WALLOWED UP IN DARKNESS, the penthouse’s white carpet, with its medley of leather furniture, expensive fixtures and nude statuettes, became a colossal, cryptic maze. Vinnie groped for the remote control to the electric blinds, picked it up, and pointed it at the windows. The blinds remained in place, indifferent to both his repeated clicks of the button and his incendiary mutterings. Even more maddening was the fact that his primary goal was being thwarted by a larger force.
Thoroughly enraged, he flung the inoperable remote at the blinds, the blinds which both shut out his view of the more imposing casinos–which he envied–and preserved for him a temporary respite from the storm. These same blinds now held in check his devouring desires to own more than could be had by legal means. His ambitions were now held captive to the inner darkness that cankered his soul and obscured his vision.
With the floor’s dim emergency light aglow, Vinnie wandered toward the emergency stairwell and vaulted down the stairs. Each landing brought him one floor closer to freedom, to blessed light.
By contrast, Mitch and Smitty calmly picked their way past rows of vehicles, past the confusion and the darkness to where Vinnie’s Ferrari was parked. Apparently amid the muddled chaos, the man commissioned to guard the vehicle had deserted his post. Mitch pulled the key from his pocket and turned to Smitty. “If this isn’t the right key, you’ll have to work fast.”
Smitty readied himself by unzipping his bag and rummaging through his tools. He seemed remarkably calm, almost thriving on the challenge. Mitch put his thumb on the alarm’s disarm button. “You ready?” Smitty gave the usual nod and handed his dim flashlight and a pair of needlenose pliers to Mitch. “If he changed the lock you remember what to do.” Smitty grinned in anticipation. Mitch pressed the button. Nothing happened.
Barnes, meanwhile, after consulting with the front desk and then with the building’s maintenance crew, was led down the ramp towards the crippled power box. On the parking lot’s lower level, Barnes and a second guard came across Tony, who was screaming bloody murder and mewling that he’d been blinded by an explosion. Even as the man still groveled about on the concrete, searching for his gun, Barnes jerked the flashlight from the second guard’s hand and went off to inspect the upperlevel parking.
In the employee parking section of the second level, Mitch slid the key in the lock and cranked it sideways. Suddenly the car’s alarm erupted in a deafening scream. He yanked the key free and made room for Smitty to work his magic. Already poised for action, the little man shoved his picks into the lock and fussed with the tumblers. Alittle over halfway down Three Queens’stairwell, Vinnie cleared the 5th floor. Though hardly out of breath, he panted furiously, his inner fear now having intensified into a savage anger, focused on one punk kid who’d had the nerve to tell him no.
Smitty’s little light, its batteries nearly spent, flickered, then died. Smitty stopped to take from his pouch the larger light he’d gotten off Tony and handed it to Mitch. There was no reason not to use it now, not with all the horns and sirens blaring. “You can do it,” Mitch said as calmly as he could. “You can do it.”
Vinnie careened past the third floor. Only one more to go ‘til he reached the parking level. One more opportunity to snuff out the source of his problems.
Inside the dimly lit casino, Horne and a half-dozen security guards had managed to get themselves clear of the jittery crowds and headed out the front door. Under the canopy they went, towards the parking booth.
Amid this great, raucous, swirling whole, the pieces finally began to converge as one. Vinnie clambored out the stairwell door on the second floor and stormed past the milling guests, Barnes cleared the draw bar and bolted to the upper level, and Smitty, completing his artistry, flicked his wrist and snapped his tools from the lock. Mitch yanked open the door and reached in to pull the hood latch. Smitty jumped behind the wheel, dropping the plastic bag filled with ash and licence plates behind the driver’s seat. From the glow of the interior light Smitty rammed his tools into the ignition while Mitch, flashlight in hand, threw open the hood and jerked the cover off the fuse panel.
“Alarm, alarm . . . come on, where are you?” Mitch muttered as the alarm’s pulsating mantra continued to assault his ears. He scanned the schematic. “Accessories . . .” he read. With the pliers he tugged the fuse free. The screaming ceased. Smitty gave a thumbs up and lunged across the console into the passenger’s seat. Mitch slammed the hood and jumped behind the wheel. The bucket seat that had once felt so comfortable and snug, now pinched at his hips.
By now Vinnie had exited the casino on the level where his car was parked. Barnes had ascended the ramp on the same level. Mitch turned the lock pick. The motor spun free, as if no spark, no life, was within. He slammed the wheel with his fist. “We’re dead! The thing runs on a computer chip . . . molded inside the ignition key.” He glared out the side window. Vinnie, a bleak outline against the one dim emergency light, was on a dead run toward the car, his gun swinging at his side.
Smitty’s unruffled demeanor started to wane. Frantically he pointed at Mitch’s fist. “What?” Mitch yelled. Smitty cowered and dropped his head in his lap, his white-knuckled hands covering his ears. Mitch opened his hand, suddenly realizing that maybe Smitty was right. Vinnie may have changed the alarm and door locks, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the right parts for the foreign auto were in stock.
Mitch yanked the pick set free and jammed the key in the ignition, just as a torrent of glass sprayed down the side of his face. A moment later he felt the cold barrel of Vinnie’s gun collide against his temple and an even colder voice echo through the concrete structure. “You lose, Mitch. This time I’ll kill you.”
Mitch froze, his hand still gripping the key. “And you cheated again. Probably did the same thing with your old man, didn’t you?” He turned to look into the black barrel.
“An’ he had the same stupid look on his face as you do,” murmuredVinnie as he pressed forward and cocked the hammer back. “FBI! Drop your weapon and step away from the car!” Barnes was
crouched several cars away, his feet splayed apart, his hands locked
into firing position on his Glock 23. Vinnie craned his neck to weigh
his options. Seizing the moment, Mitch cranked the ignition and
rammed the car in reverse, simultaneously twisting the wheel hard to
the side, sweeping Vinnie off his feet. The gangster squeezed off a
round, then another as he sprawled across the hood of the car. Slamming the stick shift in first gear, Mitch lurched forward, catapulting
Vinnie back over the car and depositing him on the hard ground. The
mobster bounced once, then skidded like a duck landing on an icy pond. Mitch flipped the headlights on and held the pedal down, sending the Ferrari’s tires smoking and spinning madly on the slick concrete. Barnes aimed his weapon and tried to yell above the high-pitched squeals. Mitch
only saw his lips move as the headlights flashed past.
The Ferrari jumped the curb and sped for the exit, sparks flying from its
undercarriage. Halfway down the ramp, a sea of blue shirts–together with
one FBI agent–parted like the red sea to let the crimson chariot through.
Once the car had roared past, the blue-shirts, with their jostling lights, raced
back down the ramp. Only Horne continued on up to back up his partner.
The car’s front and back bumpers ricocheted off the base of the ramp,
sending a spray of sparks behind. Mitch now steered the car for the exit at
the far end of the lot. Its cross bar was down, but it wouldn’t stand in the
way of his escape. Then, all at once, the Ferrari’s headlights shown on a
sole guard, who had stepped in its path. Facing the speeding car, he pointed
his weapon.
Mitch muscled the car into second gear and gunned the engine, a
warning to Tony to either move or be run down. Tony stood his ground.
Headlights in his eyes and unable to take decent aim, he pulled the
trigger. The hot piece of lead skimmed under the car and rebounded
up the concrete ramp, sending the formation of pursuing guards back
on their heels.
Mitch yanked on the emergency brake and, his eyes still trained on
Tony–who by now had turned to run–cranked the wheel hard to the
left. In a delicate show of exactness and precision, the car skidded
sideways and butted the guard from behind, sending him sprawling
across the ground. Mitch glanced up the ramp. An entourage of guards–
now half the size as before–was once again bearing down on the fleeing vehicle.
Jerking his head in the direction of the cross bar, Mitch’s heart sank.
A smaller group of guards, a detachment from the original pack, had
circled around and come from the other side. Finally they’d netted
their prey. Mitch punched the car back into first gear and inched his
way into the parking stall.
Mashing the Ferrari’s front bumper against the concrete barrier, he
pressed the throttle with one foot, the clutch with the other and pushed.
The barrier began to teeter under the force of the spinning tires. As the barricade toppled to the alley floor four feet below, Mitch yanked
back on the shifter, sending the car skidding backwards into the empty
parking stall opposite. Then he shifted into first and yelled, “Hang on, Smitty!
We’ll see how this baby flies!”
In an attempt to brace himself for the impact, Smitty pressed his hands
up against the roof as the car hurled forward. In one last, shrill cry, the car’s
engine screamed through the jagged opening. As the tires left the solid surface in a spectacular display of sparks and flying gravel, Mitch hit second
gear in midair and the car vanished down the alley between Eddie’s Gym
and Kitty’s Escort Services.
“You miss her somethin’ terrible, don’t ya’?” Nurse lay on her back, facing the bedroom’s open window. Street noise poured into the apartment past the torn screens and shabby drapes.
“I’d never believed in the right girl coming along until the first time we kissed. At first I thought I’d be embarrassed bringing my best friend’s little sister home with a ring on her finger. But I was so in love with her after the first week, I could hardly do my school work. We were married only two weeks later, during Christmas break.” Greg took a deep breath and let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t know how I got my mind so off track.”
“I’ll tell ya’ how. . . . It killed the cat,” Nurse mumbled. “Pardon?”
“I seen it many a time. Some young feller with nothin’ t’ do just
decides he wants t’ take a peek inside ‘at whorehouse a’ Mr. Vinnie’s. Next thing ya’ know, they got him by the seat a’ the pants, so t’ speak. Just like a cat–killed by curiosity.” Nurse paused and scratched her backside with her fingers, gnarled as a tree root.
“See, when I was a girl we used to have a gangly time keepin the weasels outta th’ hen house. One a’ them li’l rascals could bite the head off ever’ hen in the coop ‘fore my Pappy could get the shotgun off the wall. So we’d set out these weasel traps. It was easy teachin’ the dogs t’ stay away; we used a mousetrap on their nose. See, all we had t’ do was flip his nose in it a time or two with somethin’ ‘at smelled like the bait, an’ he’d never get close again. Darn cats, though, they thought they was smarter ‘an dogs. They’d reach into that trap with their paws an’ just get a little taste t’ lick off. Ever’day, from trap to trap, jus’ a little taste. Pretty soon they had a terrible likin’ fer ‘at nasty bait, an’ no matter how many times we flipped their noses they’d go back fer ‘nother taste. Well, I don’t need t’ tell ya’much more, now, do I?”
“Nope. It’s pretty clear. I know what I did wrong, I just don’t know why. I already had everything I really wanted. . . .” Greg yawned.“‘At’s been my point all ‘long, Sunny. See, them cats did too. Had all the food they could eat in the barn. ‘Fact, Pappy made the bait from dried catfood. He’d stir it up with a heapin’ pile a’ chicken crap, drop a few feathers in the mix, sometimes add a little blood from one a’ them poor dead hens, and drop it on the trap. Didn’t matter a lick. Them cats, with plenty a’ food right there in the barn–stuff ‘at didn’t have no stinkin’ poop in it, neither–had a hankerin’for Pappy’s mix.” Nurse rubbed at the patches still covering her eyes. “See, th’ problem started when them cats’d jump up on the milkin’ table in th’ barn. ‘Course they weren’t supposed t’ be on the table. ‘At’s where Pappy’d make up his weasel mix an’cleaned them dead hens for eatin’. Anyways, them cat’s liked t’get up where they wasn’t supposed t’ be an’ take a tiny taste a’ ‘at blood. Same thing gives life t’ one a’ God’s critters when it’s pumpin’ through their veins, ‘ll kill ‘nother critter when it ain’t, I guess.”
Greg cleared his throat. “You’ve told a good story, but I’m not a cat and I still want my wife and family back.”
“Lemme finish,” muttered Nurse. “See, when one a’ them cats got caught in a trap, they’d yowl and cry ‘til Pappy’d pull the shotgun off the wall. Them stupid cats’d be in so much pain, wouldn’t let him close ‘nough t’ get ‘em out. Pappy tried once–got so scratched up he never cared t’ try again.”
“It sounds like the way I felt in the car that night. It was going to be a mercy killing, a way to put me out of my pain.”
“‘At’s right,” Nurse continued, her voice softening. “‘Cept one ol’ cat named Tommy. . . . See, I decided I was goin’ t’ teach him never t’ taste ‘at blood. I loved that rascal more ‘an ever’ other cat in th’ barn put t’gether. Always held him close, gave him extra milk. Even let him sleep in my bed. Fer two whole years ‘at Tommy cat kep’ from goin’ after ‘at weasel bait. Thing is, one night Tommy got tired a’ stayin’ in my room; wanted t’ see what else was out there. I figured Tommy knew ‘nough so he wouldn’t have no trouble, so now an’ again I’d let him go. Poor ol’ Tommy musta’ taken a taste when I weren’t lookin’–course I didn’t know he’d tasted, so weren’t nothin’ I could do ‘bout it–’cause ‘fore I knew it he was doin’ like all ‘em other cats, sneakin’ taste a’that blood. An’sure ‘nough, ol’Tommy got caught in one a’Pappy’s traps. . . . Pappy took the shotgun down off the wall an’ made me stay inside. Thought I was gonna die ‘at night. I loved that ol’ cat more ‘an any critter on the face a’God’s green earth. I wasn’t ‘bout t’let him die without a fight. So I stormed ‘round the house, madder ‘an a bee in a bonnet, expectin’ t’ hear ‘at shotgun blast.”
Greg yawned again. “Poor cat . . .”
“Hold on, I ain’t finished yet.” The old woman gave a little whistle in an attempt to recapture her listener’s attention. “See, when Pappy found Tommy, ‘at ol’cat stopped his screamin’right then an’there and looked up, sorry-like. Pappy drew the shotgun up t’ his shoulder an’ took aim, but Tommy just kept’lookin’up with them big, green, gentle eyes a’his, like he was sayin’ he’d never do it ‘gain. Pappy knew how much ‘at cat meant to me, an’went t’find a gunny sack. Tommy didn’t like it none, bein’shoved inside ‘at sack, but he trusted Pappy, knew he hadn’t a mind t’ hurt him. Still, he fought like a wildcat when Pappy pulled off the trap, ‘cause it hurt so bad. An’ ‘fore ya’ knew it, Pappy brought Tommy int’ th’ house. Took some doin’ t’ get ‘at paw mended–poured pert near a half bottle a’ mecurochrome on it–but ol’Tommy never even come close t’one a’them traps again. I knew I could trust him from then on. Had a constant ‘minder, ya’know, him limpin’‘round like ‘at an’all. . . .”
Greg, now deep in thought, let out another sigh. “I think maybe it’s time I put a little trust in someone, get a little help, too. Thank you, Nurse.”
Three a.m., and the business district was quiet and still–except for the two men with gloved hands, smearing black ash over the glistening surface of a red Ferrari parked behind the dumpsters of National Restoration. Mitch whispered over to his accomplice. “I’ll drop you off at the apartment, Smitty. The drive to Logandale will be the scariest leg of the trip. Every trooper, sheriff, cop and Federal agent will be out looking for us.”
Smitty wagged his head slowly, like a precocious little brother being sent home to mommy when the big boys wanted to play. “It’s best, Smitty,” Mitch tried to explain. “If I’m not back this morning by six, you’ll know I’ve been caught. After all, this car is still a Ferrari, even if it is black. Plus, you need to let the rest of the team know what we did tonight– and we did a fine job of it, too. You’re about the best pick I’ve ever met.”
Smitty let slip a meager smile.
“I’m not nearly as worried about Stephanie as before. Now that the Feds know someone walked right past them, they’ll be on the lookout. Vinnie will be wrung through the mill because of Frankie’s screwup. And, to make things worse for him, we stole his car right out from under his nose. He’ll be so mad he won’t be able to think straight. You let the gang know the gun wasn’t in his car like he said it’d be. We’ll have to come up with a better way to get it.”
Mitch circled the car and tossed his gloves into a dumpster. Smitty did likewise. “Here’s the key to the apartment. Sneak in and don’t make a sound, I’ll be back before they wake up.” He held out the key. Once Smitty had taken it from his fingers, Mitch kept his hand extended, ready for a handshake. “You did real good, Smitty,” he said tenderly, “and I’m sorry I yelled at you back in the parking lot. . . . If I’d had a big brother, I’d want him to be just like you.” Smitty blinked in rapid succession as he gripped Mitch’s hand, then pulled him forward in an embrace, his long arms nearly pinning Mitch’s to his side.
For a full 30 seconds Smitty clung to his new best friend. Finally he drew back, wiped his big eyes and motioned for Mitch to leave.
Mitch waved him in the direction of the car. “Come on, I’ll run you to the apartment. Now, hand me a wrench so I can change these plates.” Smitty nodded his head and, pulling a tiny adjustable wrench from his pouch, again pointed for him to leave. Mitch again motioned towards the car. “It’s at least ten miles back.” Smitty nodded that he understood and pointed one last time. “Okay, I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Mitch said, ending the debate. And before he was finished speaking, Smitty had turned on his toes and begun to jog away.
Mitch flung the old plates in the dumpster and brushed the dust from his hands. Taking a small rag he’d found in the trunk, he wiped the shards of broken glass from the driver’s seat, got in, drove the few blocks down to Craig, and steered the car northbound onto I-15. Even with the car throttled at 70 mph, Mitch was passed by faster-moving vehicles. Unfortunately, with the accessory fuse pulled, the radar detector and jamming device were rendered useless.
Only ten minutes into the drive, Mitch, nearly exhausted, felt his eyelids getting heavy. The warm night air surged through the broken driver’s window and whistled around the car. Mitch reached over and turned on the radio. Staring straight ahead, feeling the music as much as hearing it, he struggled to concentrate on the road. His tired mind drifted to Stephanie, her broken heart, her feelings of mistrust. He’d hurt her. She had good reason to be angry.
A southbound car traveling at a high rate of speed passed unnoticed. Mitch flipped through the radio settings to help him stay awake, finally landing on a station offering classic rock and playing The Beatles’ “Imagine”–one of his and Stephanie’s favorites. The music proved to perk him up, but also to prick his conscience. How would he ever make things right with her? His mind wandered in twists and turns–until suddenly it reverted to the here and now by a set of rapidly closing lights in his rearview mirror. The dark vehicle quickly made up the gap, the bar lights across its top still unlit. Mitch remained calm and shifted to a lower gear, increasing the rpms on the high-performance engine, hoping the cop would pass him on the left. If worse came to worst, he could easily outrun the cop. But what lay ahead, that he feared.
Several minutes crawled by. The trooper backed off. Realizing that he’d been found out and that the cop was biding his time, waiting for backup, Mitch slammed his foot to the floorboard. The Ferrari pulled away, fishtailing up the highway, a cloud of blue tire smoke trailing behind. Mitch peered back over his shoulder. The red and blue lights had broken through the wall of smoke, yet were receding in his mirror.
The 220-mph limit boast Vinnie had made was accurate. The light traffic was an expected early-morning blessing, and the only thing that kept the high-speed chase from being a deadly game.
The normal hour drive from Las Vegas to his grandpa’s junkyard was cut to 20 minutes. No other patrol car came into view, and if another cop had been alerted, he was probably waiting farther on down the highway. Mitch skidded into Grandpa’s yard and lunged from the Ferrari. The pack of petulant dogs, rousted from their lazy-dog dreams, scuttled from the garage. Mitch had no time even to say hello. He went straight to work, jumping into the loader-type forklift and cranking up its engine.
The bedlam out in the yard woke Grandpa from his sleep. He snatched his 9mm sidearm from the dresser drawer and pulled up his trousers. Marching out onto the front porch, he saw only the tailend of the loader disappear into the high-piled stacks of dismembered autos.
Grandpa urged his boots over his stockinged feet and lit out across the yard, through the tangled labyrinth of cars. Farther ahead, the loader’s engine stopped. The old man turned his head and listened to the sounds. Often they played tricks on his ears as they bounced from one pile of rusty autos to the next. The dogs had gone quiet, and they were nowhere in sight.
Then he heard it–a sound he knew all too well. As fast as his old legs would carry him, he hurried to the old tin shed out back. Someone stepped from the building and slid the big doors shut, half a dozen dogs dancing at the intruder’s heels. “You done it, didn’t you boy?”
Mitch flinched. “Crap, Grandpa! You scared me half to death.”
“Me scare you?” Grandpa’s whisper was more a wheeze. “Boy, how do you think I felt, all this wild ruckus yanking me from my bed?”
“Sorry, I haven’t got time to explain. You’ll be seeing the cops any minute now. I need your truck keys.”
Grandpa crammed his hand deep into one of his coverall pockets and drew out his key ring. In another pocket he fondled the handle to his gun. “Best hurry up then, boy. She ain’t got much gas, but she ought t’ get you back to town. Take her through the reservation. Won’t be nobody lookin’ there.”
Mitch sprinted across the yard, the dogs still on his heels. The distant sound of sirens rent the stillness of the night. The old Chevy truck’s tires barely squealed when they hit the pavement. Mitch drove another quarter of a mile down the highway, then turned onto a road leading through Indian land. At that point the dogs pivoted like a pack of wolves and returned home. Grandpa hustled back to the house, slowing as he came. Wincing in pain, he grabbed at his chest and shoulder. “It ain’t a good time t’ be comin’ home, dear God,” he murmurred as he knelt in the dirt and struggled for breath. “Just ain’t a good time.”