Frenchy laughed nervously.
They talked back and forth about the guitar with Jimmy nearly talking Frenchy out of selling it. These are so rare these days, aren't they? Can you believe how great a condition it's in? Are you sure you want to sell it? Jimmy practically begged Frenchy not to sell it. I thought it was going to work. Luckily, Frenchy held his ground. They settled on a price of two grand, just enough to pay off Boogie.
Unfortunately, getting paid for anything caused tension. It didn't matter what you were dealing with. Put two groups of men in a room with a bit of money and people get edgy.
It didn't help the tension in the room as I angled to get a look at the money. I shifted and slipped, trying to see where the cash was kept and how much was there. Peter sat at the edge of the bed. Jimmy and Richard stood in the corner with their backs turned toward us. Richard pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and counted them, then Jimmy bent over to open the nightstand drawer. I stepped around the corner of the bed to take a look.
“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Peter asked.
“I was just gonna grab the money for the guitar so we can get going.”
He pointed across the room behind me.
“You just stay right fucking there,” he said calmly.
See, we're in a bit of a hurry, I started to answer as I stepped back, then decided not to push him.
Finally, Jimmy crossed the room.
“Here you go, Reg,” Jimmy said, handing Frenchy a thick wad of bills.
“Cool. Great meeting you, man,” Frenchy said. “Thanks for letting me jam with you. Hope I wasn't too terrible.”
“No, no, you were fucking spot on.” Jimmy grinned.
I moved Frenchy toward the door. When we got there, he turned around.
“Sorry. Forgot my guitar,” Frenchy said. He hurried back across the room and lifted the black guitar case.
I bolted into the hallway. Frenchy hurried along behind me, lugging his guitar. We found Alex and Danny by the elevators.
“Frenchy got us two grand for the Les Paul,” I told Alex.
“Nice fucking work, man,” Alex said, slapping Frenchy on the back.
We waited for the elevator. Alex punched the call button trying to bring it up faster. A pair of businessmen shared the ride down and looked at us nervously before getting off on the fifteenth floor. They must have sensed something that the rest of us didn't. We were ten floors from the lobby when the elevator shuddered to a halt and Danny held his gun to Frenchy's head.
TWENTY-ONE
AT THE GUN JAMMED AGAINST HIS FOREHEAD AND DIDN'T BLINK. EVERYTHING HAD HAPPENED SO FAST. ME AND FRENCHY WERE TALKING ABOUT JIMMY PAGE WHEN DANNY SLAMMED THE ELEVATOR'S EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON, YANKED THE GUN FROM HIS PANTS AND GRABBED FRENCHY BY THE THROAT. I BACKED AWAY FROM DANNY. ALEX STARTED SHOUTING.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Danny stared at Frenchy.
“Gimme the money.”
Frenchy clenched his lips and shook his head. He clutched the guitar case against his chest and cowered behind it. Alex kept talking.
“Danny! Put the fucking gun away. Put it away right fucking now.”
“Gimme the fucking money, Frenchy.”
“We need this money to pay off Boogie,” Alex said.
“I don't care.”
“This is your fucking mess, Danny!” I yelled. “You do this and we'll tell Backwoods Billy you were the one who stole his safe.”
“Won't matter. I'm taking this money and leaving town.”
“Then I'll go to the DA,” I said calmly. “He already came to see me. He'll have you arrested. You want to go back to jail?”
Danny stared hard at me like I'd just slapped him. He slowly moved the gun toward me. His eyes glazed over while he considered shooting me.
Alex saw his chance and charged at Danny. They tangled together as Alex grabbed Danny's arm and jerked it upward, pointing the pistol at the ceiling. Danny yanked at the gun and hurled them both backward. They bounced off the back wall. Danny tried to spin off but Alex pinned him to the side of the elevator.
I rushed at them as Danny bent Alex's arm backward. An arm shot wildly from the knot of limbs and the cold metal butt of the gun rocketed into my nose. The force knocked me to the floor. Tears clouded my eyes and I couldn't breathe. Blood trickled down my face and across my lips.
“You don't know who you're fucking with, boy,” Danny grunted. “I told ya I studied with a Navy SEAL.”
They staggered around the tiny elevator, locked together in a fight for the gun. Frenchy crawled around them using his guitar case as a shield as he inched toward the control panel and pounded on the buttons. The elevator jerked and shuddered and started toward the lobby.
The motion knocked Alex off balance. He swayed to the left and Danny knocked him to the ground with a wobbly kick. With his arm free, Danny waved the gun around the elevator. None of us moved. He leveled the pistol at Frenchy's head and talked between gasps for air.
“That's it, Frenchy. Give me the goddamn money.”
His heavy breathing echoed in the elevator. Frenchy looked to me with wide eyes that begged for me to tell him what to do. I gave him a look that I hoped told him not to be stupid. He tugged the wad of bills out and held it up. Danny snatched it from Frenchy's hand and stuffed the cash in his pocket.
“No hard feelings, boys,” he panted. “You understand. Now when this door opens, you guys go your way and I'll go mine. Don't do anything crazy.”
Later I learned that hundreds of fans in the hotel lobby spotted our stalled elevator and figured it held Lep Zeppelin preparing for their grand exit out of the building. Word spread and people rushed toward the elevators. When the doors shuddered open, a mob of screaming groupies, drug-addled hippies, autograph collectors and weirdos crushed forward. Emily, Tina and the rest of the Misty Mountain Hoppers stood in the front. Emily screamed first.
“Oh my God! Patrick!”
I slumped against the back wall of the elevator holding both hands over my nose. A warm trickle of blood snaked down my arm and formed a small pool between my legs. Frenchy crouched in the corner behind his guitar case and Alex leaned against the wall, holding his stomach. He reached out for the wall to keep from falling over. Danny stood in the middle of the elevator and ignored us. He adjusted his tie then walked calmly through the crowd.
I pulled myself up and wobbled toward Emily. My legs felt like jelly. Frenchy crept sheepishly out of the elevator with his guitar and Alex limped behind him. The Misty Mountain Hoppers surrounded us.
“What happened to you guys? What is going on?” Emily asked, grasping my arm.
I started to answer then stopped. I didn't know what to say. Should I tell them that I just tried to rob their favorite band in the entire world? Should I admit that it didn't work and now I was caught between a funk band called the New York Giants and a born-again motorcycle gang called the Holy Ghosts and that either one of them might kill me? Should I say that the two grand that would have saved me was walking out the door in the hands of the man who got me into this fucking mess in the first place?
Then it hit me. It hit me like a pistol to the face. I stepped forward, cupped both hands around my mouth and screamed the one thing I could think of sure to cause utter fucking chaos in a swarm of crazed Zeppelin fans.
“That guy just robbed Led Zeppelin! Somebody stop him!”
Panic surged across the lobby. The army of dazed and drugged-out fans transformed into a seething mob. Beer bottles, cameras and backpacks crashed to the lobby floor as Zeppelin fans dropped everything and ran after Danny. Halfway across the hotel lobby, Danny stood frozen. He clutched his chauffeur's hat in his hands and backed toward the doors.
“I never robbed anybody! Hold on a minute. You guys don't know who you're fucking with!”
A wave of punches and kicks swallowed Danny. The chauffeur's hat hurled into the air. The sound of a body smacking onto the marble floor echoed through the lobby and som
eone screamed for the hotel clerk to call the police. Frenchy and I shoved through the crowd. Danny lay pinned on the lobby floor, his arms and legs restrained by screaming fans. Hands tore at him and a female hand held on to a mess of his hair. He craned his neck and our eyes met.
“Patrick! What the fuck? Get 'em off me!”
I jabbed my hand into Danny's pocket and palmed the wad of cash. His eyes narrowed.
“You motherfucker! You can't do this! Look, everyone—he has the money! Not me! It wasn't me!”
Frenchy leaned forward, cocked back a bony fist and punched Danny in the nuts. Danny howled. On the other side of the crowd, Emily ran toward me.
“What are you guys doing here? What happened?” she gasped.
“We drove up here so Frenchy could sell Jimmy Page a guitar.”
“What? Really?”
A bell rang as the elevator doors opened behind us and I jerked my head to look back. Peter, Richard and a team of Zeppelin security stormed into the lobby. Peter's giant head swiveled, scanning the lobby.
“We gotta get out of here,” Alex whispered to me.
“Listen, I gotta go. I'll call you and explain everything,” I told Emily as I backed away.
She grabbed my arm.
“You can't leave! You have to talk to the police so they can arrest Danny. They're gonna want a report from you. He just robbed Led Zeppelin!”
Peter Grant bulldozed through the crowd with Zeppelin's security fanned out around him. Emily looked over her shoulder at Peter and Richard coming toward us. When she looked back at me her face had changed.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I gotta go.”
Me, Alex and Frenchy hurried down the back hallway toward the kitchen, counting on it having an exit. Frenchy struggled to keep up as he lugged his heavy guitar case. Zeppelin security closed in on us. A swarm of fans and hotel employees passed us headed in the opposite direction. I pulled out the stack of concert tickets I stole from Zeppelin's safe deposit box and tossed them into the air.
“Free Zeppelin tickets!” I yelled.
Every face in the hallway stared upward as hundreds of tickets spun slowly toward the ground. Fans dove to the tile floor to gather tickets. Zeppelin security turned the corner and slammed into the crowd clamoring for tickets on the tile floor. Peter's arms waved wildly as he stumbled over someone and slammed into the wall.
Alex led us toward the kitchen door. A hand squeezed tightly on my arm before I could slip through.
“Hey—you work for Zeppelin,” the hotel clerk said. “What the hell happened up there?”
I stared at him and blinked.
“He held us at gunpoint,” I finally answered. “Then he brought me downstairs and forced me to empty the safe deposit box.”
“I knew something was fishy when you came down,” the clerk said. “It just didn't feel right.”
“He's a dangerous man. I think he still has a gun on him.”
“Don't worry. The police are pulling in now.”
That wasn't good.
“Good,” I said. “Now, is there any way you can find me a towel for my nose? It's finally stopped bleeding.”
“Absolutely, Mr…. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”
“It's John. John Osbourne,” I said.
“I'll be right back, Mr. Osbourne,” he said, disappearing down the hallway.
When he rounded the corner, I bolted from the back door in the kitchen and met up with Frenchy and Alex across the street. The crowd on Park Avenue swallowed us as we ran toward the garage two blocks over where we parked my car. A police car roared past us toward the hotel.
“What do you think will happen to Danny?” Alex asked as we climbed the concrete steps of the parking garage.
“He didn't actually rob Zeppelin so that'll be dropped,” I said.
“But he did rob us.”
“They'll have to drop that too since we aren't going to press charges.”
“So they'll let him go?”
“Nah,” I said. “He still violated his parole. Plus he's carrying a gun. He's gonna be fucked.”
Frenchy hadn't said a word. He walked ahead of me and Alex with his head down. The black guitar case knocked against his leg as he trudged across the parking garage. Me and Alex looked at each other and both thought the same thing. Frenchy was hiding something. He never could keep a secret.
“What's going on, Frenchy?”
“Well …” He hesitated. He pointed at the guitar case. “I stole one of Jimmy's guitars.”
“How the hell did you do that?” Alex asked.
He really sounded impressed.
“When me and Patrick were leaving I went back to grab my Telecaster but I took this case instead. I don't know what came over me. I figured, whatever's in this case has to be better than my shitty Fender.”
“What were you going to do if he caught you?” Alex asked.
“All the cases looked the same anyway so if he stopped me I figured I'd just play dumb and act like it was a mistake.”
“Our little Frenchy has become a real thief,” I said, grinning.
“You sly fucking dog.” Alex grinned too.
“Let's take a look,” I said.
Frenchy leaned the guitar case upright against the bumper of my car. The snap of the clasps opening echoed across the empty concrete garage. He swung the lid open and cash flooded out onto the greasy garage floor in thick bundles. Wads of twenties, fifties and hundreds bounced across the concrete.
“Holy fuck!” Alex screamed.
He jumped up and down, waving his arms, then ran a giant circle around the empty parking garage, screaming.
Frenchy stood frozen with his mouth hanging up.
Me and Alex grabbed the case and began shoveling the money back inside. Frenchy still hadn't moved.
“How much you think is here?” Alex asked.
“I'm guessing about fifty thousand.”
“No way. There's gotta be at least a hundred grand.”
“You're crazy. There's no way it's that much.”
It took Alex and Frenchy most of the three-hour drive home to count all $203,000.
We were both wrong.
TWENTY-TWO
YELLED FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF A THICK WOODEN DOOR, “WHO THE FUCK IS IT?”
“Boogie! It's me, Patrick.”
Loud music thumped inside the house. Boogie asked again. This time I shouted.
“Boogie! It's Patrick and Alex! We're here about the safe!”
One eye peered through the tiny curtained window then Boogie jerked the door open. The force nearly tore it off the rusted hinges. He motioned us inside.
“Shit, man. Keep it down,” he said, leaning out and looking up and down the street. “It's late and my neighbors are some nosy motherfuckers.”
It took us half an hour of driving around in the dark to find Boogie's house again. We were exhausted. Nerves in the car were seriously frayed after everything that went down at the Drake Hotel followed by three hours of major freaking out in the car while Frenchy and Alex counted the money.
We argued most of the time about whether we were or weren't going to get arrested, why we should or shouldn't return the money or whether Alex should buy a Mustang or a Nova with his share of the cash.
We dropped the cash at Frenchy's house, figuring it to be the safest place. Then we drove in circles trying to remember where Boogie lived. We needed to pick up the safe. I wouldn't be able to sleep until I paid Boogie and loaded the safe into the car. I didn't give a damn how late it was when we got there.
Turns out, Boogie was having a small party and his place thundered with loud funk music and laughter. Johnny Paycheck danced in the middle of the living room with a tall black girl who, even without her huge platform shoes, would have towered over him. Bleary-eyed partiers sat in a row on the sofa, passing a series of bongs laid out on the coffee table next to a brick of weed and a pistol. The coffee table looked familiar.
“Is that our safe?” I asked
Boogie, nearly screaming to be heard over the music.
“Yeah. Yeah. That's it right there.”
He turned the music down as he passed the stereo. A skinny guy stretched his long legs across the top of the safe and Boogie slapped his feet to the ground as he walked over.
“Get up, motherfuckers. We gotta move this shit.”
The stoner crew on the couch grumbled and shifted in their seats but no one really moved until Boogie leaned in and slapped one of them upside the head. The entire crew then scurried to get away from him.
“Where you going? Get your asses over here and help with this.”
With the bongs, weed and weapon cleared off the top I could see the safe laid on its back in the middle of the living room. The door had been replaced and the chipped-up dial from the old safe had been fitted into the new lock. It looked good. With a little help, Boogie groaned and set it upright.
“Are the tapes inside?” I asked him.
“Yeah. I think so. You wanna check?”
“Yeah. What's the combination?”
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew you were going to ask me that. Let me find it.”
Boogie emptied his pockets onto the top of a giant stereo speaker—a wad of bills, a giant switchblade, a pair of guitar picks, a packet of cocaine and a few stray bullets.
“Shit, Johnny. Where did we put the combo to that motherfucker?”
“Hell, I don't know,” Paycheck said, leaning into his girl.
“Quit fucking around. Where is it?”
Paycheck dug through his back pocket then handed Boogie a scrap from a cardboard Budweiser box with numbers scrawled on it. Boogie opened the safe. The two tapes sat on the bottom shelf.
“There you go, man. Just like I promised. You got the money?”
Alex put his hand on my shoulder and looked around the party. He was right. Handing Boogie two grand in the middle of a party made me nervous.
“You ain't gotta worry about these idiots.” Boogie grinned. He lifted the front of his T-shirt and showed us a pistol jutting from his waistband.
I struggled to pull the fat wedge of cash from my front pocket then slipped it to Boogie. He looked around the living room then snuck off to the kitchen to count the money. He might not have been nervous for me to hand off the money in front of his friends, but he sure didn't want to flash it around them. He returned a few minutes later, smiling, and shouted to Johnny Paycheck, “Yo, Johnny! It's cool!”
Black Dogs Page 13
