18.
Tony Scram hit a parking garage on the west side of Manhattan, hemmed in by a bus terminal and the theater district. Tony climbed the sharply slanted apron, and entered the depot.
Mexican valets, in white shirts, and navy slacks ran cars in and out of the spots. Lenny ran the joint. He punched tickets, managed slots, and fingered dough. He also worked the PA system. Lenny spotted Tony, and barked a number over the loudspeaker.
"Bring down car eleven," Lenny echoed. The two shook hands. Tony slipped Lenny a padded envelope. Tony knew Lenny from the good old Leo days. They worked a few jobs together.
Lenny poured his winnings into a semi-legit deal.
"You’ll like this one, Tony," Lenny said.
"Where‘s the owner?"
"He took his wife on a cruise. The Greek Islands, or some shit like that."
"Either way, he won’t need the wheels." They shared a laugh, as a valet zipped the car into the area. Tony spotted the jockey a twenty, and wheeled out of the garage.
Tony shuffled through traffic. He scoped three guys holding duffle bags on a dark corner. The light changed, Tony pulled up.
They piled in, off he went.
Tony traced the Holland Tunnel. The tube spit them out in Jersey City. Tony hit an industrial park, and cut the lights. The cargo ejected, bending a dark corner.
A few clicks over street level, large bay windows hemmed by metal frames. Two guys hounded a desk, working a drop. Cash piles, calculators, scratch pads. The loot filtered in, logged, and laundered out. A crime pad squeezing jungle juice.
Each one jammed a stack into a counting gizmo. The bills fluttered and snapped. A digital display metered numerals. Again, again. The bills would be put aside, calculators tapped, numbers penciled in. The math continued.
The door blasted open. Three gringos in clown masks blitzed the room. Pump shotguns, point blank. Burlap bags wide open to sack cash. It was quick, and lacked bullets. Each counter was ordered to the ground, and hog tied. They complied, beached on the floor.
Tony’s rear doors ripped open, slammed, and he tapped the gas. No peel outs, no fishtails. No screeching. Tony worked a steady as she goes exit.
"C’mon man, step on this mother fucker," demanded one of them.
"Use your fuckin’ head. We get pulled over, and the cops find all this cash, clown masks, and shot guns, what do you think they’re gonna do?"
"Relax, man. This guy knows what he’s doin’," said another.
The freight calmed down. Tony wheeled. They zipped the Holland Tunnel, hitting the city. Tony dumped them on another corner, and grabbed his cut. The getaway cash. A flat fee. Tony stuffed ten large into a gym bag. He returned the rental to Lenny, and headed home.
Scram vaulted the score. Green and cream bricks stuffed his safe. Tony crunched his own numbers. A calculator, and a Florida Homes mag. Glossy slicks of condos and town homes. A few more hits, and a pad in Miami Beach was his.
His cell phone buzzed. Tony didn't recognize the caller, but answered it anyway. Rocky Higgins was out from that bank job, and looking for a driver. Tony agreed to talk to him. They arranged a meet. Something about the Marzano brothers. Tony never heard of them, but trusted Rocky's info.
Here we go. The Florida gig loomed closer. It was the first score since his beloved Irma passed away. He wanted a few extra bucks for other stuff. Loose ends cash. Tony fell asleep in his recliner, thinking of Irma, Miami, and a stuffed safe.