“Don’t tell me that muthafucka obliged!”
“Oh, he obliged, all right,” Spencer said with a self-congratulatory smile. “And I was pretty sure he would tell the guards inside the visiting center that they had a BOP inspector on the way—Marty had told me how the hacks always gave each other the heads up, but he didn’t really need to tell me that, because it’s human nature for employees to warn other employees when a boss-type is comin’ around, right? One by one, all of ’em vouched for me to the guards in the next section, opening doors and waving me right through, and I never had to show any ID.”
Here, Spencer stopped. It was a pregnant pause, one where he pretended to be considering how to tell the next part of his story, but actually he was shaking away a distracting thought. It was unusual for him to be thinking about something he thought he’d completely discounted, but there was the big-armed man in the Expedition, staring at him almost challengingly, his arm with the crimson bear half hanging out. Was that a warning? Did that motherfucker think I was afraid of his biceps or somethin’?
He also felt…cold? Yes, cold. An image came to him of a forest someplace. He was barefoot and walking in the woods in the dark. Was this a memory? It certainly felt familiar, like it had happened when he was a child. Or, rather, he felt like he was seeing it through the eyes of a child.
All at once, it was gone. As quickly as the spell had come, it was over with and all that was left in its place was Middleton the hack and his overzealous ass-kissing. Spencer cleared his throat and got back to his tale.
“So, of course, I got outside of the visiting center thanks to Middleton’s warning. The hacks here didn’t ask to check my badge or ID either, because of course Middleton had already told them who I was an’ I just moved right on through, lookin’ harried an’ whatnot. I would stop here and there to make notes on my clipboard about a fluorescent light that was blinking out overhead and an empty Coke can that someone had left on the floor, an’ everyone was anxious to open doors for me.
“I walked all the way out, not really knowing where I was going because I hadn’t ever been through this administrative portion of the prison before. So whenever I got lost I just paused and pretended to jot down some notes, made some conversation around a water cooler with a chunky woman who’d probably do a fella just fine in the sack, then continued on my way. I had to look in a hurry, but not too much in a hurry. The whole time I was just worried about running into Brummel or Dr. McCulloch, because they were the only two guys who I was sure would recognize me.
“I made it to the front desk of the Administrations Annex and said my cell phone had died and wondered if I could use one o’ theirs. They were only too happy. They’d probably been called and warned that they were getting another damned unannounced visit from the BOP inspectors, an’ so all I got from the secretaries were smiles so big you’d think I was the warden himself. I dialed 411 to get the number to a local taxi service and they sent a cab and had it waitin’ on me outside within fifteen minutes.
“I walked outside, waving and smiling and nodding to people as I went. I made small-talk with one o’ the hacks by the gate for a few minutes, talking about the Royals and how they couldn’t catch a break while I waited on the cab. When it arrived, I walked out the front gate, hopped inside and told the cabbie to take me to the nearest town. I didn’t know what else to tell him because I didn’t know Kansas at all, and he didn’t care to ask me for clarification, just took me into town.”
Spencer put the cig back in his lips, and took a good, long drag, like it might be his last on Earth. Telling the story had invigorated him. He had never told anyone what actually happened because he hadn’t known anyone well enough in the intervening two years to trust them to keep his secret. Most people didn’t even know who he was. That was two years ago, the episode of America’s Most Wanted with his story (most of his escape altered so spare law enforcement humiliation) had come and gone, and Spencer was mostly a nobody again.
“I was only in for a few months. But being inside there…I guess I kind of skipped over what it was like bein’ in the joint, really. All I can say is that not seeing a horizon except in a magazine, not seeing any forests for all the God damn walls, not seeing any women in bikinis on the beach, an’ not being able to step outside to go to a KFC whenever I wanted some chicken, even though I fuckin’ hate KFC…well, it felt good to see the wind in the trees again. To touch a tree. To drive. To walk in the streets. To smoke this cigarette here without havin’ to smuggle it and hope somebody didn’t cheat you. I saw the looks on the faces of the guys who’d been in there ten years or more. An’ I made a promise to myself that I’m not going back to that place. Not ever. No matter what.” He took another toke as a reward for finishing his tale.
“They didn’t give that side o’ the story,” Pat said. There was something else in his eyes now. Admiration, perhaps? Spencer thought so.
“You’re damn right they didn’t. It’s gotta be pretty embarrassing when you opened the door an’ let the bad guy walk right out.”
“I’m sittin’ here listenin’ to ya say it, but I ain’t hardly believe it m’self, man.” He pronounced that last word main.
“Believe it or not, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.”
Pat nodded. “Okay. Just one question. You said ya got the metal necessary for the tie clasp in the shape of handcuffs from two guys from A cellhouse. You said they gave ya want ya needed an’ you gave them what they wanted. What did ya mean by that?”
Spencer smiled. “That’s enough story time for tonight, Patty. I came here tonight for a job. And for any other contact information you might have on Basil. Now, I paid for my part here with my tale. Time to pony up.”
Pat sighed. “I s’ppose you want some green fuh that piece o’ shit Ford minivan you got parked outside.”
“It’d be a start.”
The chop shop owner took on a bargaining face that only a long-time businessman could summon. “I can’t take somethin’ like that so soon after it’s been taken, an’ I presume you did take it pretty recently. We’re old friends, podna, but how do I know that car ain’t too hot to handle?”
Spencer had seen this coming, and admitted it made good business sense. “All right then. I’ll get you another vehicle tonight. Any kind, your choice. I’ll have it to you before sunup.”
“Befo’ sunup?”
Spencer nodded.
Pat considered him for a moment. He leaned back in his squeaky chair, rocking back and forth, unknowingly in time with a few short bursts of drills out in the garage. “A Dodge Dart,” he said.
“We talkin’ 60’s or 70’s?”
“The 2013 model.”
Here, Spencer had to laugh. “Bullshit. They’re barely even out yet.” Pat just looked at him. “You got a peg on one?”
“Sho do. Rich muthafucka up on West End, in one o’ those gentrified neighborhoods. He got exactly what I need.” Pat tilted his head back, and scratched briefly with one finger underneath his chin. His eyes wandered for a moment before looking back at Spencer.
“But?”
Pat shook his head and tsked. “Electronically locked.”
Spencer nodded. “I see. Can’t be hotwired the standard way. Gotta have an RFID key to unlock the steering column, right?”
“Word. But I know where to find an RFID chip from the manufacturer that’ll work. It doesn’t come attached to any key, but…”
“Then what’s the problem? I’ll go get it, hotwire the Dart an’ tape the RFID chip to the side of the steering column. That’s worked before. So what’s the—?” Spencer caught himself. “The chip isn’t anywhere that’s easily accessible.” To this, Pat nodded silently. “Then why even go for it? It’s just another shiny four-door compact sedan. Gotta be easier targets worth the time.”
“I got people with specific, uh, needs. Ya feel me?”
Spencer believed he did. Pat’s clientele no longer included shitty street punks. Now, he catered to the k
ind of people who had acquired tastes. Such newer cars relayed a certain validity that made them the least likely to be searched under various circumstances. As well, there was probably something to the Dodge Dart that Pat wasn’t telling him just yet, some specific feature that made it ideal for creating hidden compartments (perhaps convenient hollow areas near the rear) in which one could conceal various types of contraband.
“Alright,” Spencer said.
“Alright, what?”
“Alright, I’ll do it. Tell me where the RFID chip is an’ I’ll go get it. Then I’ll go an’ get the goddam Dart. But since this is a two-parter my fee is double for the doubled risk.”
Pat spun back and forth in his squeaky chair, cogitating. Finally, he consented. “A’ight.”
Spencer leaned forward, elbows propped up on his knees. “Where’s it at?”
“You gonna tell me what’choo did to get the tie clasp an’ the clipboard?”
For a few seconds, Spencer considered telling him. Then shrugged. “I can’t be expected to spill all my secrets. Must leave some ambiguity.” He added, “That means vagueness, uncertainty—”
“Fuck you, then.” He shook his head laughing, but had the look of a man who wanted to capitulate but needed a good reason.
Spencer leaned in closer. “Pat. This is me askin’. You know I can get this ride. Now—where—the—fuck—am—I—going?”
Pat hesitated a moment longer, then took a deep, deep breath, and let it out slowly. He told Spencer where he had to go and what he had to do. After that, Spencer stood up and went to the door. “Guess I got my night cut out for me. Oh, hey, contact info for Basil?”
“That muthafucka three blocks up on Maple. Hillside Apartments. Number fo-fo-eight.”
“Thanks, Pat. You’re the best nigger a cracker ever had.” Spencer turned to leave. Then, something struck him. He couldn’t say what it was that brought it suddenly to mind, but he just had to ask. “Hey, I saw these guys earlier drive up fast in an El Camino and an Expedition. They snatched up some people an’ drove off. One guy was white, had a tattoo of a red bear on his right arm. You know him?”
Now, Pat took on an entirely different look. All humor evaporated from his face and he teetered somewhere between pissed and frightened. “You seen the vory snatchin’ up somebody an’ they didn’t shoot yo ass?”
“Who’re the vory?”
“The vory? The vory v zakone?” It sounded like voreev zakonya. “They the only ones I know wear them tattoos. They’re Russians. It’s a Russian bear, done in red because o’ they flag. The top captains have a sickle tattooed below the bear’s head. You never heard of ’em?”
“I can’t even pronounce them,” Spencer laughed. “Who are they?”
“Some muthafuckas you don’t wanna mess with.” He pointed to Spencer. “You ain’t mixed up with ’em, are ya, money? ’Cause if you are just tell me now an’ we’ll dissolve this fuckin’ partnership right here.”
“Pat, I was just asking. No harm in asking, right?”
“Depends on who you ask,” he said, perhaps unaware of that sentence’s double entendre. Pat looked him up and down, maybe reconsidering for a moment, then said, “Now gawn. Get my fuckin’ Dart.”
Spencer left out with only a nod to the three grease monkeys, who were just now putting some new hubcaps on the Lincoln.
Out the front door and into fresh air. The city was dead. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, Spencer thought as he glanced up and down the street. The rain he’d heard pounding against the roof earlier had since tapered off. The air was still damp, though, as was the street. He stepped around a pothole that had gathered most of the water and hopped inside the minivan. He sat there for a moment, thinking about everything he’d told Pat. He started the van up using the wires again, then turned on the radio and found a news station. There wasn’t anything on Baton Rouge, at least not at the moment. Just some B.S. about an anthrax scare at a post office somewhere in San Diego.
He put the van in drive, and started to pull off. He considered going back inside and asking Pat what had him so frightened about these vory fuckers, but decided that that wasn’t necessary. If he went back in Pat might just decide that it wasn’t worth the trouble having ol’ Spence back, or he might push him for more information about how he escaped Leavenworth.
You wanna know how I got what I needed from the metal shop boys, Pat? Marty. Alone. In the shower. How could Spencer explain that he had given Marty a sympathetic ear, then used him like currency with five guys from the metal shop who wanted his sweet white ass? How could he describe setting Marty up to meet him in the showers on a certain day at a certain time, and then leaving him to the jackals that tore him to pieces? If Spencer told Pat that, then how long would it be before Pat realized he was also just a tool for ol’ Spence, the Loony of Leavenworth?
Some secrets are best left untold. That piece of advice had come from Marty’s very own lips late one night in their cell when Spencer had dared to ask him just how many children he had actually raped. “Some secrets are best left untold,” he’d whispered so that no hacks could hear their late-night conversation. “If anybody knew everything about everybody, then nobody would ever have any friends.” For all his faults, Martin Horowitz had been right about that.
Spencer checked his rearview mirror. A black sedan was coming right down the street from behind. He waited for the sedan to move on ahead. The man in the driver’s seat was a boulder. He took his parking spot along the sidewalk, and switched off his lights. Spencer turned on his headlights and pulled away, heading west for Maple Street.
There was a puddle for Leon to step in as soon as he opened his door. Even though there hadn’t been much rain, this pothole had retained a great deal. The street was cracked and sloped, all the water running down into this hole like a clogged drain.
He waved to the minivan as it went by, but the streetlights and the water on the windows obfuscated the driver, so Leon didn’t know if he or she ever waved back.
He checked his watch. It was 1:09 AM.
Someone hollered up the street. Leon checked on the noise but never broke stride. A simple glance showed him a man fifty yards up the street spilling his shopping cart full of pots, pans, plastic jugs and other assorted scavenged goods from the day. Another man had stepped out from the shadows and kicked the cart away from where he was sleeping in an alley just off the road. This was the area of the Bluff where the homeless began to gather. Public interest in aiding the homeless had waxed and waned like the phases of the moon. Lots of condemned or destroyed buildings from those various projects, and the gentrification of other neighborhoods, had pushed the homeless farther into the Bluff. Some ended up in the homes offered by the local Baptist church; most were anywhere but.
Somebody hollered from up the street. Someone else hollered back. There was joined laughter echoing up and down the vacant alleys.
Pat’s shop had a few lights on in the back, and some of it illuminated the front lobby where customers would enter during business hours. He heard the drills going on in the back of the shop, so he went around back and knocked loudly on the big red door that said EMPLOYEES ONLY. Someone inside stopped drilling for a moment and said, “Hey, Pat! Somebody knockin’ at this door, holmes!”
Then all the drilling stopped.
A few seconds, then a piece of metal on the door at eye level slid to one side. The eyes looking at Leon regarded him with a species of mistrust. No words were exchanged but there was final consent in them. The peephole was closed and then the door opened. “God damn,” Pat sighed, looking up at the much taller Leon. “Who tha fuck else gonna come up in this piece tonight? You comin’ with a warrant?”
“No, Pat. No warrant. No one else. Just me.”
“What’choo doin’ here then, nigga?”
“Can you step outside for a minute?”
Pat blanched. “Outside? It’s chilly as a muthafucka out.”
“Pat, if I see anything inside that makes
me, I don’t know, suspicious? I wouldn’t have any sort of plausible deniability.”
This changed his tune. Pat perked up and hollered back inside, “Hey yo, I’m steppin’ out fo’ a minute. Get that shit cleaned up.” He stepped and closed the door.
Hands in his coat pockets, Leon walked away from the shop. His brother-in-law followed in behind, and remained silent. Once they got far enough away from Pat’s Auto that they could no longer make out the sound of pneumatic drills at work, Leon cleared his throat and said, “You and Melinda still tight?”
“Yeah.” Pat put his hands inside his pants pocket and shrugged. “Well, kinda. She mad right now, stayin’ with ya moms right now, but, ya know, we still talkin’ on the phone. She be back.”
“What are you guys fighting about this time?”
There was ample derision in his voice. “You know yo sista,” he complained.
Leon nodded. Yes, he knew her. But that wasn’t why he came here, so he wasted no more time and got right to business. “Came across a Toyota Tacoma tonight, Pat. Black. Plates from Troup County. Stolen less than a day ago. Hotwired by a pro. What might you know about that?”
“Nothin’, man.”
“Don’t bullshit me, brotha.”
“I ain’t bullshittin’, Lee. I don’t got no people workin’ Troup County, an’ if anybody brought me somethin’ from that county, or any other county that ain’t sure about or where I don’t have an in with the local DMV, then I ain’t about it. A’ight?”
Leon fixed him with a look and studied him at length. After a moment, he decided that his brother-in-law was telling the truth. He’d never lied to Leon, not once, even though he lied to Leon’s sister often. What the hell his sister had ever seen in this man he would never know. He certainly wasn’t faithful, and if all she needed was a provider for her two kids from her previous marriage then she could’ve relied on her little brother, and Melinda knew it. But he suspected she resented the idea of getting support from Leon, if only because he was her younger brother. So she went and married this winner. He said, “All right, then. Anything else happen recently?”
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