“Man, that's cold,” one of the domino players said, shaking his head.
“We're so fucked,” I mumbled to Alex. “Jesus Christ. He's gonna kill me.”
“Nah,” the safecracker said, trying to calm me down. “Just give the safe back to that biker asshole and walk the fuck away.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” I pointed at the drilled hole in the front. “What about this? It's ruined now.”
“Buy another safe just like this one.”
“The combination would be different. I think he'd notice that.”
“I can switch the locks,” the old guy said, lighting a cigarette. “No problem.”
Boogie picked at his hair.
“All right.” I sighed loudly. “I guess we don't have a choice. Do that and we'll be back on Sunday.”
“Don't forget,” Boogie said. “Two grand. Plus the cost of the new safe. Otherwise I'll sink this motherfucker in the river.”
“And if the Holy Ghosts sink me in the fucking river first,” I huffed as I walked away, “I'll wait for you at the bottom.”
Alex walked alongside me with his head down as we left the tire shop.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Why?”
“You seem pretty freaked out. I've never seen you like this.”
“This was supposed to be so easy. Follow Zeppelin to the hotel. Take the money.”
“Shit definitely went haywire,” he said. He stopped on the sidewalk to light a cigarette.
“‘Snowbird’ by Anne Murray,” I said.
“Is that what he was singing?”
Behind us, Boogie sang from the office.
“When I was young my heart was young then too, and anything that it would tell me, that's the thing that I would do.”
“What a fucking asshole,” Alex sneered.
SIXTEEN
BETTER IN THE BALTIMORE COUNTY JAIL THAN HE EVER DID ON THE OUTSIDE. HE WALKED INTO THE VISITORS' ROOM LOOKING RESTED, FED AND BATHED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS. NO FOOD STAINS ON HIS ORANGE JUMPSUIT. HE LEANED FORWARD, PLACED HIS HANDCUFFED WRISTS ON THE METAL TABLE AND TOLD ME AND ALEX HOW MUCH HE LOVED JAIL.
“Guess what I watched today, Alex? Remember that episode of Hawaii Five-O where the hippie kid asks that old dude for money and the old dude tries touching the kid's dick and the hippie kid punches him in the head and steals his wallet?”
“That's a fucking great one,” Alex said. “It turns out the old guy had two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a storage locker.”
“Yeah. And that hippie chick ODs and they play all that weird trippy music.”
“And that bartender gives them those licorice-flavored rolling papers?”
Keith sighed happily.
“Man. Licorice-flavored rolling papers. Can you imagine?”
“That's a good one.”
“A classic, man. A classic. Hawaii Five-O is the best TV show ever.”
The visitors' room at the county jail looked just like it did a few years ago when Alex made me come with him to visit Danny. The ocean blue concrete walls still held the corkboard covered with posters announcing the rules, such as NO TOUCHING and VISITORS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL OR DRUGS WILL BE EXPELLED. Guards stood against one wall observing the metal tables where prisoners sat with girlfriends and family. Two doors faced off on opposite walls. One door led back to the prison, the other door to the outside. I'd be leaving through one. Keith would not.
“So they're treating you all right in here?” I asked.
“Pretty much. It ain't bad, really. I watch TV all day and smoke. Hell, I'd be doing the same thing at home anyway.”
A guard carrying a shotgun yawned as he walked past us. When he returned to the corner, Alex leaned forward.
“So what are they charging you with, anyway?” he asked.
“They think I'm one of the Holy Ghosts,” Keith said with wide eyes.
Me and Alex found that hysterical: poor, dumb Keith a member of the most bloodthirsty pack of psychos in town.
“Fucking cops,” Keith said softly. “That fight got crazy. Carnies and Holy Ghosts clubbing each other. Then the cops ran in and started busting up heads. I tried running but a cop coming the other way grabbed me.”
Keith stubbed out his cigarette.
“They stuffed me in a paddy wagon. It was filled with dudes. Holy Ghosts on one side, carnies on the other. They were spitting on each other and going nuts. Kicking each other across the aisle. This big-ass carny across from me kept staring at me. We turned a corner and he came at me. Landed on top of me and head-butted me in the eye.”
He showed us the bruise on his temple.
“How much is your bail?” I asked.
“I don't know. They don't even know what they're charging me with. I heard something about felony assault or felony riot. One of the Holy Ghosts said something about us getting five years. Shit. Hopefully they'll figure out I ain't no Holy Ghost and let me out of here. I tell you one thing I am scared of, though.”
He leaned across the table. His face grew tight with fear. He waited to talk until the guard walked to the other side of the room.
“They're gonna cut my hair, aren't they?”
“Why would they do that?”
“That's what they do! They give everybody a crew cut.”
“That's the army, Keith.”
“Naw. Happens in prison too.”
“No, it doesn't,” Alex said. “Look around the room. All these dudes have hair.”
Alex kept talking but the words were lost in shouts from across the room. A tall inmate in a jumpsuit pounded his handcuffed fists on the metal table. Veins pulsated across his bald head. He kept screaming.
“You're a fucking dead man!”
He rocketed to his feet. The metal chair under him shot backward, slamming into the wall before clanging to the ground. Three guards struggled to restrain him. Every muscle in his body rippled with anger.
“You're dead! You're fucking dead!”
I didn't want to be whoever this guy was threatening. My eyes met his. Shit. I was the guy he was threatening.
“You don't know who you're fucking with!”
My stomach twisted in knots.
“Oh yeah,” Keith said, calmly turning his head. “All the Holy Ghosts want to kill you. I heard Backwoods Billy's offering a reward for anybody who brings in you and that safe.”
“How much is the reward?” Alex asked with a smile.
“Hopefully enough to bail me out,” Keith joked.
I swallowed hard.
“By the way, Boogie opened the safe,” Alex whispered to Keith. “Know what was in it?”
Keith shook his head.
“Two reel-to-reel tapes.”
Keith shook his head.
“Where's the guitar?” he asked.
“Under the couch in Frenchy's basement,” I answered.
“You guys still going to New York? You know, for that thing?” he asked.
“It's our only hope.” I shrugged. “That money could get you out of here and buy that safe back from Boogie.”
“Did you come up with a new plan yet? I don't think I'm gonna make it.”
He held up his handcuffed wrists.
This was a serious problem. I hadn't even thought about it. We'd gone over every possible angle for this thing and devised an airtight plan. It needed to be perfectly timed using four people, not three. My head hurt and I rubbed my temples. Alex hadn't said a word but I knew what he was thinking.
“Shit. I guess we need to find a fourth person to make this work.”
A guard stepped up behind Keith and kicked the back of his chair.
“Visiting hours are over, asshole.”
We promised Keith we'd get him out of there as soon as we could. He wished us luck and told us to look for licorice-flavored rolling papers in New York City.
As me and Alex pulled out of the parking lot I turned left and headed toward the one pla
ce I already knew Alex was going to suggest. He finally spoke up.
“Danny's?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Damn it.”
SEVENTEEN
LOOK AT ME. NOT EVEN AFTER ME AND ALEX EXPLAINED THE PLAN AND HOW MUCH MONEY WE COULD MAKE IF WE PULLED IT OFF. HE STRETCHED OUT IN A LA-Z-BOY CHAIR IN HIS MOM'S BASEMENT AND STARED AT AN OLD WOODEN TV FLICKERING IN THE DARK WHILE WE TALKED. NOW AND THEN HE DUG HIS HAND INTO A BAG OF PIGGLY WIGGLY CHEESE PUFFS AND SHOVED THEM IN HIS MOUTH. POWDERED CHEESE CLUNG TO HIS BUSHY HANDLEBAR MUSTACHE AND SPRINKLED ON HIS BARE CHEST. HIS BEER BELLY DROOPED OVER THE WAISTBAND OF EMERALD GREEN SWEATPANTS.
“What do you think?” Alex asked.
Danny stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
“Well, I don't know, boys. I'm not even supposed to leave the state since I'm on probation.”
“Me neither.” Alex shrugged. “We'll be there and back the same day. No one will even know we're gone.”
“And I'll tell you what else is bugging me. Why Zeppelin? Shit, man. They're one of the best bands around.”
He started singing. His head shook and he strummed an invisible guitar.
“‘It's been a long time since I rock 'n' rolled. Dun duh. Dun duh dun duh.’ I mean, damn, that's a great fucking tune, man.”
Alex stopped me before I could talk.
“This has nothing to do with them. We just grab the money, pay off Boogie, get Keith out of jail and divide up the rest.”
Danny thought for a few seconds, sipped from his beer and then sat back in the recliner.
“Nah. I think I'll sit this one out.” Danny shrugged. “Good luck, Alex.”
Alex shot me a panicked look. He didn't know what to say. I did.
“So, Danny, did Alex tell you that Boogie got the safe open?”
That got his attention. He lurched forward in the chair and tossed the cheese puffs on a TV tray cluttered with empty beer cans. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants, leaving a streak of orange cheese.
“Well, shit. No. No, he did not. When did this happen?”
“This morning. Want to know what was in it?”
“Hell yes, I do.”
“Two old reel-to-reel tapes. That's it.”
“You're shitting me!”
“Anne Murray and Jim Nabors.”
He looked at Alex in disbelief. Alex nodded. Danny groaned then his head drooped. He rubbed his eyes then stared up at the ceiling. He was counting on that safe to be his big score and it wasn't. This was a broken man. He let out a long, agonized sigh, lit a cigarette and leaned forward.
“So you'll help us?” I asked.
“No. I still ain't gonna do it. I can't risk it. Some of us got responsibilities, Patrick. I can't be getting arrested. No sir. I'm getting my shit together.”
Alex's Grandma Alice came down the stairs carrying a basket of dirty laundry.
“Hey, Grandma,” Alex said.
“Hi, boys,” she said.
She stopped and stared at Danny.
“Are those my sweatpants?” she yelled. “Goddamn it, Daniel! How many times have I told you not to wear my damn sweatpants! Look at 'em. You got cheese puffs all over 'em.”
“Grandma! We're talking here. Go upstairs.”
“You need to talk about getting a job, Daniel. This shit has gone on long enough. You need to get your ass out of this basement and get to work.”
“I know! I'm working on it. Now give us a minute.”
Grandma Alice trudged up the stairs muttering. When the basement door closed, Danny stood up and brushed the cheese puff crumbs off his chest.
“Well, boys,” he said. “I'll tell ya what. I'm gonna help you out, but just this once.”
EIGHTEEN
STOP STARING AT THE LIP-GLOSSED MOUTH ON THE GIRL ACROSS FROM ME. SHE SAT SLUMPED OVER IN A CHAIR IN THE LOBBY OF THE DRAKE HOTEL WITH HER FACE BURIED UNDER ENORMOUS SUNGLASSES AND A FEATHER BOA. A WHITE MINISKIRT CREPT UP HER THIGHS. SHE SLEPT WITH HER HEAD TILTED STRAIGHT BACK, SNORING VIOLENTLY, WITH BRIGHT RED LIP GLOSS SMEARED AROUND HER MOUTH.
Frenchy was the first to say what we were all thinking.
“Keith would have loved this.”
“He would have put something in that chick's mouth,” I said.
“Probably his balls.” Alex grinned.
A midafternoon party raged around the couch where I sat sandwiched between Frenchy and Alex. Drunken people filled the chairs and couches and crowded near the elevators waiting for any sign of Zeppelin. Most of the partiers were women who had spent all night, maybe even all weekend, trying to meet the band. Everyone seemed wasted or at least running on the fumes from last night's partying. The mood was ugly but the groupies weren't leaving. It was Sunday, Zeppelin's last gig at Madison Square Garden before the band headed back to London. It was the last chance for fans to party with Zeppelin and our last chance to snatch the money. No bank was open on Sunday so we had all day to find the money from last night's gig.
Alex looked around the lobby.
“I can't believe the women here.”
His head swiveled backward.
“Oh my God! Look at her. Should I go talk to her?”
“We're not here to meet women, Alex,” I reminded him.
“Fine,” he huffed, slouching back into the couch.
A chauffer walked quickly across the lobby to the front desk. He wore a short-brimmed chauffeur's hat over dark hair slicked back in a ponytail that hung down over his collar. In one hand he carried a large guitar case.
The hotel clerk behind the desk looked worn down from the drunken carnival in the lobby. Over the past few days he'd dealt with the most fucked-up and deranged people in the city and his face showed it. He snapped at the chauffeur. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah. You can tell me where I can find Richard Cole. Those Led Zeppelin boys left this guitar in my limo and I need to give it to them.”
“Sir, we've been instructed not to disturb Mr. Cole. Would you like to leave the guitar here with me?”
The chauffeur struggled to lift the guitar case up to the counter. He slammed it down on the wooden countertop and sent a white phone crashing to the floor. The guitar case clasps opened with loud snaps and the chauffeur lifted the lid.
“This is a nineteen fifty-eight Gibson Les Paul. One of only seventeen hundred in existence. It belongs to Mr. Jimmy Page. You think I trust you or any of the mongrels in this lobby around this guitar?”
He pointed wildly around the room. The hotel clerk stared at the guitar while he fumbled to pick the phone up off the floor.
“Well, sir, I uh …” he muttered.
A barefoot girl in skintight jeans and a half-shirt walked around the counter behind him. A bottle of wine dangled loosely in one hand. She opened an office door, peered inside, then walked away, leaving it open.
“Hey, man,” she slurred to the clerk. “Where's the bathroom?”
“Down the hall,” he pointed.
“You see what I'm talking about?” the chauffeur said. “That girl wouldn't have thought twice about walking right off with this thing. Then Zeppelin would have your ass and mine.”
The chauffeur leaned forward and talked low.
“Now I ain't accusing you of anything, bud. I can just tell that you're understaffed and overworked here. This is a goddamn circus. You can't be expected to handle all this alone. Let me know where I can find Richard Cole and I'll be out of your way.”
The clerk exhaled loudly and nodded. He flipped through a ledger on the desk.
“Mr. Cole is in room twenty-one-ten on the top floor.”
“I appreciate it,” the chauffeur said. He dragged the guitar case off the counter and walked toward the elevator. He stared straight at me and winked as he passed.
“I can't believe Danny pulled that off,” Frenchy said.
“Of course he did.” Alex grinned. “He's a Carter. We're born bullshitters.”
“Where'd he get the chauffeur outfit?�
�� Frenchy asked.
“I borrowed it from Carmine,” I answered.
“He looks good.”
Frenchy grabbed the guitar case at his feet. He'd insisted on bringing his beaten-up Fender Telecaster just in case Jimmy Page wanted to buy that too.
We slipped into the elevator with Danny. I didn't look at him. His pissing and moaning on the drive up here nearly broke me. When he wasn't complaining about the traffic or my car or the music, he talked endless shit about himself. I already swore to myself that he was sitting in the backseat on the way home.
Danny dropped the case holding the '58 Les Paul with a heavy thud as soon as the elevator doors closed.
“Take it easy!” Frency hissed. “That guitar is really rare.”
“Then you carry this goddamn thing, Frenchy. Fucking guitar weighs a ton.”
He tossed the chauffeur's cap on the ground and loosened his tie.
“Fuck. How much longer do I gotta wear this shit?”
“Not long. Just keep it together.”
“Don't tell me to hold it together, Patrick.”
I looked at Alex and rolled my eyes.
“I don't see why I have to be the one in a fucking costume,” he whined.
“Because you're the oldest,” I said.
I clipped an ID card to his pocket and handed him a walkie-talkie.
“Now remember to clear the hallways. We don't want any of these hippies around. Do whatever you have to do to get them off the floor.”
“With fucking pleasure.” He grinned.
The elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor. A wave of pot smoke snaked into the elevator. People filled the hallways drinking beer and smoking among empty bottles and trash. As we stepped off the elevator a pair of shirtless girls ran past us giggling. We stopped at room 2110.
“All right, Frenchy,” I said. “You know what to do.”
Me and Alex stood at the other end of the hallway and tried to blend in with the rest of the madness. Frenchy smoothed his fake mustache, straightened his sunglasses, then knocked. No one answered. Frenchy looked over and shrugged. I signaled for him to knock again and he beat on the door.
Black Dogs Page 11
