by Randall Wood
* * *
Profit was in first class with two of his business partners. The row behind him was occupied by two young women in tiny, yet expensive designer dresses. The jewelry that adorned their necks, wrist and fingers was not only real, but in large quantities designed to be seen. They were ornaments for the man in front of them. Behind the girls were two men who stretched the capacity of the first class seats they occupied. They had been with Profit for many years and had kept the man alive through several dangerous encounters with all forms of enemies. They were also currently uncomfortable as they were without their usual hardware. That would change as soon as they met some of the crew picking them up at the airport. Until then, they would continue to squirm in their seats. Profit was in an expansive mood today, cracking jokes and teasing the flight attendants they saw. He enjoyed a trip to Vegas on a regular basis, and his men had a routine worked out. The hotel would be the MGM Grand as usual; they had eight rooms reserved for Profit and his crew. Fourth row seats for the fight were also reserved, and hotel security had been notified of some special arrangements, allowances made for certain people who could pay. The crew were driving up in a couple of secure vehicles and bringing the hardware. They would meet them at the airport. They had one night to party before the fight was on, should be a good time.
* * *
Sam had no problems at the hotel guest check-in. The clerk seemed surprised at the man’s reservation. All the rooms were nice, but this one faced directly across from the MGM, which blocked most of the view of the strip. Hope this guy likes green neon, the clerk thought; it was all he was going to see off the balcony. But the Tropicana was still one of the better hotels, and it was right in the middle of the strip. Most people didn’t spend much time in their rooms anyway.
“You’re all checked in, sir, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I’m all set, thank you,” Sam replied.
“Directions, maybe a wake-up call?”
“Sure, make it about seven.”
“Seven o’clock it is. Elevators are right behind you. Enjoy your stay at the Tropicana.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Sam smiled and walked toward the elevator. He was overdue for his medication. A young couple joined him on the elevator, too engrossed in each other to notice him. He had to clear his throat to get their attention when the elevator reached their floor. The girl smiled at him, and with a giggle dragged the man down to their room.
“Young couples in love,” Sam voiced to himself. He punched the door-close button.
The elevator stopped at his floor and he turned to the right to find his room. After a short fight with the key-card, he got the door open and moved directly to the window. The slider opened to a balcony facing the MGM Grand. He counted the floors up and smiled to himself. The room was perfect. He looked around the balcony. A large potted plant was bolted to the floor in one corner. There was plenty of room behind it for the equipment he would have later today. Sam looked up at the roof, then on to the sky. No stars, they were overwhelmed by all the neon.
I guess I’ll trade for a few days, thought Sam. He could smell the desert. The cool of the desert night would soon pass. Tomorrow would bring heat, in more ways than one. This would be a difficult job; heavy population, his own security, and guys who wouldn’t worry about bystanders. Sam vowed not to let that happen.
What he was doing was good, wasn’t it? This guy was guilty, guilty one hundred times over. Yet he was above the law. He hid behind lawyers, and loopholes, and paid-off civil servants. Everyone knew it, yet they accept it as the way things are. They just accept the system that allows the Profits of the world to exist. Why? Where was the outrage? Where was the cry for justice? Did they fear reprisal, blacklisting, political fallout? Were these justifiable reasons for looking away, for ignoring the obvious? Was everyone so caught up in their own little world that they no longer cared for the big picture? Were reality TV and dresses on the red carpet more important than justice? “Justice for all,” the document said. He’d had to memorize it in school. It had become a joke. Sam was not laughing. If he were successful, if he could get the country’s attention, maybe people would care again, maybe.
The pain hit without warning. Sam doubled up and sank to the floor. He bit his tongue before he could stop and kicked his feet against the pain. It went on for a full minute. Sam was finally able to crawl to his bag and retrieve his meds. Another minute and he was in the bathroom. He managed to get them down and keep them there with a minimum of water. What he really needed was some milk, maybe some crackers, too. He reached for the phone. The Tropicana’s kitchen was open all night.
* * *
Sam pulled up to the gate and punched in the code Paul had given him. The gate decided that it was all right to let him in today, so Sam slowly cruised through and turned to the left. As he went by the office, he saw the silhouette of a person at the desk, feet up, TV on. The shape did not turn its head as he drove by. He followed the signs to unit 32B, a ten by twenty with a full-size garage door. He quickly checked to see if he had any company. The aisle was clear, but he could hear voices in the next one over. He looked up at the orange roof of the storage facility. He hoped it reflected at least some of the heat. Technically it was winter, but winter in Las Vegas was still hot and dry. Sam had wisely gotten up early to beat the heat, but it was only 8 a.m., and the temperature was already in the high 80s and climbing. He needed to get moving. He left the car running and quickly exited with the key in hand. Sam paused long enough to examine the lock closely. The small bit of wax that Paul had left on the lock showed that it had not been picked. The desert dust on the handle and door looked thick. With one more look up and down the aisle, Sam inserted the key and opened the door. A blast of cooler air quickly disappeared as the door bounced on its springs. Sam returned to the car and quickly drove it into the unit. The door was soon down and the lock inserted into the hasp to hold it shut from the inside. Only then did Sam turn on the light and examine the contents of the unit left there by his brother-in-law almost a month ago.
Sam peeled off his T-shirt and picked up a crowbar leaning against the wall. He had the three crates open in about five minutes and compared the contents to the list he had in his head. Paul had even half-assed disguised the place with some old furniture on the off chance that it would be opened by mistake. He made use of an old chair and a coffee table as he examined the items more closely. A small toolbox contained an electrical tool kit complete with soldering iron and a magnifying lamp. Also a book and some printouts from the internet to help guide him through the areas he may have problems with. Some servos that Paul had suggested he swap for some higher quality ones, shouldn’t be difficult. He eyeballed the small crate with the red paint on it. It was way more than he needed, but the stuff was only sold in that quantity or larger. He’d leave it in the crate till he was ready for it. He unzipped the nylon cases long enough to see the long guns. He had to smile. Like most men, Sam loved having the right tool for the right job. Paul had a good eye. Sam had taught him well. But these tools were for later; there were things he needed right now.
Sam dragged the other crates over and pulled out the packaging to get to the items he needed for tonight. He plugged in the laser and ran it through a self-test. It answered him back with a polite beep, telling him it was ready to go. The earphones he adjusted to fit so he could easily pull one side off while keeping the other on his head. He assembled the tripod and mounted the laser to it. Everything was finger tight and would break down quickly. The small monitor had a cord that refused to stay unraveled, and Sam fussed with it for a few minutes. The camera was really no different than the night-vision goggles or night-scopes he had used in the Army. The quality was better, and the addition of the IR capabilities was a definite plus. He hoped that they worked at the range he was using them for. The literature claimed it was within the specs, but you couldn’t always trust the advertising. He assembled the camera�
��s tripod and test mounted it. Easy. The GPS unit got fresh batteries installed, and it fired right up. He would plug in only the way-points he absolutely needed. Talk about leaving a trail. If he lost the GPS it was better than breadcrumbs if someone wanted to find out where he had been. It would stay on him at all times. The transmitters were perfect. Paul had included six of them. Paul was optimistic. Sam smiled, as he would be lucky if he got to use one. The receiver picked up all but one signal from them. He was down to five, but Sam doubted that would be a problem. There were two cell phones, both prepaid, with plenty of minutes, and untraceable. A frequency checker, for any bystanders and himself. He spent a few minutes playing with it to get familiar. The sweat running down his back made him put it down. He opened the bottle of Gatorade he had brought along and drained half of it. He could play with the laser more at the hotel. It had to be close to a hundred degrees in here by now. He stood and took off his pants. He needed them dry when he went back to the hotel. Now clothed in his underwear, he began separating the equipment into two piles. When he was done, he reached for the set of golf clubs that were standing in the corner, a new set of Pings. Sam had to smile again at the irony. He didn’t golf, but good old T. Addicot had. He figured if Pings worked for T., they would work for him. He removed the clubs, and began packing the equipment in the pouches and bottom of the bag. The tripods went in the top, along with the clubs carefully arranged around them. The small monitor would fit in the large shopping bag Paul had provided. He would bring that up to the room after he went looking for the missing equipment this afternoon. Paul had apologized for coming up short on the list, but at least he had been smart and left off items that Sam could get himself. Sam threw his new clubs in the trunk before pounding the crates back together. From the gym bag he pulled a towel and a can of spray deodorant. He cleaned up best he could before he got dressed and opened the door. Nobody in the aisle. He could see the heat rolling off the blacktop. Good. He replaced the lock in the hasp, and pulled a green zip-tie from his pocket. It was the expensive type with the metal band within the plastic, same as the police used for cheap handcuffs. You couldn’t just snap this one off as easy; it had to be cut off with a tool. Sam would know if anyone had been in his unit next time he was here. He drove out past the office. An elderly woman was smoking a cigarette by the gate. He gave her a quick wave as he drove through and she waved the Marlboro in return. Sam pulled out the page he had ripped from the phonebook, checking the address and name of his destination. With the air conditioning cranked up, he turned east into the morning sun.
—NINE—
The state of Florida holds 79,594 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 53,327 are repeat offenders.
Twenty minutes later Sam was looking through the plate glass window of a large hobby store. A large selection of model airplanes, remote control cars, and all the related gear was on display. Sam also checked the people inside. One guy was at the counter reading the paper, older than Sam by maybe ten years. A thirtyish man and his son were checking out plane engines on the other side of the store; apparently a slow day for business.
The door chimed as he entered the store and the man looked up from his paper.
“Hello, help you find anything today?”
“Not sure yet. Where do you keep your radios?”
“Back corner.” He pointed. The man and his son approached with an engine for the latest father-son project. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
“Thank you.”
He smiled at the eager kid before he walked in the direction indicated. Sam saw what he needed as soon as he looked through the display case. A Futaba radio with four servos. Designed for use in model airplanes, the kit came with a powerful radio with a very good range and a collapsing antenna. The standard four-servo kit was enough for the throttle, two ailerons, and the rudder of the average model airplane. Perfect.
“What can I do you for?”
The man had a name tag that read Phil. He looked like a Phil. He had a gentle look about him. If this man had any nieces and nephews he was undoubtedly the favorite uncle. Probably gave great Christmas presents.
“Well, I’ve got this nephew who’s into airplanes, and my sister got him a new one for his birthday. Problem she says is he needs another radio for the thing. She told me that this Futaba one right there would be great. Does that sound right to you?”
Phil’s eyes perked up. A radio kit would make this slow day suddenly a whole lot brighter. Radios were by far the most expensive item he carried. The one the man was indicating was top-of-the-line.
“Sir, I would say your sister really knows her RC. That is a very good radio.” Phil pulled out his ring of keys and pawed through them to get the one he wanted. “Did she say how many servos the boy needed?”
“Just four. She knows I tend to go overboard on the gifts, but she said any more would just be a waste,” Sam replied.
“That’s true. You can get this radio with four or six servos. But if four is all you need, I can certainly fix you up. Lemme open it up and check to see that it’s complete.” Phil opened the box before Sam could protest. He didn’t want any prints on his purchase. But Uncle Phil was an honest man and took care of his customers, so Sam let him inventory the box while he watched.
“Nothing for yourself today?”
“No, not really my hobby, looks like fun though.”
“It is addicting, I started in high school and opened this shop after a stint in the air force. Been at it ever since. So’s my boy, those are his trophies on the shelf there.”
Sam counted fourteen trophies as Phil rang up his purchase, all airplanes.
“Cash or credit today?”
“Is cash okay? My wife will say I spent too much.”
Phil smiled back. He knew that deal.
“As long as the boy appreciates it, it’s money well spent, right?”
“You bet.” Sam watched Phil put the receipt in the bag and slide it across the counter to him. “Tell the boy to keep the nose up. You have a nice day.”
“Thanks, Phil, I will.”
* * *
“One more night, my man, and you can retire very rich!” The heavyweight champion of the world was in the green room with his manager about to give an interview for the upcoming fight. His manager was expounding on the wisdom of the arrangement they, or rather he, had made with the promoter. Junior tuned him out.
Junior Mayfield was never considered much of an intellectual. He had made his way through life with his fists from a young age and had done very well. He’d been the champion for five years and had defended his title four times with little difficulty. But in this last year, he’d found himself doing more commercials than training. His manager was no longer spending as much time with him. His failed marriage and subsequent divorce earlier this year had also taken its toll, on both his wallet and his body. As a result, he was not up to his usual shape for the last fight. Nor was he ready for the young Englishman’s speed and strength. It was only his experience and longer reach that had saved him, and he knew it. He had seen the tapes. According to his manager and the promoter, the man was unaware that he was being used and had fought with all he had. Junior had to accept the fact that this was his last fight. Tonight he would step into one of those sledgehammer left hooks and go down as agreed, collect his nice check afterward, and then disappear. A rich man with a good life, as his manager kept telling him, if he didn’t get hurt.
A knock on the door was followed by a shouted, “Five minutes Mr. Mayfield!”
Five minutes, he mused. This was all over five months ago. Only a few knew it for sure. There were lots of rumors out there at every fight, but this one was definitely strange. The bookies believed the rumors this time. They should have had the kid in on the deal at the last fight. Maybe they tried and he wouldn’t go for it? Who knows? He would see what the kid did in five years. Would he be sitting in this chair like he was now, contemplating the end of his career and countin
g his money? Would his manager take care of him, or sell him out? His was still babbling from a couch on the other side of the room. Money-money-money; it’s all he talked about anymore. Well, after tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to ever see him again. After tomorrow he was going to visit his grandmother. Maybe buy her a newer house, one with a bigger kitchen so he could sit and watch her cook for him. She loved to cook for him.
“One minute, Mr. Mayfield!” Some kid with a clipboard at the door. He got up with a sigh, straightened his tie in the mirror, and walked out to the stage. He would do the usual trash talk for the host and predict another victory. He would try to be civil, his grandmother might be watching.
* * *
While Junior Mayfield gave his last interview as heavyweight champion, Sam enjoyed a quiet game of blackjack. His table had himself and what looked to be a retired gentleman from the north. He could tell by the freshly sunburned nose and farmer’s tan. As the man bobbed his head to get his cards in the proper lens of his trifocals, Sam looked over the man’s shoulder at the noisy craps table. Profit and his crew had been holding court for the last hour and just getting louder. He thought he recognized one of the other players from a commercial, or maybe it was a movie? Probably a rap star from Profit’s old days who now thought he was an actor.
“Sir?”
Sam looked down and saw he had an ace to go with his jack-of-hearts. He flipped it over, and watched as the dealer promptly dealt himself a nine for nineteen. Sam was up around six hundred for the hour.
It looked to Sam like Profit was settled in for a while. But his ladies were missing; maybe in the room? Sam collected his chips and left the table to cash in. Another yell went up from the craps table as he walked by.
Once in the room, Sam locked the door and turned off the lights he had left on. He paused as his eyes adjusted, and then walked to the bed. There was enough light from the neon for him to see. Reaching under the bed, he removed the two tripods and quickly set them up. First the laser, he moved it into position behind the plant and thumbed it on. The beam was invisible to normal human sight, so he had to look through the targeting scope to aim it. The lens allowed him to actually see the light. He panned it across the floor he knew Profit always stayed at, and listened at each window. This laser wasn’t just some fancy light; it was a highly effective listening device. By shining the light on a pane of glass, it allowed him to use it as a sounding board. Any sound made in the room vibrated the glass. The laser detected these vibrations, and was able to convert them back into sound that was transmitted through the earphones that Sam was now wearing. He had spent the afternoon tuning the laser to the size and thickness of the MGM Grand windows. He had Profit’s room down to a possibility of three, and was even able to recognize a few voices. Sam thought it was one of the coolest toys he had ever played with. He heard one of the crew bitching to another about having to stay in the room with the hardware. A TV was on in the background, but Sam could make out most of the conversation. Obviously junior members of the crew; most likely one of them was the driver. Sam tightened the set screws to hold the laser on target, and reached for the camera. After training the camera on the same window, he plugged in the monitor and let it warm up. A green tinted scene slowly came into view. He could make out a TV, and what looked like a person sitting on a couch. The infrared capabilities were at their maximum range, but Sam just wanted it to determine numbers of people in the room. This would be fine. The second man could now be seen walking across the room from the bathroom.
