Black Dogs

by Jason Buhrmester

  I scanned the crowd in Alex's mother's tiny basement. All of Alex's relatives were crooks. Most of them were older guys with bad teeth and faded blue prison tattoos. They had all been in jail at some point but got out, married one of the busted-looking chicks hanging around and settled down, which to them meant cutting out violent crime and sticking to simple robbery.

  A pair of boys ran past spraying each other with water guns until the smaller one stumbled and smacked his forehead into a table holding a cake that said “Welcome Home Alex.” On the other side of the table a skinny guy in a denim vest and no shirt showed off a long-barrel revolver to a bald musclehead in a Kool cigarettes tank top.

  Alex's mom looked older than the last time I saw her. Silver streaked her curly brown hair. She knotted her fingers together nervously as she talked with one of Alex's aunts. Alex's dad stood next to her. He sipped a can of Coors and grunted now and then. His glasses and thick beard covered his face and made it hard to tell just how much Alex looked like him. I couldn't remember if I'd ever heard him talk. Mostly he hid in the garage or lumbered around the house mumbling.

  “It's the math of the whole thing I don't get,” I said to Frenchy and Keith.

  “Math of what thing?” Frenchy asked.

  “How did Alex even come in contact with that many women? He was in jail.”

  “Why don't you ask him?” Keith said.

  I was dying to ask Alex about it but couldn't bring myself to do it. Frenchy was right. After eight months in County I was probably the last person he wanted to see. In fact, I knew it.

  “Well, well, well,” a voice behind me slurred. “If it ain't the kiddie table.”

  Alex's uncle Danny slapped Keith on the back then crossed his arms and stared at me. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders. A chicken drumstick jutted from his crooked mouth, hidden behind a thick handlebar mustache.

  “What are you doing back in town?” he asked me, his mouth full of chicken.

  “Just came to see Alex.”

  “He know you're here?”

  “Not yet.”

  Danny grunted and looked me over while he chewed. A piece of chicken snagged in his mustache then fell, landing on the front of his Corvette T-shirt. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe he was our idol when we were kids. Back then he was a football star. Scouts from the University of Maryland once came to Forest Park High to watch him play On a field trip to Memorial Stadium, the Baltimore Colts' quarterback Johnny Unitas even said Danny had a great arm.

  But by junior year of high school, Danny was smoking a sack of weed every day. He stopped going to school and showing up to practice. Then he got arrested for stealing a keg of beer out of the back of the Crown Pub and Coach Dunlop had to bail him out. A month later he dropped out of school and began breaking into houses and businesses with the rest of Alex's uncles. But Danny had the lowest IQ of any of Alex's uncles, which meant he also had the biggest rap sheet. He'd never gotten away with anything. Now he was twenty-seven years old, on parole and living with Alex's grandmother. Once and only once did I let Alex convince me to bring Danny with us on a job. We were at Alex's welcome-home-from-jail party as a result.

  “Didn't you just get out of County too?” Keith asked Danny.

  “Last week.” He shrugged.

  “Was this for breaking into the Old Towne Bar?” Keith asked him. Danny nodded.

  “How'd you guys get caught?” I asked.

  “Fucking daylight savings time or whatever the hell it is,” he spit. He stopped to lick the chicken grease off his fingers. “We busted in the place and the motherfucker was still open. I'd have run but the owner had a shotgun on me. I'm still fast but I ain't that fast.”

  He tossed the chicken bone on the table then opened a can of beer. He took a long pull off the beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Well, Patrick. I know if I was Alex I sure wouldn't want your ass at my welcome-home party. Personally, I don't think he's gonna want to see you after the mess you got him into.”

  I spoke slowly, choking on each word.

  “This mess was your fault, not mine.”

  Danny shrugged and sucked on his beer. Foam clung to his mustache.

  “Well, it was your plan, bud. Not mine. This shit went sideways on your watch. Know what I mean?”

  My fists clenched. Frenchy shot Keith a worried look. Across the crowd, Alex sat alone on the couch for the first time all night. This was my shot. I left Danny standing by the wall and wove my way through the crowd and across the room.

  “I hear you got quite a collection of photos,” I said with a grin as I sat down next to Alex.

  He looked up at me. If he was surprised to see me he didn't show it.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  “How'd you do it?”

  “My cell mate. Crazy Mexican dude from downstate. His girlfriend would come up to visit all the time. She didn't like making the drive alone so she'd bring a friend.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But he didn't want some other chick hanging around while he talked to his girl so he asked me if I would sit with her friend. It beat sitting in my cell. Me and this girl hit it off all right, and she started coming up a lot and writing me letters.”

  I nodded then leaned forward to get a look at the shoe box full of nudie photos. Frenchy rushed over and squeezed in next to me on the couch. Alex kept talking.

  “Word got around and other guys started asking me to sit with their girlfriends' friends. One dude asked me to sit with his sister. Next thing I know I'm getting all these letters and pictures. Shit. It was hell writing back to all of them but I had nothing else to do.”

  The box was loaded with photos, mostly Polaroids of Mexican girls in little white nightgowns or skirts and high heels. There were a couple of shots of an older chick in red thigh-highs and lingerie bent over or spread-eagle on a bed. A hot brunette sucked on her finger and flashed her tits in a series of black-and-white photo booth shots. In one frame she gave a beer bottle a blow job. Had the thing in her mouth to the middle of the label. Frenchy was flipping out.

  “Damn,” Frenchy groaned. “This is better than the old Playboys under my bed.”

  “Those are my old Playboys, asshole.” Alex grinned. “I want those back.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “You know I'm a father now, right?” he asked, killing the mood just as I gave a close-up look to a blonde pushing her size-Ds together and smiling at the camera.

  “Remember that blonde I was seeing? Vickie? She got pregnant before I went in.”

  I remembered Vickie. Tiny. Blonde. Personality like wallpaper.

  “Yeah. She was cool,” I lied. I quickly looked around the room. “Is she here?”

  “Nah.” He shrugged. “She and the baby moved back to Florida to be near her family.”

  Alex grabbed the box of photos off my lap and replaced it with a half-empty box with TOMMY scrawled across the top in black marker.

  The top photo was a black-and-white hospital shot. The screaming prune-wrinkled face looked like Alex, I guess. It had his tan skin and wisps of black hair. I flipped through a parade of shots of people holding the baby. I turned them slowly and pretended to be interested.

  The kid grew older as I looked through the pictures. I flipped to a photo of him sitting in a high chair and nearly choked. His olive skin was much darker and his frizzy black hair stuck straight up. He looked like Sly fucking Stone or Jimi Hendrix on the cover of Axis.

  Lil' Tommy was black.

  I didn't know whether to tell Alex the kid wasn't his or just keep my mouth shut. Maybe while he was locked up he convinced himself that this was his son and had fallen in love with him. What if I told him and he lost his mind and had a breakdown or something? I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “He's really something,” I stammered.

  “Yeah? Think he looks like me?”

  “Oh yeah. Sure,” I lied again. “Totally.”

/>   Alex snatched the box of photos from my lap.

  “Same ol' Patrick,” he said, shaking his head. “Still a bullshitter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alex leaned forward. He pushed a photo into my face.

  “Look at him, man. This kid looks like Joe Frazier. There's no way he's mine.”

  “Okay.” I grinned. “Caught me on that one.”

  Alex lit another cigarette.

  “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I just came to see you.”

  “Bullshit. You didn't drive all the way down from New York City just to see me.”

  “All right,” I said, leaning back. “I have an idea.”

  “Is this the one where we rob my girlfriend's house while her family is on vacation? If so, I can tell you how it ends up. Sixteen stitches from a python bite and eight months in the joint. Well, not for you, of course.”

  I had that coming.

  “It was just as much Danny's fault as it was mine.”

  Alex shrugged.

  “Honestly, man,” he said. “I just got out four hours ago for some shit you got me into and then you show up trying to drag me into some new bullshit plan. What the fuck are you trying to do?”

  “I'm trying to help you out. You know, make it up to you.”

  Alex glared at me out of the corner of his eye as he dragged on his cigarette. Then he looked over at Keith and Frenchy.

  “What about those guys?” Alex asked.

  “We're gonna need them too.”

  He sipped his beer.

  “This idea is that big?”

  “No. It's that good.”

  “Well. Let's hear it.”

  “I want to rob Led Zeppelin.”

  Alex leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette on the top of an empty can. Then he slumped back into the sofa, looked me in the eye and pointed toward the door.

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  FIVE

  WERE NEVER ON SOUL TRAIN,” KEITH SHOUTED AS I SLIPPED INTO ALEX'S BEDROOM. I PULLED THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND ME.

  “They were on the same episode as Ike and Tina Turner,” Alex said. “I saw it when I was in County.”

  They were stoned and standing in the middle of the room arguing. Al Green played on a turntable sitting on a table under a poster of Curtis Mayfield. Alex's room was always a mess, except for his clothes, which were pressed and hung up in the closet. A clear plastic bag on the floor read BALTIMORE COUNTY JAIL: PERSONAL BELONGINGS. Inside were the clothes Alex had on the night the cops nabbed him.

  “They played ‘Light My Fire,’ ” Alex teased Keith. He turned his head and winked at Frenchy. Keith rubbed his forehead. He looked distraught.

  “Were the Doors ever on Soul Train, Patrick?” Keith asked me. “They weren't on there, were they? 'Cause I hate that fucking show.”

  His bleary eyes pleaded for me to tell him it wasn't true. It wasn't.

  “No. They weren't.”

  “Aww, come on,” Frenchy groaned. “Why'd you have to tell him?”

  “He looked like he was gonna cry.”

  “Come on, Keith,” Alex said. “You ever see white people on that show?”

  Alex loved winding Keith up and poor dumb Keith always fell for it. It could be anything. He only got mad the time we made him believe Hawaii Five-O was canceled. He didn't speak to any of us for a week.

  It took some time but I had managed to convince Alex to at least hear my plan. A few factors worked in my favor. Having just been walked out of the gates at Baltimore County Jail hours earlier Alex was taking a hard look at his future. It looked like shit. He was a high school dropout and now an ex-con. He was facing miles of floors to mop or, if he was lucky, a backbreaking job unloading freighters down at the Inner Harbor. And even if he did come up with a decent scam that didn't involve me, he'd be stuck working with his uncle Danny. The few months Alex had just spent locked up with that dumbass probably convinced him that wasn't going to work.

  “These guys know about your idea?” Alex asked, jerking a thumb toward Frenchy and Keith.

  “Nope,” Keith said. “What idea?”

  I took a look around the room.

  “I've been working for Mancini's brother Carmine in New York City. He owns a catering business. We set up all the food backstage at concerts and political events and shit. A few months ago I worked a Zeppelin concert.”

  “You got to see Zeppelin?” Keith asked.

  “Pay attention, man. So after the show, me and another guy are taking down the tables when I hear an argument going on down the hall. I peek around the corner and there's Lenny, the guy who books the shows. He's standing there arguing with this huge, bald British guy. I didn't know if Lenny was being robbed or what. Lenny hands the British guy this briefcase and the guy opens it. It's filled to the top with cash. Then the guy stomps off towards the dressing rooms.

  “I walk over and ask Lenny if everything is cool. He's a little shaken up. Standing against the wall smoking. He tells me that was Zeppelin's manager making sure they got paid what they were promised. Says their manager always yells like that. Then I ask him about the cash. He tells me that Zeppelin always get paid in cash. Always. That night, it was over one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Goddamn,” Keith said, shaking his head.

  “So what are you saying?” Frenchy asked.

  “We rob Led Zeppelin.”

  No one said anything. Finally, Keith laughed.

  “You motherfuckers. First you make me think Jim Morrison was on Soul Train and now this bullshit. Nice try, guys.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “How are you guys going to rob Zeppelin?” Frenchy asked. “What are you going to do? Fly to England?”

  “Don't need to. They're playing Baltimore on Monday.”

  Alex hadn't said a word.

  “But I thought rock bands usually got paid by check or something?” Frenchy asked.

  “Not Zeppelin. Their manager makes sure they always get paid cash.”

  “So how much are we talking?” Alex asked.

  “From the sound of it, maybe one hundred thousand, split four ways.”

  “Goddamn!” Keith yelled. “Twenty-five thousand dollars each? Shit. I'm in.”

  “You didn't want to rob a bank but now you wanna do this?” Alex said, crossing his arms.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Frenchy stood up. “What the fuck! You guys were gonna rob a bank? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “It was just an idea a long time ago,” I said. “Calm down.”

  “How are you gonna pull this off?” Alex asked.

  “The show starts at eight and probably goes until midnight. They probably get out of there even later. The way I see it, every bank in town is closed by then. That means their manager has to hold on to all that money until the next day.”

  Heads nodded around the room.

  “That gives us roughly eight or nine hours to get to that cash before it goes in the bank.”

  “But where will the money be?” Alex asked. “You don't know who has it, where they take it, what they look like. Hell, you don't even know where they're staying.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “First, we need to find out who collects the money after the show and what they carry it in. I saw it in a briefcase but maybe it changes. Then, we need to find out which hotel they're staying in and see if the person with the money keeps it in his room or sticks it in a safe deposit. That's where we'll get it.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Keith said.

  “Sounds easy?” Alex said. “Stealing a safe deposit box from a hotel is a lot different than tearing a car stereo out of a Nova, Keith.”

  “That's not even the hard part,” I explained. “Zeppelin travels with hard-core security. These guys are brutal. British goons who will kick your fucking head in. They answer to Zeppelin's manager, Peter Grant. He's over six feet tall. Three hundred pounds. He's an ex-bouncer and an ex-wrestler. If we get caught fucking
him around, we're finished.”

  “Forget it,” Frenchy erupted. “This is insane. Zeppelin are the biggest band on the planet right now. The biggest! How are you gonna pull this off? There's no way in hell.”

  “When have you ever heard of a rock band being robbed?” I asked. “Name one.”

  “That's because it's impossible!” Frenchy argued.

  “No. It's because no one else ever thought of it,” I replied. “They won't see it coming.”

  “So what the hell, man?” Keith groaned. “How are we gonna pull this off?”

  Alex crossed his arms and watched me as I talked.

  “We plant one team backstage to see how Zeppelin gets paid, who carries the cash, what happens to it,” I explained. “The other team waits at the hotel to grab the money.”

  “What are the teams?” Alex asked.

  “The way I see it, me and Frenchy will be the backstage team. Alex and Keith will be the hotel team.”

  Alex lit a smoke and laughed out loud.

  “No fucking way, man. I'm out.”

  “Why?” I said. “You got a better idea?”

  “I already took the fall for you once. It ain't happening again. You want me in? You go on the hotel team.”

  “Alex, you're the only one who could get in that hotel room and you're definitely the only one who could get to a safe deposit box.”

  “No fucking chance,” Alex said, belching out a thick cloud of smoke.

  “Would you feel better if I worked with you on the hotel team?” I asked.

  Alex nodded.

  “So you're going to send Keith backstage with Led Zepplin?” I asked. Alex knew that was a horrible idea.

  “I like that idea.” Keith grinned.

  “No way,” Alex said. He looked at me. “You'll just have to do both.”