His only recourse was to move away, but in order to do it, he needed money. He'd never robbed a bank before, but his cellmate Roy had been pinched for writing bad checks and had actually robbed three banks in his time without getting caught. He'd gladly shared his stories and his methods with Dillon in exchange for a few packs of cigarettes and candy bars.
“The secret is in the timing," Roy told him. "You have 47 seconds from the time you get inside until you pull away.” Roy would stalk around the small cell, making Dillon count while he showed him everything he'd do, especially if there was a security guard involved. “You pop the fucker in the head… Double-tap him until his brain explodes. That will shut everyone up and let them know you are serious."
Dillon couldn't imagine how Ro had gotten away with killing someone in a robbery, and he had no plans to do it. Robbing a bank was bad enough. "What if I don't want to kill the guy?"
Roy had smiled. “If you don't got the balls for it, just wait until he goes to lunch. Those idiots run in the back for a few minutes each day and stuff a sandwich and some Oreos into their fat mouths. They're retired cops or wannabe losers who flunked out of the Police Academy. Just spend a few days watching them and learning their habits. It's really simple. Pick a bank in a small city but not in a small town because everyone there is a nosy fucker. You need a place where it isn't annoying generations of the same inbred losers.”
“If I don't kill the guy, what about the 47 seconds?”
Roy had looked annoyed. “Start counting, and I'll show you what you do. I don't have all day to go over this.”
“Actually, you have nothing but time,” Dillon said and laughed.
Roy was on him like a panther, hands bunched in his shirt. He pressed his nose against Dillon's. “Listen, I'm not doing this out of the kindness of my heart or some shit. I do this because it's either help you to steal some money and then help me or gut you like a fish and get another roommate. I'm here for life, and I know it. In and out of prison is my life, and I'm fine with it. I just need something to amuse me in the meantime.”
“You're hurting me,” Dillon had said. He could still feel his throat constricting where Roy had pushed up against his throat even all these weeks later. “Please don't kill me.”
“Kill you?” Roy had pushed him away and sat down on his bunk. “Why should I kill you? You're my ticket to a bigger and better life in the joint. I want thirty percent of your take. Got it? That's non-negotiable too. I want you to go see a friend of mine once the job is done. Give him the thirty percent.”
“How can you trust him?”
“He's my brother. He's the only one I can trust. He'll take care of the money from there. Then you can go on with your life and be happy.” Roy waved a finger. “Cross me, and my brother comes after you, and he is a killer. He likes to carve. You know what that means?”
“I can imagine.”
“It means he won't kill you. He'll chop little pieces of you off, like toes and fingers; your dick and balls, eyes and tongue, then your ears and nose. He'll keep you alive, and I've seen him work for hours on one victim. Hours! Imagine the pain you'll go through.”
“I get the idea.”
“Do you? Because he'll be reading the papers and watching the news, and when a bank gets rolled, he'll find out how much the take was. Then he'll figure out the thirty percent, and he'll give you three days to find him before he finds you. He travels with his toolbox, if you know what I mean.”
Dillon did know what he meant, and as he sat in the pickup truck across from the bank, he shuddered. No matter how much the score was, he needed to go see Roy's brother and pay up. Every last dime. It was bad enough his family was going to hunt him down and try to kill him. Why add another person, especially someone as scary?
Today is the day, he thought and stepped out of the truck, putting his mask on and trying to look inconspicuous with a shotgun in his hand.
The security guard wasn't near the door, which Dillon had already planned for. What he hadn't planned for were the three customers who came in right behind him even though he had a ski mask on and was walking around with a fucking shotgun.
“Freeze, motherfuckers!” he screamed and pointed the shotgun at the nearest teller. “Everyone on the ground, or my two partners outside use their laser sights to put holes in you from a hundred feet. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. Start putting money in bags and no funny business. If I see a dye pack or you hit the silent alarm, they will begin shooting. The money is insured, but you better hope you have good life insurance when we start shooting. Do I make myself clear?"
Nine seconds gone.
Dillon didn’t know if he was actually going to pull this off, but he was doing every step as planned. He counted the seconds off in his head as he moved, remembering what Roy told him to do over the course of weeks of training. He had this. Piece of cake.
The customer, on the ground, glanced up at him as he went to move past her. Their eyes met, and Dillon got a shock like he'd been struck by lightning.
"Monica," he whispered. He didn't recognize her, but somehow…he did. When she stood, he didn't feel threatened. "Hello."
Monica smiled and nodded. "I've been waiting for you. I didn't think you'd ever get here."
Two other people, a man and a woman holding hands, walked over. The man was grinning. “I've had this dream for weeks.”
The woman at his side kissed him on the cheek. “We both have. This is so weird, right?”
Dillon didn't know what was happening, but he suddenly realized robbing the bank wasn't important. “We need to leave. Now.”
The security guard came running from the back room, and Dillon leveled the shotgun at him and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion, and there was blood everywhere.
As people screamed, the four calmly left the bank and walked across the street, piling into Dillon's pickup truck.
“Look at the rack on that mamasita,” Mike Galvin nearly screamed, causing everyone within earshot to flinch, including a very embarrassed Manny Santiago.
“Shut up.” Manny took another sip of soda. He couldn’t wait for this day to end. Another long shift with his “partner” Mike Galvin. Some days, he wasn’t that bad, only tossing out an inconsiderate comment or leering too long at a woman, but today wasn’t one of those days. Already, they’d responded to a domestic violence call where Galvin had blatantly hit on a woman that was hysterical and bruised. Ignoring the fact that her boyfriend had just beaten her, he asked her if she wanted to catch dinner and a movie with him.
“Go outside and let me do this, you idiot,” Manny had said.
“What? Under all the black and blue, she’s hot.”
“Do you want another mark on your record?”
“Nope.” Galvin had glanced back at the woman. “You gotta admit, though, she’s smoking hot.”
“Get out. If she complains, you know damn well I won’t cover for you. One more problem, and Tankard is going to fire you, and you know it.”
“The Chief likes me.”
Manny laughed. “Tankard hates you almost as much as he hated your dad, and you know it.”
Now, standing at the Windmill eating hot dogs, Galvin was at it again.
“Can I buy you a hot dog?” he asked the woman as she approached the counter.
“No, thank you.” She smiled, faintly, and turned her back to Galvin.
Manny had to admit that she was very pretty, definitely Spanish with long, curly dark hair and strong facial features. The most striking were her eyes. Hazel eyes.
“What are you doing later tonight? I get off shift at seven,” Galvin said and leaned forward on the counter to display his badge.
Still turned away, the woman ignored him and ordered a hot dog and Diet Coke.
Galvin turned to Manny and put his hands up as if he had no idea why she wasn’t responding to his lame come-on.
Manny shook his head. “We have to go.”
Galvin put a finger up and smiled.
>
“Now.” Manny walked up to Galvin and, even though his first impulse was to grab him by the throat and choke him to death, gripped his arm fiercely. “We have a job to do.”
Shaking off his partner, Galvin tapped the woman on the shoulder.
She took her time picking up her food order before turning to face Galvin. Before he could speak, she was smiling. “If you don’t leave me the fuck alone, I’ll call the precinct. My sister-in-law works for the mayor, and I’m sure if I called her, you’d be serving me the fucking hot dogs in a week.”
Galvin chuckled. “You have fire; I like that. It’s the Latin in you, right? You Puerto Rican chicks have a mouth on you. Mix it with a Jersey girl…”
She looked ready to smack him when Manny interfered. “I’m sorry about him; he’s been diagnosed as being severely retarded. He has that disease where stupid shit comes out of his mouth.”
Manny loved the way her smile lit up and couldn’t keep from staring into her eyes.
“I do not,” Galvin managed to croak.
Manny stepped between Mike and the woman, making sure he was blocking his partner from her. This close, she was even more stunning.
“I’m Gina Guerrero.”
Manny took her hand in his and returned the smile. “Manny Santiago.”
“I’ve heard your name before.”
“Uh oh, that can’t be good,” Galvin chimed in.
Manny, still smiling, turned to his partner. He really wanted to kill him. “If you don’t go away and sit in the car and wait for me, I’ll put a bullet in your head. Understand?”
For once, Galvin had no stupid retort. But he wasn't moving from his front-row seat.
“I’ve heard only nice things, like you being a good cop. I used to work at the Pathmark as a cashier in high school, and your mom would always come in and shop. Didn’t your parents own that club that burned down?”
“Yes.” Manny turned back to Galvin and lowered his voice. "I swear to God, a bullet in your head. Maybe three. Please go away. I know you're a jackass, but for once, help me out and just walk away."
“Cool.” She took a bite of her hot dog, and they stood there, silent and awkward for a moment. “Do you have a better pickup line than the other guy?”
“Huh?”
“To ask me out. You are going to ask me on a date, aren’t you?”
Manny blushed. “Of course, of course.”
“Well?” she asked, her eyes glittering and playful. “Let me hear your best line.”
Manny smiled. “Can I buy you a hot dog?”
She put her hot dog behind her back and smiled. "Of course you can buy me a hot dog, I'd love one."
They talked for a few minutes more before Manny, reluctantly, pulled away to get back to work.
“Thanks for leaving me in the hot car,” Galvin said.
“Crack a window next time.” Manny tried to hide his grin but failed.
“You can thank me now.”
“Thank you for what?” Manny started the squad car and pulled onto Route 36.
“For setting you up like that. I come across as a jerk, and then she goes for you. Good cop, bad cop. You’re welcome.”
“I appreciate it.” Manny tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't believe a word of it, but I appreciate it all the same."
Galvin smiled.
“The fact is you’re so bad with talking to women that I can swoop in and get them.” Manny pounded out a drum solo on the steering wheel even though the radio was off. "You make me look like I know what I'm doing."
“Not funny. Just do me a favor and tell me all of the juicy details when you nail that one.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You owe me.”
“Fat chance.” Manny glanced in his rearview mirror even though they were blocks away. He liked this one; she was special. She was different from the rest of the women he'd known, and he couldn't wait to see her again. He slammed his fists against the car, rocking out to no song in particular.
"Hey, John Bonham, can you stop that now?"
His mood was broken by the squawk of the radio, calling any units close to Chelsea Avenue.
“Unit three responding, ETA three minutes.” Galvin glanced at Manny. “Looks like we're going to have another Manny Santiago birthday with some blood on the Murphy Law lot.”
“Shut up.”
“Just sayin’,” Galvin whispered.
Swinging the car around and hitting the lights and sirens, Manny gunned it toward Chelsea. He didn’t need any further information because he knew exactly what the problem was. “What the fuck?” he mumbled.
Of course, he knew what day it was. He realized, for the first time, that he’d been holding his breath all day, waiting for another call to the vacant lot on Chelsea Avenue where Murphy’s Law used to be.
As he weaved in an out of traffic, his fists gripping the steering wheel and his mouth clamped shut, he wanted, more than anything, to just get through another July 8th without seeing more death and destruction.
As they pulled up to the vacant lot and exploded out of the squad car, Dillon Wells raised the shotgun at them. “Don't step any further,” he yelled at Galvin. “It's not your time.”
“Put the shotgun down,” Manny said, gun trained on the perp. “I will not tell you again.”
“You don’t understand. You need to shoot me and do it now. I'll be joining you soon enough here, though. I'll see you in Hell.” Dillon aimed the shotgun at Galvin.
Mike Galvin could be called many things, many disparaging names, but the one that you could never call him was a bad shot.
A single bullet pierced Dillon Wells neatly between the eyes, and he dropped the shotgun.
“Keep a seat warm for me in Hell until I get there,” Galvin said. “Why is the world filled with such nutjobs?”
Behind him, three bodies, bloody and ripped apart, littered the vacant lot, parts submerged in the stagnant pools.
Manny had a good idea how they'd all be linked to the lot and to Murphy's Law, and he was getting numb to the death and destruction this cursed area had.
Chapter 6
July 8th 1992
Mike Galvin was feeling good tonight. He glanced at his watch: 1:38 a.m. It had begun to rain again, which was rare for this late into summer, but the relief from the heat was worth a little dampness. He reached for his cigarette pack and realized that he’d quit again.
A car passed by, slowly, on Joline Avenue, and he got nervous. He didn’t know how he could explain being down here, sitting in his car in the middle of the night.
He hoped that the kid would get here soon so he could go home. He patted the bag next to him and smiled. This exchange would be worth three grand for him, and all he had to do was hand the bag to some fucking lowlife piece of shit and get the cash in return.
Galvin didn’t consider what he was doing wrong. Sure, it was illegal, but how could you go through life without doing something like this? You needed to get ahead sometimes, and his time was now. Besides, the stuff wasn’t going to be sold in Long Branch. They’d take it up to Newark and Jersey City and farther north and deal it there. He was only the middleman, making sure the product was moved from down south to this point. What happened to it after tonight was of no consequence to him.
“If I don’t do this, some other cop will, and he’ll end up with an extra few grand a month,” Galvin told himself again and again. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”
Another car passed, and Galvin checked his watch again. Where is this motherfucker? He is never late.
He needed to get this over with; he had to start work in about three hours. Manny would be picking him up bright and early with his standard frown and a coffee in hand. He liked Santiago but knew that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Manny wanted to move up in the ranks, to be the best cop he could be, to serve his community and make a difference each day.
Mike knew that he wanted to collect a paycheck and do what he had to do to survive. Hi
s old man was a cop and his old man before him. The Galvin name had now been on three Long Branch rosters, and he supposed that if he was lucky enough to have a son, he’d be the fourth.
It felt ironic to him since his father always tried to talk him out of becoming a cop. He wanted more for his Mikey, a better life than he had and better choices than he was given. Of course, when it got right down to it, what choice did he honestly have? Growing up the son of a cop in such a small town had advantages and disadvantages, but the bottom line was that he was always Officer Russ Galvin’s kid. The cop’s kid.
Once high school was done and behind him, there really wasn’t another option. His grades were poor, his study ethic non-existent, and he showed no interest in anything besides drinking and trying to get laid.
When it was time to take the police exam, his father stopped trying to talk him out of it, resigned to the fact that another Galvin was about to get ground up in the system. Instead, his dad had focused on looking to the end of it all, a nice pension and the respect afforded the police in Long Branch.
“I get a free hot dog and a shake every now and then, an extra video rental, and I can get my car washed for free,” Galvin muttered. It felt like he had another million years until he could retire.
A knock at the window scared the shit out of him, and he jumped. “Fuck me! Where the hell have you been?”
Instead of the young kid he thought he would see, his father was standing next to the car in full uniform. He held his service revolver limply in his hand.
“Dad? What the fuck are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?” His dad had retired over a year ago. He’d looked haggard then, his waist filling out and another couple of chins added to his sizeable bulk.
Now, he was standing near the car, his shirt threatening to explode due to his bulk. The expression ‘ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag’ came to Mike, and he wanted to laugh.
Chelsea Avenue Page 5
