by Mark Pryor
“I have to report this to the police.”
I laughed, unable to help myself. “Report what, exactly?”
“You and your friend Gus. You're planning to steal someone's car and there's money in it. I may not be a prosecutor, but I'm pretty sure that constitutes a crime.”
“Talking about it doesn't. Sorry, matey, there's no crime unless something happens, and nothing's happening.”
“Talking about it, planning it, that's a conspiracy, isn't it?”
“Oh, for fuck's sake, we're talking about it like people talk about winning the lottery or doing away with their mother-in-law. Wishful thinking.”
“Right, so Gus was just backing out of some wishful thinking.”
“Leave it alone, Tristan. I'm serious.”
He shifted in the doorway to his room, a sly smile on his face. “You don't know much about clearing your Internet history, do you?”
My heart thumped in my chest but I said nothing.
“I heard you guys talking so I jumped online. I can access my stuff at work from here in about twelve seconds, look at whatever I need to. That thing you guys do, where you use a draft folder for messages? That's only mildly clever. I mean, the reason you do it that way, know about that method, is because that politician got found out, right? A military general or something, wasn't he?”
“You're starting to irritate me, Tristan.”
He moved into the living room and leaned against the wall. “Look, we both know I'm not calling the cops. But I need money.”
“Everyone needs money.”
“Do you know what I do in there when the door's closed?”
“I can guess.”
“Yeah, but you'd guess wrong. I gamble a lot. And I mean a lot. Not many gamblers make money.”
I stood. “Then my advice to you is simple. Stop gambling.”
We locked eyes as I moved past him into my room, and the urge to hit him surprised me. I resisted it but slammed my door a little too forcefully. I stood in front of my desk and stared at the laptop I'd bought for this venture. Whatever Tristan had seen, it wasn't on this. I was sure he couldn't get in without the password—he wasn't that good, else he wouldn't be working for a county salary, he'd be in the private sector. Then again…how well did I know him? Not very, and certainly not as well as I thought. He'd been able to uncover my deleted messages, maybe some Internet searches I'd done early on. I tried to remember how much I'd done, what he might have seen. The location, possibly, and maybe even the amount of money. One, maybe both. Maybe neither. The first day or so after Gus had mentioned the idea of a heist, I'd been characteristically impulsive and reckless, but only because I'd never really thought it would happen. As it become more possible, more likely, I'd been more careful. And, of course, I thought I'd deleted all that stuff.
I put my anger toward Tristan to one side and thought about my position. He was right on the law; I was technically guilty of conspiring to commit a crime. I didn't think he'd call the cops on me, though—he had nothing to gain from that.
In the corner, my guitar case beckoned to me. I flipped it open and took out my guitar, then sat on my bed, strumming idly. I played random chords, ten in a row and quickly, and then tried to remember the order of them, playing them again. It was a way to clear my mind, focus on my fingers and familiar sounds to the exclusion of everything else. I messed up, though, and found myself hitting the strings too hard, squeezing the neck of the guitar too tightly, and I almost threw the instrument down in frustration. I stayed there, on my bed, my head in my hands until my eyes caught sight of the box holding my second-favorite instrument. I kept it in a small safe by the bed, and I leaned over and punched in the four-digit code. The door popped open, and I took out my Colt .45 revolver.
I didn't carry it with me, ever, it was too valuable, too beautiful. And too heavy. My fingers still stung from the guitar strings, but as I turned it over in my hands, the weight and coolness of the gun felt soothing. That something so lethal could also be so beautiful was not new to me. The Holland & Holland I'd learned to shoot with was a work of art, and worth tens of thousands of pounds. Had I stayed in England, I would have taken possession of my father's pair of Purdey shotguns, handmade and worth even more. No, it seemed right to me that if life was imbued with value, that which took life away should be more than a cheap hunk of metal churned out by a factory in China or Siberia.
The cylinder click-click-clicked under my fingers, and my eyes feasted on the gun's meticulous finish, Colt's trademark royal-blue steel barrel and cylinder, and its hand-fitted walnut stock inlaid with a gold Colt medallion.
I couldn't afford this gun when I bought it, but I bought it anyway. Or sort of bought it. I played on an indoor soccer team for one season, three years previously. Our goalkeeper had been a gun dealer. He'd also been a drunkard, which was fine for day games but if we played any time after seven in the evening, he either showed up swaying or didn't show at all. For one game, though, a five o'clock game, he didn't show up. He called the captain of the team the next day to say that he'd been arrested for drunk driving, his third time, which made it a felony. He hadn't known what I did for a living, but when he found out, he coyly asked if I could give some advice. I went to his shop and browsed while he served another customer. Which is when I saw the Colt.
He came over as I was looking at it, entranced by it the way a magpie is drawn to something shiny, and as we talked, my eyes kept dropping to the glass case between us, the beautiful, almost-liquid quality of the steel. I didn't even notice the price, I didn't care. Same for whatever he was telling me, I couldn't care less whether or not he went to prison except for the fact he was a decent goalkeeper, when sober. I just wanted that gun.
He must have seen that, my lust for it. It's not like we made any kind of deal because I didn't know who was handling his case—it could have been me or one of the other thirty trial-court prosecutors. I did promise to put a good word in for him, and that seemed to be all he wanted. I walked out of the shop with my bones humming with excitement, a thrill that was almost sexual, and that gun in a triangular, plastic case that I threw away as soon as I got home.
On reflection, it wasn't the best way for me to acquire a gun. Or anything else. But I never regretted getting my hands on it, because the few times I'd given in to powerful urges like that one, worse things had happened than me acquiring a new toy.
The bullets were loose in my little safe, and I collected a few in my hand. I didn't keep the gun loaded because it was more like a piece of art than a weapon. And the process of loading and unloading it was a part of the art, performance art perhaps. Slipping the bullets into each slot, the almost-imperceptible hiss of brass on steel, the reassuring sound of the rim clinking into place, the click of the cylinder revolving to accept another bullet, and another, and another. As I filled each chamber, I thought about my options. If Gus was well and truly out, there were just three things I could do.
The first was to abandon the plan altogether, forget about it and move on. I rejected that immediately because I needed the money. More than the money, I had released the impulse to steal the money and I knew myself well enough to know that I couldn't put it back in the bottle. I was standing over the counter, staring at the Colt all over again, and listening to reason was like listening to that guy talking about his life, his case, his fears. Empty words that meant nothing, other than opening the door to me getting what I wanted.
The second option was to go it alone. That would allow me to keep all the money for myself. But it meant that two people would hear about the heist and know I'd done it. They'd know about the money. They might just want some, and since they hadn't taken part in the theft, they would have leverage over me and no liability. And as a practical matter, I didn't know how I'd pull it off alone. My idea was for one person to drive us both there, for me to steal the van and drive it away to a nearby location, where we'd unload the cash and either torch the van or just wipe it down very carefully. That was a
two-man operation and I was down to one.
Which meant that the third option was to bring Tristan in, just as he wanted. If I did, he'd be as liable as me and therefore keep his trap shut. I could do all the planning, keep control of the operation, and just have him drive me there. I'd have to share the cash, but then I'd always expected to have to do that.
The problem was that I didn't know Tristan the way I knew Gus. I didn't know how he'd react under pressure or whether he'd chicken out at the last minute. I told myself that knowing someone didn't make a difference, which Gus had proved by backing out on me.
The other problem was that I didn't like being forced into this position. What I really wanted to do was scare the daylights out of Tristan so that he'd leave me alone, leave the plan alone, and give me time to work on getting Gus back on board.
I caressed the barrel with my fingers and felt my breathing slow and deepen. I pictured the end of it against Tristan's forehead, then imagined him waking up to find the gun between his eyes. I wondered what he'd say or do and whether his eyes would dart about like that little rabbit's, whether his body would press back into the sheets as if to make himself disappear. And, just for the slightest of moments, I pictured my finger on the trigger, the pads of my forefinger lying on that little blue tongue of steel, squeezing it slowly but surely until my nosy, meddling, and dangerous roommate's eyes stopped moving and his body settled into his bed, no longer trying to wriggle its way into invisibility.
I stood up with the gun in my hand, appreciating the delicate difference in the weight when it was loaded. I walked to my door and went out into the living room, the pistol down at my side. A rectangle of light surrounded his door, and I walked slowly toward it, drawn not by the light but by my own impulses, some inner power that possessed me.
Two feet from his room, I paused. I raised the gun and held it straight out in front of me. I tapped the barrel against his door, three hard taps, and kept the gun raised, point-blank to the door.
I heard a rustling from his room, and a moment later Tristan flung the door open. I caught a glimpse of his expression, dark and angry like he'd been practicing his self-righteous speech, but the blood drained from his face in an instant when he saw the gun, blue-black and lethal, pointed straight at his nose.
Tristan's jaw worked silently and he stepped back. I followed him into his room, the gun still pointed in his face.
“Dom, please,” he stammered. “What are you doing?” His hands had risen in surrender, in supplication, and the terror in his eyes was magnetic to me, drawing out some kind of primordial need to exert power, to relish in dominance over another human being. I liked it, a lot.
“Dom, please,” Tristan said again, his voice a whisper. “Please, put the gun down. You're being crazy, Dom, put the gun down.” His head dipped, another moment of supplication, I thought, and he was no longer looking me in the eye.
I lowered the gun, slowly, inch by inch, and he stayed frozen in front of me, as if by moving I'd raise it up again and shoot. When the gun was hanging by my side, I spoke in a soft, calm voice.
“Why do you think I did that?”
“I don't know…I don't fucking know.” His voice cracked like he was going to cry.
“You want in, right?”
“In?”
“You want to be my new partner in this little venture I'm thinking about undertaking.”
He nodded.
“It's a theft, nothing more. Taking money from an arsehole who exploits other people.”
“Okay.” He still hadn't moved.
“But the thing is, Tristan, I needed to know how you act under pressure. I'm not expecting anything to go wrong, but no one ever is, right?”
“Right,” he whispered.
“Look at me.” He lifted his head and I saw a spark of defiance in his eyes. “You didn't faint or collapse or wet yourself, so that's good.”
A tiny smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “How do you know I didn't wet myself?”
There was, I realized, more to this computer geek than met the eye. “Change your underwear and we'll talk.”
We'd not eaten a meal together once, and I wanted to see if I could make him uncomfortable by taking him to a fancy restaurant. Actually, what I managed to do was convince him to take me. I phrased it as a buy-in, an investment, a commitment that would be richly rewarded. He was so keen to get his hands on Silva's dough that a hundred bucks on a couple of steaks seemed like a small price. As usual, though, he wasn't privy to the big picture, the real reason we were going to dinner. I'd serve up that juicy tidbit later.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“What's that place on Fourth Street, I always call it Smith & Wollensky but it isn't.”
“Simon and something. Kinda pricey.”
“I don't drink. What you lose on the food, you gain by me drinking water.”
“Yeah, fuck it. Been a while since I splurged, and this is a celebration.” He wagged a finger. “But if we take less from that slumlord than I spend tonight, I want my money back.”
“Deal.”
He went into his room for his wallet but came out shaking his head. “Can't find the damn thing.”
“I've got cash,” I said. “Write me a check when we get home. Better yet, write me a check now.” I pulled ten bills from my own wallet, all twenties, and handed them to him.
“I don't get it.”
“So sue me. I like the idea of you pulling out a wad of cash and buying my dinner. Now write me a check.”
“Okay.” He shrugged and went back into his room, coming out with his checkbook. He scribbled the amount and his signature, then paused. “What should I write on the memo line? ‘Pre-heist dinner’? ‘Celebration of conspiracy’?”
“Yeah, very funny. Since we can't remember the restaurant's name, put Smith & Wollensky.”
“Sure. You know, I can spell ‘Smith,’” he said while writing, “but—”
“No clue,” I interrupted, “just put ‘W’, I'll figure it out.” He handed me the check and stuffed the cash into his pocket.
“Let's go eat.”
I drove, and on the way I filled him in on some details. He was acting giddy, and I didn't want to talk about it in a crowded restaurant.
“I already set up a camera at the place it'll happen, to watch him once or twice and also keep an eye on the place on the day we do it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Makes sense. What if someone finds the camera?”
“They won't. I have a camouflage one, which I can control and view remotely. There's a decent-sized wood very close to where he parks. It's about fifteen feet up, and I found a spot that's inside the wood but looks out through a patch where there aren't any branches.”
“It's in place already?”
“It is.”
“And the rest of the plan?”
“We watch through the camera during the day of the theft. Just to make sure all's cool, we can take turns. In the evening, we'll head out there. Around nine. Check again on the camera when we arrive.” As we turned onto Fourth Street, I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pencil and a pad of paper, handing them straight to Tristan. “I'll describe the place, you draw it. Something my dad used to do with the rabbit and hare trails on the farm—you'll remember it better if you draw it yourself.”
“Okay, sure.” He took the pencil and paper.
“The main road is quiet and leads past the front entrance to the park, put that down here. We ignore that and go on about a hundred yards or so to a track which runs alongside a field, bordering the park. When the track meets the wood, it doglegs to the right. About twenty yards after it bends is where Silva leaves his car. Right before it bends, there's a blind spot, invisible from the main road, from the mobile homes, even from where Silva parks. It's a cutout, so we'll pull off the track there.”
I glanced over as Tristan put finishing touches to the map. He'd noted the location of the camera in the woods, the place
where Silva left his car, and the other important points on our treasure map.
“So how does it go down?” he asked.
“With as little fuss as possible. When he's in one of the trailers collecting his money, we'll break into his van and drive it to a secondary location. Then, we'll have a set of bolt cutters and plenty of time to get into the steel cage he's built into the back of the van.”
“How do you know about the cage?”
“Surveillance.”
“OK, then what?”
“Then maybe we let the air out of his tires and drive the hell away from there.”
Tristan chewed his lip, then asked, “How much money are we talking?”
“No way to know.” My first instinct was to lie, to try and shave a larger portion off for myself, but I'd read enough novels and seen enough movies to know where greed led you. And in this case, he'd see the money for himself when we got it, be there for the accounting. And, of course, I really didn't know exactly how much there would be. “Gus said tens of thousands, and if we hit him at the end of his run, that could be right.”
He let out a low whistle.
“So how much do you owe?” I asked.
“Not tens of thousands. But not too far off.”
“That's a lot of gambling.”
“Yeah, I'm aware of that.”
“Maybe pay off your debts, then use some of the money for treatment or counseling,” I suggested. He shot me a look, like he wasn't sure if I was serious or kidding. We sat in silence for a moment.
As we pulled into a parking spot, Tristan turned toward me. “Hey, Dom. Can I ask one thing?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“No guns. I know you like your guns,” he smiled to acknowledge what had just happened. “But seriously, if the guy shows up while we're, you know, taking his van, let's just split. Leave. No fighting, no guns, just split.”
He reminded me of Gus, of course, as if by somehow having a gun present it'd automatically get used, death and destruction raining down of its own accord. And yes, I suffered from impulsiveness and “Poor Behavioral Controls,” but the one thing about sociopaths—our strongest instinct is self-preservation. And I knew that pulling a six-shooter on a sweaty, overweight Mexican ran second best to, well, running.
