The White Gold Score (A Daniel Faust Novella)

by Craig Schaefer

  “For who, then?”

  “I’ve known some good people—better than me, anyway—who went down for the big sleep way ahead of their time. I’d like to know they’re in a better place.”

  “And I’d like another glass of wine. One of us is going to get their wish.” She paused, catching my look. “I’m teasing. Daniel, the truth is, and it irks me to no end to admit this, I have no idea. None of us do. Some souls come to us; some go elsewhere. Wherever ‘elsewhere’ is, it’s a one-way trip, and quite barred to the likes of you and I.”

  The waitress came around with our entrees. The cut of steak glistened on my plate, hot and red and bloody.

  “Besides,” Caitlin said with a wink, “my homeland can be quite pleasant once you get used to it, if you know the right people. And you know the right people.”

  I sliced into the steak, chuckling. The tender flesh parted like butter. “I’ll try to stay on your good side.”

  “A capital notion. So, this precious watch. Where will you start looking for it?”

  “I’m betting Dino took it off Monty’s body. Maybe as a trophy, or maybe he just wanted his own Rolex. Either way, it’s gonna be someplace close to him. I’m thinking I’ll break into his house tonight and take a look around. If I get lucky, this job will be all wrapped up by sunrise.”

  “A burglary?” Her eyes lit up. “Excellent. We’ll go right after dinner.”

  “Well, I mean, I was going to break in—”

  “And leave me out of the fun? Did I not say I wanted to see what you do for a living?”

  Some arguments just weren’t worth having. I lifted my martini glass in salute.

  “Fine,” I said, “let’s go rob a house together.”

  9.

  I called Curtis’s assistant’s assistant, which resulted in a callback ten minutes later with Dino Costa’s Los Angeles address.

  “He also owns a condominium in Orlando,” the admin said. “Will you be needing that address as well?”

  “Hopefully not,” I told her. “I’ll let you know.”

  The GPS led us through syrup-thick night traffic, a parade of gleaming lights on an endless strip of hot asphalt. Caitlin took an off-ramp and snaked along side streets, the Camaro purring past palm trees and sleepy bungalows. We ended up a few streets off Ventura Boulevard, cruising into the hills where the price tags kept up with the altitude.

  “Slow it down,” I said, craning my neck to check out the real estate. “Okay. Here, stop at this driveway.”

  She looked dubious but pulled up to the garage door of a sprawling ranch house. No lights shone behind the curtained windows.

  “This isn’t the place.”

  “No,” I said, “but it’s the perfect spot to stash our getaway ride. Check out the mailbox: it’s stuffed to overflowing. Good bet these people are on vacation, which means we can leave the car here for a couple of hours. Just one thing to make sure.”

  She killed the engine and followed me up the walk. I rang the doorbell.

  “What if someone answers?” she asked as we waited.

  “Then we’re lost tourists who need directions.” I shoved my thumb against the buzzer, listening to fifteen straight seconds of muffled chiming on the other side of the door. No response, not even a light clicking on or a ruffled curtain. “Yep, nobody’s home. Anyway, we could park on the street, but a passing cop might remember seeing a strange car if anything goes wrong tonight. Driveway’s a little farther out of sight.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t know you were so detail oriented.”

  “If you want to stay out of prison, you have to be. And on that note, Breaking and Entering one-oh-one.” I took out my phone and turned the screen toward her. “Please silence your cell phone before the performance begins.”

  I set my ringer to silent, and she followed my lead.

  “I knew a guy,” I told her, “who was robbing a mansion back in Miami. Slipped past infrared sensors, guard dogs, and three layers of embedded security. And just as he was about to seal the deal and make off with an original Rembrandt, some asshole called him. The mark’s security guards all got an earful of his ringtone: the ‘Macarena’ playing at full volume.”

  “How embarrassing,” Caitlin said.

  “Imagine how I felt. I was the asshole who called him.”

  We strolled along the sidewalk, just an average couple out for an evening walk. A breeze ruffled my shirt, chasing away the arid heat for one blissful moment. Crickets trilled in the dark.

  “This part’s crucial,” I said. “Self-preservation is more important than any score. If an alarm goes off, we leave, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. If the cops are coming and we get split up, don’t try to meet back at the car. They’ll be on the lookout for anyone strange to the neighborhood, and on a street this swank I guarantee they’ve got a ten-minute response time, tops. Just get lost any way you can, put as much distance behind you as possible, and we’ll meet up come sunrise. Run through a few backyards and try to get to Ventura, where the crowds are.”

  Caitlin cracked her knuckles. “I’m hardly worried about the police. I’d think we could make short work of them.”

  “Uh-uh. No dead cops, under any circumstances. Avoid and evade, never engage.”

  She gave me the side-eye. “Why not? You don’t have any compunction about killing, at least not that I’ve seen.”

  “You want a practical reason? The police are the biggest street gang in any given city. You mess with one of them, you’re messing with all of them. Nothing brings the hammer down like a dead cop. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  We came up on Dino’s address. His house was modern, on the edge of brutalist, a pale white cube that married another cube and gave birth to a bunch of little baby cubes. Faint lights shone behind long, skinny windows and ivory Venetian blinds.

  “And what about him?” Caitlin asked with a nod to the house.

  I’d been thinking about that. With one hand in the coke game and the other on the gun that killed his business partner, Dino Costa was anything but a civilian. I wouldn’t lose any sleep if he didn’t survive the night. Then again, I wasn’t getting paid to pull that trigger and I don’t work for free.

  “If he dies, he dies,” I said, thinking it through, “but there’s always the chance of blowback. I don’t particularly want a murder investigation following us back to Vegas. Besides, if we just grab the watch and split, it’s a perfect getaway. What’s he gonna do, call the cops and complain that somebody stole the Rolex he took off his victim’s corpse?”

  “So he’ll know he was stolen from, and he’ll know the only thing taken was the evidence of his crime. Meaning someone knows what he’s done, and all he can do is wait for the consequences to descend. And wait. And wait.” An amused smile played on her lips. “That’s the sort of fear that could torment a man to madness. I like it.”

  “It’s not the payback he deserves, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, guys like this always come to a bad end sooner or later. He’ll get too greedy, piss off the wrong coke dealer, and eat a shotgun in some back alley, I guarantee it. Keep walking. I want to overshoot the house a little.”

  We strolled past the long, black, and winding drive, a murky ribbon leading up to a three-car garage, and past the next house. Perfect dark ranches on either side, his neighbors out for the night or snug in their beds. I didn’t expect to be making any noise, but a little breathing room wouldn’t hurt.

  We kept low, scurrying across the rolling lawn and circling Dino’s garage. If I had to break into a house I didn’t have time to scout properly, smart money was always on the garage: you wouldn’t believe how many people left the door between their garage and the house unlocked, figuring the garage door was enough to keep them safe.

  I checked for a side window, a back door, any other way in beside the big rolling doors out front, but Dino’s garage was sealed up tight. No luck. We skirted around to the backyard. Windows looked in on a darkened kitchen big enough for
a family of six, done up in pristine stainless steel. Garlic cloves and copper pans dangled from a rustic iron grate suspended above a granite-topped island. Craning my neck, I could see the oblong white plastic box of an alarm panel not far from the door. And the tiny green light saying it wasn’t armed.

  “He’s locked up for the night,” I said, giving the back door’s knob an experimental tug, “but I’m betting he’s one of those guys who only turns on his alarm when he leaves the house. That makes our job a hell of a lot easier.”

  Caitlin frowned, eyes fixed on the kitchen beyond the glass.

  “Given that he works with narcotics peddlers,” she said, “he’s likely armed.”

  “That’s fine.” I fished an oilcloth bindle from my hip pocket, untying it and spreading out an array of picks in snug little holsters. “Unless he actually goes to the range and puts in training time, it’s not a big worry. Too many people think a gun is a magic talisman that makes burglars disappear. Buying the steel isn’t enough; you’ve gotta actually know what you’re doing with it.”

  Unless he’s got a shotgun in there, I didn’t bother adding. Shotguns were a dangerous equalizer, especially in a house with long, narrow hallways. Nothing I ever wanted to be standing downrange from. Still, I was feeling confident tonight.

  And maybe I was showing off for Caitlin, just a little. I crouched down and worked the lock, gripping a pick and a tension wrench between my fingertips, concentrating on the feel of the tumblers.

  “One thing’s a lot more dangerous than a gun,” I whispered, feeling a sliver-thin tumbler catch and roll over for me.

  “A cluster of damned souls, bound together inside a suit of iron armor and driven mad with hunger, compelled to stalk and slay anyone who sets foot inside your lair?”

  I blinked. The tumbler slipped.

  “Or perhaps,” she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “a curse that melts the skin on your bones then causes it to reharden, trapping you forever inside the twisted, calcified husk of your own body?”

  “Okay,” I said. “True. Both of those are true. But I’m talking about normal, average, non-insane houses.”

  “Oh. In that case, I’m not certain.”

  “Dogs.” I nodded over my shoulder at the empty, manicured lawn. “Last thing I ever want to see on a B-and-E job is any sign of a dog. Always check the yard and the kitchen for that. Take a peep through the window. You see any bowls, dog food, anything like that?”

  While I worked on the lock, finding my groove again, she peered into the empty kitchen. “Nothing.”

  “Good. Dogs were humanity’s first security system. They’re damn good at it, too. And—here we go.”

  The last tumbler flipped and the lock gave a faint, satisfying click. I pocketed my picks and slowly pushed the knob, bracing for loud squeaks or the shrill of an unseen alarm. Nothing. The only sound came from deeper in the house, carried on a bed of audience laughter. Dino was watching television.

  Caitlin followed me inside, stepping lightly across the smooth granite floor. If we were lucky, Dino had passed out in front of the TV, sound asleep. If not, it was going to take some real skill to slip in and out without catching his attention.

  Realistically, nothing was at stake. I could grab a kitchen knife, storm in, and turn Dino into a human pincushion, then sack his place at my leisure. I couldn’t see any reason not to kill him, beyond the fact that I wasn’t getting paid to do it. The way I figured, he deserved anything he got.

  Then I saw the reason, crouched next to me, eyes glittering in the dark, wearing an eager smile as she looked my way. Caitlin wanted to see what I did for a living. I could either show her Daniel the thug or Daniel the smooth operator. I wanted her to see the best side of me. To see that I had genuine skills, that I wasn’t some purse snatcher or penny-ante hood.

  We were basically out on a date. A weird, fucked-up date by most people’s standards, but still. What did I really want tonight? Easy. I wanted my girlfriend to have a good time.

  And that meant I had to do things the hard way.

  10.

  As we edged up a long, narrow hallway, taking it slow, my eyes adjusted to the dark. No pictures on the ivory walls, no memorabilia. Dino wasn’t a sentimental guy. Up on the left, light spilled from an open archway, along with a peal of audience laughter as Conan O’Brien delivered his monologue.

  I was about to peep around the threshold to see if I could spot Dino, when a cell phone trilled. The television volume dipped and a voice—hard, irritated—spoke from just a few feet away.

  “Yeah,” said the man. Dino, I presumed, unless he had company over. Then a pause. “I don’t want to hear about it, Max. I don’t wanna hear about any goddamn magic flying cards or some chick who lifted your guy like he weighed ten pounds. If I didn’t already know you were on meth, I’d be worried right now. Cut the deadwood and go hire some more guys. No more of these pool-hall wanna-be gangsters, either. Get me some soldiers, all right? People with security training, military experience—spec ops if you can round a couple up. Tanesha is going to sign with us. That’s not up for discussion. And once that’s done, we’ve got another tour to prep for.”

  Beside me, Caitlin frowned. The kind of frown, in my experience, that sailed just ahead of violence like thunder before the storm.

  “Well, Monty’s not here anymore. We’re doing this my way now. Take out her security, get her alone, and convince her to sign the damn contract.” Dino paused, listening. “Jesus, Max, do I really have to spell it out for you? Just don’t mark up her face. Her looks are half the package. We’ll talk tomorrow, I got another call coming in.”

  Dino listened for a moment, then replied in halting, broken Spanish. Caitlin edged toward the open doorway. I knew what she had in mind. Threatening an artist Caitlin liked was a great way to end up dead.

  There went my chance to show off my amazing thieving skills. Once Caitlin went to work on him, the first responders would have to scoop the remains of Dino Costa into ten separate body bags. Still, it wasn’t that momentary pettiness that moved to me to touch her shoulder, shaking my head. It was the feeling that I was overlooking something. That there were angles in play I wasn’t accounting for, and we’d be missing out if she killed Dino here and now.

  I crept forward, daring to peek around the edge of the threshold. Dino—untucked salmon shirt draped over his beer gut, sporting a graying ponytail—paced back and forth in front of the muted television set. Phone in one hand, a nearly empty glass of scotch in the other. And the glimmer of white gold on his wrist. The son of a bitch hadn’t just taken the watch off Monty’s dead body; he was wearing it like a trophy.

  “Can we—can we do this in English, please?” He tossed back the last swig of scotch and set the glass down on the end table beside a long black leather sofa. “Thank you. Look, we’ve gotta make this happen. Winter Court is going on national tour next week. I’ve got everything in place. We do it just like last time. Simple, easy, everybody makes a mint.”

  As he paced, he loosened the Rolex, dropping it next to the empty glass.

  “Yes, ten keys, on credit.” He paused, frowning. “You know I’m good for it. Come on, have I ever not come through with—no. No, señor, I’m not—yes. Thank you. Gracias. I’ll call with the details as soon as we’re ready to move.”

  Dino hung up and set down the phone, cursing under his breath as he traded it for the empty glass. He stomped off, presumably in search of more booze, and I craned my neck to follow as he vanished through another arch and into the dining room.

  Now was my chance. I motioned for Caitlin to hold back, then scurried across the living room floor, head ducked, to drop down behind the sofa. The watch, abandoned on the end table, was just a quick grab away.

  Instead, I took his phone. Moving on instinct now, letting my gut call the shots. I pulled up his incoming-call log. The “Max” he’d been talking to—I’d bet fifty bucks it was our friend with the tire iron from the fight on Tanesha’s porch—was list
ed as “Dunsborough Security Solutions.” The second call came from a Red Bee Supermarket, weirdly enough. I took out my own phone and copied down the numbers as fast as I could, fighting to keep my hands steady and listening for footsteps.

  He was coming back. I put his phone right back where I’d found it and looked at the watch.

  And left it there as I scrambled back into the shadows, out of sight.

  In the darkened hall, Caitlin gave me a quizzical look and wriggled her empty hands. I shook my head and nodded for her to follow me, back to the kitchen, to the open door and our waiting getaway. We slipped out of the house in silence. Dino never knew we were there.

  A plan percolated in the back of my head, a map with lines drawn between the players in this little drama. Dino. Monty. Tanesha.

  And in the intersection of those lines, an opportunity waiting to happen.

  * * *

  Caitlin and I sat snug in a scarlet booth at Fred 62, an all-night retro diner in Los Feliz where black-and-white movie stars adorned the wall and hipsters clustered at the long central bar for black coffee and breakfast at midnight. Caitlin ordered milkshakes—chocolate peanut butter for me, strawberry banana for her—and they came tall and thick as cement in fifties-style fluted glasses.

  “Best in the city,” Caitlin said, tearing the paper from a fat plastic straw. “So, now that we’re away from the scene of the crime, mind explaining why we apparently forgot to commit the aforementioned crime?”

  “Would I be remiss in guessing that you’ve got plans of your own for Dino Costa?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “After what I heard? I like Tanesha’s music, Daniel. I’d like there to be more of it for me to enjoy in the future, and art produced under duress is rarely worthy of being called art. You said yourself you’d have no problem seeing Dino dead. So why did you stop me? And why didn’t you at least steal the watch so you can finish the job you’re being paid for?”