the second book in the Lou Crasher series. The first, The Big Crescendo, was published by Down & Out Books in 2019. He currently teaches drums, is a personal trainer, and he and his wife enjoy sunny living in Los Angeles.
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BOOKS BY JONATHAN BROWN
A Boxing Trainer’s Journey…A Novel Based on the Life of Angelo Dundee
Moose’s Law…A Doug “Moose” McCrae Story
The Lou Crasher Thrillers
The Big Crescendo
Don’t Shoot the Drummer
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Here is a preview from the sixteenth episode of A Grifter’s Song, Rocky Mountain Lie by Michael Pool.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
RACHEL
She noticed the sun all at once, poking its head above the eastern peaks in the direction of Vail Pass, where Sam and Rachel had come over the previous evening. Rachel could get used to that, though she would likely never get used to the name Colette. The name had been Sam’s idea taken from the name of a beer he’d had at the airport in Denver. She’d laughed at the idea but liked the challenge of keeping a straight face every time someone used the name. She named Sam after her own beer in return, though shortened it from Odell to a simpler Dell. Lying didn’t always have to be stressful. Grifting was mostly fun, though it could turn violent on a moment’s notice, as they’d discovered many times.
No use running a con if you couldn’t make it fun. Since leaving Philadelphia, they’d had a variety of grifting experiences ranging from unpleasant to terrifying where one of the more extreme experiences had left them marked by the mob and thus always on the move. But anytime she and Sam could find fun in the con, they did so. Not to say they didn’t take it seriously, just that they never forewent the opportunity to enjoy the little things along the road of life.
The idea for their next grift had dawned on her just as suddenly as this morning’s sunrise. They’d taken the light rail from Denver International Airport into an area north of downtown called RiNo. Walking through the city they remarked on how it didn’t seem cold or dreary enough to be winter. Not like back in Philly, where weeks of shivering cold and wet snow were punctuated by short days in the longest, dreariest season.
Denver seemed to have sunshine and a weed dispensary on every corner. So many, in fact, that she’d quipped to Sam the city could give half the continent the munchies and still be stocked up for business the next day. No doubt the state government had a system to regulate and siphon off a chunk of the profits. Politicians were the ultimate grifters, never leaving so much as a buck on the table if they could steal it through taxes, licensing, and overregulation. But that didn’t mean the average potential industry investor had a clue how large the scope of brands and shops and edible companies might be. Not to mention the names and locations of each and every business. An investor could get lost in all that branding. Which was exactly the idea.
Rachel read about the Colorado green rush. The industry had attracted plenty of shadow “cash” investors, the kind she and Sam would be looking to grift. The paperwork and background screenings required for licensure disqualified anyone with a felony conviction. Money and criminality often ran hand in hand, and with regulations keeping felons out of the business, many had bought in by proxy using shadow investors and cash.
She’d done just enough research to make their grift idea come
to life, but not so much as to convolute the story to potential marks. Less is more, that was the rule when working a grift. Every lie had to be kept in a perfect matrix with all the others, and each detail added a new layer of complexity to manage. Volunteering too much information always came home to roost at the worst possible time…not that any time was good with sums of money at stake that people would willingly kill each other over.
Rachel found an example copy of a state grower’s license online, sent it to her computer whiz friend, Maya, to forge, along with a request for a website that looked passably like the three example links she included with the emailed request. In choosing the name for their fake cannabis edibles business, they’d decided to stick with the beer reference theme again, and called it Insane Rush Organics after a fruity IPA Sam had enjoyed the night before.
There had to be mountains of that sweet, sweet weed money in a bougie place like Vail. They just needed to find the right mark and coax it out of them like charming a snake from a barrel.
Which shouldn’t be too difficult in the thrush of rich white guys wearing oddball hats that resembled a mixture of Indiana Jones and Robin Hood. She even noticed a store selling the hats near the base area of the ski resort. They’d chosen Vail because it was a playground for the rich and famous. There was no better mark than a person who was desperate to rub shoulders with fame or fortune.
Sam rolled over in the bed and moaned in his sleep. He’d mentioned having strange dreams the last few nights, something she attributed to the edibles they’d been taking in order to build up a tolerance and reinforce the con. They worked on the lingo: sativas are racy, indicas for sleep, vape cartridges, THC, CBD, caviar, shatter, CO2 extraction, sauce, kif. These dope smokers had more lingo than a poetry convention, and more science than Bill Nye. The trick would be to sound knowledgeable without making the mark feel like they needed to do their own research to get up to speed. An easy twenty or thirty grand to hold their made-up investment opportunity was all she and Sam really needed, unless the mark was a truly exceptional twit. They might even rinse and repeat the process in Aspen afterward, if all went well.
Travel Money Page 6
