Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (6 page)

Morrison turned around
sharply. The man standing in front of him was not a monster, but he was not a
skinny puppy either. Six feet tall. One hundred eighty pounds. Reasonably fit. Morrison
figured he was in his mid-twenties. Head all dark hair and angry eyes. Morrison
had never seen him.

“You’re talkin’ to me?” he
said.

“Don’t see no other little
shit around,” Angry Eyes said.

“Show some respect, will
you?”

The man stared him down
and sneered. Morrison was a lot smaller and a lot thinner than him. Not a
threat, obviously, in the guy’s mind.

“I have trouble with
people who don’t mind their own business,” Angry Eyes said.

Morrison shrugged. “What
are you talkin’ about?” he said.

Angry Eyes nodded toward
the street. There was an unmarked white van parked at the curb on the other
side.

“Cut the crap,” he said. “I
saw you take the skimmer off and dump it into the trash can.”

Just my luck,
Morrison thought
. He
was probably making a round to retrieve his stuff.
He said, “A skimmer? Is
that what it is?”

“You know exactly what it
is. Nobody ever notices them.”

Morrison nodded. “I have
to give you this,” he said. “It’s a good-looking device. Real neat. But your
whole setup is not serious.”

“Let me worry about my
setup, midget.”

“It’s inefficient and
dumb. By duplicating actual people’s cards, you piss off a lot of them. And together,
they make a lot of noise. All for a payoff that just doesn’t justify it. People
usually have low withdrawal limits. When you operate like this, you have high
fixed costs and low margins. High risks for low rewards. Obviously you haven’t
been to business school, buddy.”

Angry Eyes shook his head.
“Who are you?” he said. “Warren Buffett?”

Morrison ignored him and
pushed on. “The way to go is to target prepaid debit cards. You know, the
anonymous kind that isn’t pegged specifically on an individual. Lots of
corporations have them. That way, you don’t victimize anyone. Don’t cause too
much fuss. The bank alone takes a direct hit. And for them, it’s a drop in the
bucket. A crime without a victim. But you don’t do that by skimming ATMs, of
course. It requires a whole different skill set. Much more sophisticated. Probably
too much for a brainless dimwit like you.”

Angry Eyes didn’t
appreciate the lecture. He cut Morrison down and said, “You’re gonna go back in
there, take the skimmer out of the trash can and give it back to me. Like now.”

Morrison shrugged. He stared
right back into Angry Eyes’ face and said, “No. Not at all. What will happen is
that you will move over and let me go through, ’cause you’re really blocking
the way here.”

Angry Eyes didn’t budge an
inch. If anything, he planted his feet more firmly on the sidewalk and said, “You
got some attitude on you, little prick.”

There they were. Less than
two feet apart, locked into a stalemate.

Barring any unforeseen outside
intervention, this would have to be settled with their fists. Morrison didn’t
go around looking for that type of situation. But he knew when you couldn’t
stand down. He had learned this a long time ago, the hard way. At school, he
had always been the smallest one. The schoolyard bullies had always targeted
him. At least initially. Because Morrison had learned to deal with it. All by
himself. There had never been a father around to teach him how to do this, or
anything else for that matter.

The first lesson he had
learned was that it was all about willing yourself not to stand down. Because
if you did, you were finished. Bullies were cowards. They looked for the easiest
prey, those that wouldn’t dare oppose them. So you had to send the message loud
and clear:
I won’t stand down
. In the long term, that alone avoided you
half your troubles. The second lesson was that when you had to get your hands
dirty, you had to make sure you included an element of surprise somewhere. Morrison’s
favorite strategy involved talk. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that when
two guys were about to fight each other, the shouting match would stop and the
actual barehanded struggle would only begin in silence. It was another one of
these strangely pervasive codes that nobody ever stated clearly but that were
deeply ingrained. Morrison had witnessed the pattern countless times.

So before he engaged
anyone, he always made sure he was talking. He looked Angry Eyes in the face
and said, “Have you ever heard of the rubber duck? Well, you know what …”

The other guy interpreted
the loose talk as Morrison not being ready to fight yet, maybe even
contemplating running off as fast as he could. That was always the case. He
could see Angry Eyes concurred just by his physical attitude. His tall frame
seemed too relaxed, too confident. Confidence had a sharp edge. Not enough and
you dissipated like misty fog. Too much and you didn’t see what was coming at
you. From that moment on, Morrison knew exactly what he had to do.

He began by throwing his
left hand on the side, palm up, fingers spread wide apart. That immediately attracted
Angry Eyes’ stare. Couldn’t help it. Just a normal human reflex that magicians
and stage performers exploit all the time. Morrison saw Angry Eyes’ head tilt
in that direction, opening up his neck. Good. Then he raised his right foot and
gave him a sharp sidekick on the ear. You didn’t need to punch the guy too hard
with your foot, but you needed to make it quick.

The window of opportunity
was tiny. And if you missed it, you were done.

Because when you’re a
small guy up against a big one, surprise is really your only ally. The kick
stunned Angry Eyes and made him raise both hands to his head in an instinctive move
of defense, opening up his center. Morrison then raised his left knee as hard
as he could into Angry Eyes’ groin. And the rest was easy. Angry Eyes folded
back down in half in pain. Dropping his guard for a nanosecond, which Morrison used
to follow up with a hook on the jaw. A hard one. With all his strength.

Angry Eyes collapsed on
the sidewalk with a muted thump, like a wet rag doll.

Instant knockout. No need
for a count.

Always manage to be one
step ahead. When you’re small, that was the key. Then fighting became easy. Like
winning the lottery if you knew the numbers beforehand.

Only problem was you
couldn’t fight the same guy twice. But it was all right. Morrison usually
managed not to have to.

Morrison left the scene at
a brisk pace, peering behind from time to time to see if Angry Eyes was coming back
to his senses.

He made it all the way to
the Navigator before the distant slumped figure started to shift. By then, Morrison
was sitting behind the wheel of the big SUV, safe in the knowledge that he
could gaze at him undetected from behind the heavily tinted front passenger window.

Angry Eyes made two
attempts to gather himself that ended up with him falling back on the sidewalk
almost immediately. Morrison had hit him pretty hard. His own hand pulsed with
pain. The third try proved more successful. Angry Eyes was able to steady his
right elbow on the concrete surface and hold still in that position for a while.
Then he moved to a crouch, on his hands and knees, breathing forcibly. His back
arched as the air entered his lungs like some sort of panting dog. Then he rose
to his feet, swinging back and forth until he found some semblance of balance.
He didn’t aim for the bank. Instead, he just staggered his way to the white van,
climbed behind the wheel and drove slowly away to the north.

Morrison allowed the van
to disappear from his sight. The guy would have a serious headache, but
otherwise he’d be fine.
That’ll teach you.
Then he backed up from his
parking spot and headed south on Main Street.

He had a phone call to
make. But first, he wanted to have a look at a few other ATMs around town.

First Collins Bank
occupied a standalone building immediately south of downtown. In that area, the
parking spots were no longer at an angle with the sidewalk. Morrison pulled up
to the curb, parked between markings painted on the pavement and walked to the
bank lobby.

The two ATMs there were fitted
with the same skimmers.

Morrison went back to the
SUV and continued on his way. Drove by all the big faded houses on Acton Road
with their lowlying banners calling for Sheriff Sanford’s reelection. Continued
toward the outskirts of town, where Candela Bank had one drive-thru ATM. He
pulled up to the device and gave it a quick check. It was the same there too. A
beautifully crafted skimmer had been neatly put into place.

Morrison could have removed
all these skimmers himself. That would have presented no difficulty. But what
he really wanted was to send a message, loud and clear.

Since he was not in a
position to do it himself, he figured that one of his old friends was. With
her, the message would be heard: There was no room for amateurs in Acton County.

He drove away from the
drive-thru ATM and parked behind a cluster of cars by the side of Acton Road. There,
he killed all the lights and took the phone from his pocket. He flipped it open
and punched the number.

At this hour, he expected
a delay. He might even have to leave a message. But the voice came at once, loud
and clear.

“Sheriff Sanford
speaking.”

“Sheriff, Frank Morrison
here. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

There was a slight pause
at the other end. Morrison had called Sheriff Claire Sanford on her sheriff’s department
cell phone. At this hour she could be anywhere. Burning the midnight oil at the
office, out in her patrol car or snuggled in her pajamas in front of the TV
with a bag of steaming popcorn. But wherever she was, his call came as a
surprise. Earlier that morning, Morrison himself had never expected he’d be
calling her the same day. Not in a million years.

“What do you want,
Morrison?” she asked.

“Just performing my civic
duty.”

“Didn’t think you knew of
the concept.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“So what about your duty?”

“I’ve just witnessed the perpetration
of criminal activities, and I thought I should report them to competent
authorities.”

“Don’t get cute, Morrison.
What’s the matter?”

“ATMs,” Morrison said.
“Some of them around town have been fitted with skimmers. I thought you’d like
to know.”

Morrison didn’t say more. Didn’t
need to for now. For her part, Sheriff Sanford lapsed into silence. He knew she’d
react this way. Was only natural. This would bring back memories, not
necessarily good ones for her. He knew this, so he let her absorb the shock and
followed her train of thought from a distance. She would be pondering the
following items. Years before, he had made a similar phone call anonymously. At
the time, Sheriff Sanford didn’t know him by name yet. He had called to report
the sight of suspicious devices installed in a string of ATMs located at the
other end of the county. Only at the time it had been a ruse. There had been no
skimmers. A simple decoy devised to send the sheriff’s deputies running off in
the wrong direction while his crew performed a flash raid on ATMs in Acton and
neighboring towns. Of course, the local media had gotten wind of this, and the
whole sheriff’s department had been deeply embarrassed.

Hence her need to think
this through carefully. You were allowed to fall in a trap once and keep your
honor. Of course, you took some ribbing and looked bad for a while, but, hey,
things happen. What you were not allowed to do was fall twice for the same
trick. That was more than mildly embarrassing. Made you look plain dumb. Not what
you wanted when you’re up for reelection. So Morrison waited for her to resume
the conversation. Depending on what she said next, he would adjust.

After a while, she sighed
and said, “You’ve just been released, Morrison. You can’t possibly already be
back in action to tap ATMs yourself. So you could be telling the truth.”

“Correct,” he said. “That’s
exactly what I would’ve thought in your place. And besides, skimming individual
accounts is not my thing. You know this. I’ve never done it.”

“I’ve never caught you
doing it. Doesn’t mean you never did.”

“You can take my word for
it. I don’t go after the little guy. Hell, I’m a little guy myself.”

“So it’s possible that you
could’ve seen skimmers at some ATMs and wanted to report them. But why exactly?
Why not simply mind your own business and let them be?” she said.

“It’s a crude and devious
scheme that goes after the little guy. I resent that,” he said.

“But you’re a slimy son of
a bitch, so you could be lying your teeth off. Where are you calling from?”

“I’ve got a prepaid. You
can take down the number if you want. Call me anytime, I’m cool.”

“Yes, but where are you?”

“Right here in Acton.”

“So you’re still around
then. Weren’t you supposed to leave the county? That’s what you told me this
morning.”

“I was. But sometimes plans
change, don’t they?”

“Which ATMs are you
talking about?”

“At least those at
Chelfington, First Collins and Candela Bank. There may be more but I haven’t
checked them.”

At the other end, Sanford
sighed again. “You better not take me for a ride, Morrison, because I swear I’ll
kick your sorry ass right back to prison. Even if I have to make up the charges
for it.”

“If you doubt me, you can
go at it easy. No need to charge with the cavalry. Just send a patrol car for a
quick check. No lights out or anything. One of your deputies can pull up to the
Candela Bank drive-thru. Won’t even have to step out of his car. This will be
very discreet. Trust me, Sheriff, I’m not calling to make a fool out of you.”

After the call ended,
Morrison waited in the big Navigator. He switched on the radio and listened to
some music. He didn’t really notice what was playing, just a string of classic
rock hits he’d heard so often that they didn’t strike him anymore. Just zipped
through his brain. But they provided just the right atmosphere.

It took about ten minutes
for an Acton County sheriff’s department patrol car to appear in his rear-view
mirrors. The dark Charger proceeded cautiously. No hurry. No bustle. It was not
Sheriff Sanford behind the wheel. Just some middle-aged deputy he didn’t know.

The car nosed into the ATM
drive-thru lane and stopped in front of the teller. Looked like a deputy off
duty there to make a simple cash withdrawal on his way home, like anyone else. Morrison
tilted his mirror a bit to have a better view.

The deputy fiddled with
the fake card reader like Morrison had done himself but without the need to cover
his fingers with a tissue. Then the device popped out and the deputy spent a
minute looking at it. Morrison could see him well since the man had turned on the
patrol car’s roof light. The deputy peered at it from every angle. Then he killed
the light, exited the drive-thru and headed to town, probably to check out the
other ATMs.

Morrison wore a thin smile.
He started the Navigator’s engine, waited for the deputy to leave and drove
off.

As he entered the dark
countryside, his mobile phone rang. He picked it up. It was Sheriff Sanford. “I’m
surprised, Morrison,” she said. “Turns out you were telling the truth.”

He chuckled. “I told you
you could trust me, Sheriff. Just doing my civic duty.”