After a period of silence, I felt like I could speak, so I did. “Let’s say I had a really bad latke.”
“I’ve eaten latkes so bad that they made me ill. The eggs. They must have been raw.” He raised his index finger. “But I didn’t stop eating them because I encountered a bad one.”
I decided I liked Mister Greene. A lot. “One of these days I might try again,” I said, although I didn’t know if or when that day would ever come. “Right now, I still have a stomach ache. The last thing I want to do take a chance by eating another.”
“Sometimes the best latke is the one everyone has left on the platter. The one with no eye appeal. Remember, you must get to what’s inside.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
He reached for his briefcase and then stood. “Send Nadine photos of the office when you’re finished. I’d like to see it.”
“I will.”
As he reached for the door, I stood. “Without taking a bite, how do you know if it’s going to be a good one?”
“You don’t.” He turned around. “But, if it doesn’t taste good, don’t be afraid to spit it out.”
TWENTY - Baker
Using three ten-foot-long pieces of steel pipe, we lifted the air conditioning unit onto four pneumatic tired carts, and then rolled it out of the way.
Tito peered into the ductwork that was exposed by the unit’s absence. “If there’s a silent alarm, I’ll let you know. If not, come in on my signal.” He checked his harness, and then slipped the rope through the carabiner.
Cash planted his feet against the air conditioning unit’s framework, gripped the rope firmly, and gave a nod. “Get in there before the cops get here.”
After climbing inside the L-shaped section of duct, Tito removed the fasteners and handed the individual sections to Ghost. He looked at Cash. “Slow-ly”
Cash lowered him into the building a few inches at a time, giving Tito time to inspect the facility for backup alarms. With my stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension, I waited, hoping a silent alarm didn’t send the small-town cops screeching into the parking lot with guns at the ready.
Thirty seconds later relief washed over me as his voice echoed through the opening.
“Clear!” Tito shouted. “Drop the equipment.”
As Ghost lowered the gear through the opening, I looked at Reno. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “Make it newsworthy.”
He pounded his gloved fist against mine. “Newsworthy? You got it, Bake.”
The jewelry shop was positioned in the center of a small six-unit strip mall. The front of the building had a parapet wall extending up from the roof, giving each storefront a location to mount a sign over their respective business. The wall was only four feet tall, but it provided sufficient shelter to make viewing our activities from the street almost impossible.
As the tone from Reno’s exhaust faded in the distance, three of us disappeared one at a time into the jewelry shop, leaving Cash on the roof to act as lookout.
To thwart thieves, the facility left lights on over the jewelry cases. To keep from raising awareness that the place was being robbed, we’d illuminated the darkened sales floor with battery-powered lights immediately after killing the power supply.
Our camouflaged faces and black coveralls made us stand out like Ninjas in a Neman Marcus. Within seconds, the four of us were out of sight – huddled in the narrow corridor that led to the vault.
Goose looked at the vault’s steel door and then at Tito. “Go through it with the plasma cutter?”
Tito handed him a sledge hammer. “Plasma cutter will set off the sprinkler system. The flow sensors will activate an alarm at the fire station. We’ll go in through the block wall behind you.”
He removed another hammer from the long canvas bag, handed it to Ghost, and then checked his watch. “Seven minutes.”
I grabbed the last hammer and joined the other two in their effort to break through the eight-inch-thick concrete block wall. Like convicts on an Alabama chain gang, we took turns swinging the hammers into the exact same location on the wall.
After what seemed like an hour of pounding, we’d made no progress whatsoever.
“Six,” Tito barked over the commotion.
We swung the twenty-pound chunks of steel with such force that the floor beneath us shook each time they slammed into the wall. Just as Tito belched out the five-minute warning, a section of wall gave way.
Seeing it energized me. I swung the hammer into the weakened spot, moving it an inch upon impact. When I lifted the hammer, Ghost’s came crashing down, moving the section two inches. Then Goose’s slammed into it, sending large chunks of concrete flying into the adjoining room.
I swung the hammer a foot above the opening. A two-foot square of concrete disintegrated. After Ghost and Goose took a swing, a four-foot by three-foot void was staring back at us.
Tito looked at his watch. “Four and a half.” He gestured toward the opening. “Let me take a look.”
He got on his knees, looked inside the room with a flash light, and then stood. His eyes were as wide as saucers. “Jesus.”
“Jesus what?” I asked. “Are we clear?”
He nodded slowly. “There’s nothing in there.”
“There’s nothing in there?” I shouted. “What the fuck are you talking about? Nothing?”
“No motion sensors,” he said. “But there’s no way we’ll get everything out. That room’s tiny, and it’s packed. Fur coats, televisions, there’s even artwork.”
I motioned toward the opening. “Goose, Ghost, get in there. Goose hands to Ghost, Ghost through the opening to me, and I’ll give it to you, Tito. Get moving, fellas.”
After Tito handed them flashlights, Ghost and Goose disappeared through the hole.
I heard Ghost whistle through his teeth and then give his opinion. “Holy fuck.”
“Stop gawking and start passing shit out here,” I said through my teeth.
Goose’s head emerged through the opening. “Two small safes. Both steel. Need to torch holes in the top. We good?”
I looked at Tito. “You hear that?”
He exhaled slowly and then clenched his jaw. “Make it quick, fan the smoke, and keep your fingers crossed.”
I’d be damned we were going to take the risk for fur coats, televisions, and artwork. I looked at Tito and raised my eyebrows. “We gonna be alright?”
“The sprinkler heads are activated by temperature or smoke. Temperature won’t be a problem, so as long as the smoke doesn’t get to them, we’re good.”
I extended my arm. “Hand me the torch.”
Tito handed the portable torch to me, and then a pair of goggles. I pushed the equipment through the hole. “Brother Ghost, take off that shirt and fan that motherfucker like your life depends on it.”
“Roger that, Bake.”
Light from the flame flickered through the opening as the sound of the torch cutting steel hissed in the background. With my asshole puckered and my muscles tense, I waited for the fire sprinklers to engage, the cops to show up, or the fire department to come crashing through the front door.
“Three and fifty,” Tito said.
My bowels ached from the nervous tension. As I counted silently to calm myself, the sound of Goose’s voice broke the eerie silence.
“We’re in,” he shouted. “So far, we’re good.”
In a matter of seconds, three gold bars were placed at my feet. It was one and a half million dollars’ worth of gold. I picked up two of them and grinned to myself at their weight.
I refrained from expressing emotion as I handed them to Tito. “No more than eight bars to a bag.”
“Got it, Boss.”
I picked up the third. Before I handed it to Tito, the clank from three more being placed at my feet caught my attention. My heart began to race at the thought of making a three-million-dollar haul. I picked up one of the three and handed Tito the two bars.
Before I grabb
ed the remaining two, there was another clank. Then another. And, another.
I looked down.
Five bars were on the floor. My heart raced as I did the math in my head.
Jesus.
Four and a half million.
I knelt and peered into the dimly lit vault. “How many more bars?”
“Three,” Goose said. “And a hell of a lot of cash. And jewelry.”
“We’ve got two and thirty,” Tito said.
“Two and a half, fellas,” I shouted through the hole. “Let’s get to cracking.”
Three more bars were set at my feet. Then, Goose shoved a backpack through the hole. “Probably weighs one fifty. Gold and diamonds.”
“Cash?” I asked.
Another backpack slid through the hole. “That weighs about the same. All cash.”
“Is that it?”
“Short of watches and shit, yeah,” he said. “There’s another small safe, but--”
The men knew not to fuck with watches. Despite their worth, they were too easy for the police to track, as all high-end watches were serial numbered.
“We don’t have time for the other safe,” I said. “We get greedy, and we’ll get got.” I turned to Tito. “Time?”
“One and fifteen.”
I leaned in front of the hole. “Get the torch and get out of there.” I faced Tito. “Get that shit on the roof.”
Within thirty seconds, Cash had everything hoisted everything on the roof. Fifteen seconds later, we stood at his side.
“Tool check,” I said.
“Fifteen seconds,” Tito said.
I glared at Cash. “Motherfucking tool check.”
Excitedly, Cash rifled through the equipment. “Twenty-pound sledge. Four. Plasma rig. One. Cell phone jammer. One. Flashlights. Five. Tool box small. One. Tool box large. One. Dust masks. Six. Night vision. Five. Six-foot pry bar. One. Cutting torch. One. Folding aluminum ladder. One.”
He looked up.
I looked at the human computer. “Is that it?”
Tito shook his head. “Missing one flashlight.”
“Reno’s got it,” I said.
“And, the goggles,” he said.
I looked at Goose. “God damn it, Goose.”
“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I set ‘em on the small safe.”
I looked at Cash. “Get loaded.” I turned to Goose. “Get your ass in there and get ‘em. Hurry the fuck up.”
High on adrenaline, I began to pace the roof. Concerned that I hadn’t heard any sirens from police racing to Reno’s diversion, I wondered if it happened at the same time we were beating on the wall. Hoping I’d simply missed it, I walked to the parapet and peered over the edge. An orange flicker in the distant northern sky brought a smile of reassurance to my face.
Atta boy, Reno.
Fifteen seconds beyond my nine-minute mark, and forty-five seconds shy of Tito’s ten-minute estimate, we pulled out of the lot with an undetermined amount of cash, nine bars of gold, and a back pack filled with jewelry. I had no idea how much cash we’d taken, nor what the jewelry was worth, but the gold bars alone had a street value of six million dollars.
The drone of the SUV’s exhaust acted as a subtle hint as to the power it had under the hood. I glanced over my left shoulder. “What’s the top speed of this fucker?”
“One-eighty. Give or take. It’s not limited by horsepower,” Ghost said. “It’s drag coefficient.”
“One-eighty, huh?”
“Didn’t take their word for it. I’ve tested this fucker. We’re faster’n CHP, that’s for sure.”
The SUV had been professionally covered in matte black vinyl, had black wheels, and tinted windows. We were definitely in stealth mode, and in SoCal, the black on black on black theme fit right in. I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment while I wondered about the red paint beneath the black film.
Technically, it was still a red vehicle.
While we traveled down the two-lane highway at five miles an hour over the speed limit, I struggled with my superstitious beliefs. Eventually I gave up.
“You see Brother Reno’s glow?” I asked.
Ghost grinned. “Every time I check the rear view.”
The sign for Pala Mesa Drive illuminated at the end of the headlight’s reach. An intersecting road to highway 395, it was the pickup point for Reno. I prayed that he was there, waiting. Short of making it back to the clubhouse, it was the last piece to the night’s puzzle.
As I gazed through the side window anxiously, we passed the intersection.
“See him?” I asked.
Ghost shook his head and then checked the mirrors. “Not yet.”
Leaving a man behind troubled me. We couldn’t wait for him, nor could we search. Putting the entire club at risk wasn’t practical, and I knew it. It didn’t make not knowing any easier, though.
As we passed Via Belmont, and intersection a little more than half a mile ahead, two narrowly placed headlights illuminated in the parking lot of a hotel. Ten seconds later, the lights shot past us and merged into our lane.
It was Reno. I relaxed into the hard back of the of red leather racing seat. “We’re good.”
“Thank fucking God,” Cash spouted. “I was sick and tired of this silent shit.”
Another rule of mine was that there was no talking until everyone was accounted for. It wasn’t uncommon for us to use a vehicle and a motorcycle while doing a job. En route to the clubhouse, the motorcycle acted as a rabbit – a lure to police – if it was necessary to get them away from the vehicle carrying the stolen cargo.
Until I was certain we were all safe, the laughing, story-telling, and discussions about who was going to do what with their share ground against my already worn nerves.
Now that Reno was leading the way, everyone was free to speak.
Discussions of the nervous tension, how much gold we’d managed to steal, and what we predicted we had in cash and jewelry followed. In an hour, we pulled along the alley that led to the clubhouse.
The windows from apartment 3A glowed above us as we turned into the parking garage’s entrance.
I checked my watch.
2:16
I wondered if she was alone, or if she’d simply fallen asleep while watching television. As the vehicle came to a stop in the designated stall, I further wondered why I cared.
I came up with nothing.
As we unloaded millions of dollars’ worth of stolen merchandise, the not knowing inched its way up the length of my spine until a migraine ensued.
TWENTY-ONE - Andy
Mister Greene’s advice swam around in my head like a shark seeking prey. After several hours of tossing and turning in bed, the possibility that I was interested in more from Baker than what was below his waist repeatedly came to mind.
I missed feeling him inside of me. The comfort that came along with the complete satisfaction of my sensual desires. The feeling of utter and blissful exhaustion that always followed the orgasms that shook me to my core. But. I simply couldn’t decide if there was more to it than that. The next time I saw him – if I saw him – I would deny his requests for sex. Only then would I know if I truly enjoyed sharing time with him.
Groggy and needing sleep, I rolled to my side and hoped I’d somehow manage to fall asleep. City and Color’s Lover Come Back played softly from the speaker in the living room, and I found irony in it as I mouthed the words into the darkness.
I’d always felt superstitious people were gullible and irrational. Nonetheless, I found the song’s timing troubling, and wondered if I should view it as some kind of message about having found the perfect latke.
Most of my life’s questions had been answered with a mouthful of food, so I meandered to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. Two bowls of cereal and one tub of yogurt, and an apple later, I was convinced there wasn’t an answer.
I shuffled to the bedroom at a complete loss as to what I should think about it all. On my way there, the music paused. At that i
nstant, I heard a strange scraping sound from inside the kitchen cabinets.
I stopped in my tracks.
A prickling feeling ran up my neck.
I swallowed heavily and tip-toed to the kitchen. The unfamiliar sound returned from deep inside the lower cabinet, sending a chill along my spine when it happened. Quietly, I opened the island cupboard, removed a cast-iron skillet, and turned around.
A clank, followed by a dull thud came from the cabinet. I swallowed heavily, reached for the cupboard door, and hesitated.
Then, the sound came again.
I swallowed heavily, raised the skillet, and yanked the door open. “Aaaaaahhhhh!” I screamed, frantically.
Nothing.
After cleaning all the Tupperware, cutting boards, and baking sheets out of the cupboard and finding nothing, I was convinced lack of sleep was the culprit behind the things that go thump in the night.
During round two of my attempt to fall asleep, I recalled Stephen’s claim of hearing noises coming from the apartment, and wondered if his noises and my noises were related.
I fell asleep as I mulled over the possibilities.
TWENTY-TWO - Baker
A thunderous knock at my door was muffled by the sound of Cash’s voice shouting for me to open the door. Still high on adrenaline, but not in the mood for one of his brilliant late-night ideas, I took long strides across the living room floor and toward the commotion. Upon yanking open the door, Cash burst through it with his pistol in his hand.
He looked like he’d either seen a ghost or just finished a police lineup. Knowing neither had happened in the thirty minutes since I’d last seen him, I asked the inevitable as he stomped past me.
“What in the ten kinds of fuck is going on?” I asked, my tone low and demanding.
He turned around. The tone of his skin had transformed to a pale white. After catching his breath, he responded. “She’s here.”
“Who’s here?”
“That bitch.” He waved his pistol toward the ceiling. “She’s spying on us.”
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