Heist 2 (20 page)

24

Sam

“P
lay it again,” I instruct Greg for the third time. It's not that I've never witnessed a car-jacking before, it's just that I'm having a hard time squaring the woman I see participating in this car-jacking with the woman I met at the Governor's Ball earlier this year.

“Doesn't look like she's being coerced to me,” Frank says, sighing. “Should be interesting to see how her family spins this one.”

“I'm not interested in the spin. I'm more interested in where they're headed.”

Renee pops up her laptop next to Greg's on top of the hood of the SUV. “We know that Harlem was born and raised in New York, but I did a background check and cross-reference to see if there are any other connections in that area. Harlem's grandfather was from Laredo, Texas.”

Another piece of the puzzle clicks in my head. “Yeah?”

“Where is Grandpa Banks now?”

“Six feet under—in Laredo.”

I mull that information over. “Pull various routes from New York to Laredo and see if Mr. Banks's travels so far have us heading in the same direction.”

Renee's fingers fly across her keyboard. When a smile creases her face, I have my answer. “Bingo.”

“All right, gang. It looks like we're headed to the Lone Star State.” The team starts packing up their gear. “Renee, find whatever family Harlem still has in Laredo. Brothers, sisters—cousins. He's on his way to see someone down there.”

“You got it, boss.”

Exhaling a deep breath, I begin to feel that we're finally getting somewhere with this situation instead of simply reacting. Chances are Harlem and Johnnie have reached Laredo. Depending on how much money we're talking about, once Harlem or Isaiah get their hands on it, I have a feeling that this case may take decades to wrangle them back to prison.

“Greg, make sure you place a call to the local sheriff's department in Laredo and bring them up to speed.”

Greg gestures to the phone he has tucked under his ear. “I'm already on it.”

A jolt of adrenaline kicks in. We're close. I can feel it. Twenty minutes later, my team is back in the air. “Anything?” I ask Renee.

“Not yet. But I've called the New York office to have a couple of agents pay another visit to Gloria Banks. She's going to be the quickest route in getting the list of names we'll need.”

“Humph. She wasn't too helpful the last time,” I gripe. Not that I don't understand her position. She's probably relying on Harlem to get his hands on that life-saving money for her great-granddaughter.

When we touch down in Laredo, I'm shaking another district deputy chief's hand. At least this one, Aiden O'Donnell, isn't on an ego trip. It helps that my crew has worked with his department in the past. Renee keeps hitting a brick wall for possible family members living in Laredo, Texas, and the agents back in New York call us back with the unhelpful news that Gloria Banks doesn't know or is pretending not to know anything about her deceased husband's family.

“Two steps forward and then ten steps back,” I huff and disconnect the call.

Greg shrugs and adds a suggestion. “We can always kick it old school and just go through the white pages.”

“Do they even compile those anymore?” I ask, grunting.

He tosses up his hands. “I'm open to another idea.”

“Fine. Whatever. How many Bankses can there possibly be in a town of a quarter million?”

25

Harlem

 

“A
re you sure that this is it?” Johnnie asks, peering around. It's sunset and the amber sky gives the surrounding gray tombstones an eerie cast.

“This is it,” I tell her. “Just follow the winding roads toward the back—where the crypts are.”

“Crypts?” She eases off the accelerator. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“It's no joke,” I say, smiling. “For obvious reason, I don't trust banks.”

“So you what—buried your money at a cemetery?” she asks incredulously.

“It seemed like a safe place at the time.”

Johnnie stares at me as if I'd just sprouted a second head. “There's something wrong with you.”

“That's probably why you love me.” I wink.

“True.” She shakes her head. “God help me.”

Shortly after I point out where we should park, I tell her that we're going to have to go the rest of the way on foot. I hope that the two of us will be able to lug the huge steamer trunk, weighing nearly five hundred pounds, back to the car ourselves. The money was stacked over time. I've never had to haul all the money at one time. But I guess I'm about to find out. The sun disappears out of the sky halfway toward our destination while the moon plays hide-and-seek among the thicket of trees.

“Are you sure you know where you're going?” Johnnie asks before tripping over the uneven ground.

My reflexes kick in and I catch her before she wipes out. “Whoa. Careful.”

Once she's in my arms, she doesn't let go. “This shit ain't cool,” she pants. “I can hardly see a damn thing. How much farther?”

Seeing her fear, I can't help but tease her. “What? Are you scared?”

“Dead people aren't exactly my favorite people to hang around,” she tells me.

“Don't tell me that you believe in ghosts.”

“Not until about five minutes ago,” Johnnie whispers, still looking around like she expects someone to leap out at us at any moment.

Unable to contain my amusement, I chuckle and make sure that I keep her tucked at my side. “C'mon. We don't have that much farther to go.” And we don't. Around the next bend is my grandfather's resting place. James Harlem Banks Senior's stone crypt is visibly different than the others on this stretch of land, simply because it was built within the last decade. Crypts have long gone out of fashion; hence the other ones in this section of the cemetery were built at the time of the Civil War.

“This is freaking me out,” Johnnie whispers.

“Don't worry. We will be out of here in a few minutes.” I pat myself down for the key to the iron lock, but while I'm searching Johnnie simply steps forward and pushes on the gate. Good thing that I put the key in my pocket instead of the bag that is currently at the bottom of a river.

“It's already open,” she says, puzzled.

My blood seems to freeze in place. “What?”

She pushes the gate again. This time the rusting hinges squeaks in protest.

Isaiah.
“No. No. No.” I bolt past her and then up the two steps to the heavy iron door. It, too, is already open. Inside are two stone tombs. One is where my grandfather is resting in peace and the other is reserved for my grandmother, which currently should be holding my nest egg. One look at Nana's future resting place and I already know before shifting the stone top aside what the deal is.

“It's gone.”

26

Isaiah

I
'm on fucking cloud nine rapping Wu-Tang Clan's “C.R.E.A.M. at the top of my voice, “Dolla, dolla, bill y'all.” I glance over my shoulder into the backseat to make sure that the monstrous steamer trunk loaded with cash is still back there. It's a new habit I've developed every time I roll up to a traffic light. “Fucking Harlem. I
love
that muthafucka!”

Of course, I wish I could be a fly on Grandpa Banks's crypt wall when Harlem arrives there and sees that all his money is gone. That muthafucka always thought his ass was smarter than me. I bet I just showed his ass. “Ha! How do you like me now?” Chair dancing, I can't stop thinking about all the shit I'm going to buy and the bitches I'm going to fuck once I find a spot on a private island somewhere. This time I'm not going to make all the mistakes I made with my own money. I'm going to just pinch off a little at a time—make the shit last.

Smiling and rapping, I push all guilt to the damn side. This money is going to save my life and get me a new start. I'm thinking beyond just crossing the border to Mexico. This kind of money can get me any damn place I want: Colombia, Fiji, or Ibiza.

I could even double the money!
I latch onto the idea. Paying off Kingston West is going to probably take half the stash. What I need to do with the other half is try to flip it. I need to buy into a good game. A list of contacts scrolls through my mind as the devil on my right shoulder warns me about the dangers of my losing money while the other devil on my left encourages me by pointing out that I'm on a streak of good fortune.

No way I'm going to find an underground game here in Laredo. I got to get to my boy Gold Dawg. I know his ass still has the hottest games—and since I got to go see Kingston West in Atlanta anyway . . .

I've completely warmed up to the idea by the time I make it back to a private landing strip a few towns over in Del Mar. It feels good handing the pilot the stack of cash promised to him. It also improves his sour disposition when his small crew has to lug the trunk onto the plane.

“Where to now?” he asks, grinning.

“Atlanta,” I boast. “There's a game somewhere calling my name.”

“You got it.”

I keep a close eye on him as he helps load up my newly found wealth and once we're in the air, I punch in Gold Dawg's number from memory. However, I'm not surprised when an automated voice informs me that the number is no longer in service. I punch in other numbers for other cats who would know how to get in contact with the underground poker host, but the problem with having criminals as friends is that no one has the same cell number for long.

Four hours later, when we touch down in an even smaller landing strip two hours west of Atlanta, I'm no closer to a buy-in to a poker game than when I started. The devil on the right says that it's for the best while the devil on the left rails on about how it's imperative that I get to a game while I'm on a good luck streak. Like a mad man on a mission, I call every number in my mental Rolodex—some twice.

By the time I'm escorted into a five-star hotel, which I've paid for with cash, I'm practically losing my mind. I
have
to find a game.

“Is there anything else that I can do for you?” the bellhop asks, panting after rolling the trunk up on the trolley.

“No. I'm good.”

When the guy remains planted in the center of the room, I remember the tip. “Oh. Sorry about that.” I scoop out a knot of cash and peel off a Franklin.

“Thank you, sir. If there's
anything
else, please don't hesitate to call me personally.”

All right, muthafucka. I heard you the first time. Now go.
“Thank you.” I start to turn and give the boy my back when I finally catch the glint in his eyes. This young blood works in one of the most prestigious hotels in Atlanta and has serviced a lot of rich cats looking to get into good action. He would be just the type of worker that Gold Dawg would reach out to to book up his games.

“Yo, hold up,” I call out to the boy just before he heads out the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“You wouldn't happen to know how I could find some action tonight?”

A smile breaks across the young man's face. “What kind of action would you like?”

The devil on the left gives me a mental high-five. “Looking for a game: Texas hold'em.”

“I believe I can help you out with that.”

27

Johnnie

“F
uck! Fuck! Fuck!” Harlem keeps swearing in a loop as he stomps his way back across the cemetery.

The anger radiates off him like sonic waves and it's all that I can do to try and keep up. Then I hit the same soft patch of dirt during our march back to the car, but this time, Harlem isn't paying attention and I pitch forward and hit the ground—hard.

“Ow!” My hands and knees immediately start aching.

Harlem keeps trudging off without me.

“HEY!”

He finally jumps and spins around. Beneath the strange moonlight, I can't tell whether he's shocked to see me on the ground or annoyed.

“Are you going to help me or not?” I snap.

When he sighs, I have my answer. He's annoyed.

I'm livid by the time he backtracks to me. Instead of accepting his hand to help me up, I struggle onto my feet alone. “Forget it.”

“
Now
what the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps.

“Excuse you?”

“Whatever.” His hands explode up into the air. “I don't have time for this shit!” Harlem spins back around and marches off again.

I'm left standing there, staring after him. Who the fuck is this brothah and what the hell did he do with the real Harlem?
Maybe this is the real Harlem?
That thought doesn't sit well with me. After all, I've just tossed my entire life into the garbage bin of history to be with this man.
Now
a wave of fear and regret slams into me, so much so that my eyes wet up, making it that much harder for me to see during our trek back to the car.

“Give me the keys,” Harlem orders, beckoning me with his hand.

I ignore his rude ass and march to the driver's side. “
I'll
drive.”

“C'mon, Johnnie. I ain't got time to stand here and argue with you.”

“Then shut the fuck up and get in the car.” I unlock the door and climb inside.

When he finishes staring a hole into the side of my head, he turns and marches to the other side of the car.

For a brief moment, I think about jamming on the accelerator and leaving his brooding ass right here. But I reluctantly dismiss the thought and wait until he climbs back into the car. “Where to now?” When he doesn't answer, I have to turn and look at him. “Well?”

“The fuck if I know,” he swears. “I doubt that it even matters.”

I don't know what to do with that answer, so I keep staring at him.

“What?” He explodes again. “Don't you get it? It's over. There is no plan B! Without that money, we're sitting ducks. My daughter doesn't get her surgery. My grandmother loses everything and you don't get your happy-ever-after. FUCK!”

Finally pulling my gaze away, I stare out over the gray, overcast cemetery with the backs of my eyes burning. “I have a little bit of money saved up.”

“Ha! Too late for that. You think the government is going to let you get anywhere near that money now? Every single account you have has been frozen or seized.”

“My parents—”

“Aren't going to risk their precious careers to help you run away with an escaped fugitive.”

“Hey! Don't do that. You don't know my parents.” I do and he's exactly right. “They'll do whatever they think is best for me,” I add with less conviction.

“And you think your running off with me is what's
best
for you?”

Detecting that he was saying something else, I jerk my attention back to him. “What are you saying? You don't
want
me with you anymore?”

“Did I say that?” he challenges defensively. “I didn't say that.”

“But you're thinking it,” I toss back at him.

Silence.

I'm crushed.

“I don't fucking believe this.” I shake my head as a way to ward off any tears from falling. “The first fucking bump in the road and you're ready to throw my ass under the bus?”

“This isn't a
bump
in the road, it's the
end
of the road. Why can't you get that shit through your head? The money is gone! We can't do jack without money!”

“Then let's get the money back,” I shout.

“What?”

Yeah, what?
“There . . . has to be some way to get the money back. He stole it from you, we'll just steal it back.”

“Are you kidding me? With that much cash, he can be anywhere in the world right now—or gambling it away.” Harlem cocks his head as his expression changes.

“What?”

“Nah.” He waves whatever he was thinking off. “He wouldn't be so stupid. Would he?”

“You know the man better than I do.”

Clearly, the thought circles back in his mind. “Even if he does decide to hit the tables, that still could be anywhere in the world.”

“Where was his favorite place?”

“Well, he definitely wouldn't risk going to an open place like Las Vegas or Atlantic City. He never cared for the Indian casinos.”

“So that leaves?”

“There was this cat in Atlanta that ran an underground thing. I don't remember his name.”

After feeling like we were on a verge of something, my body deflates in disappointment.

“But I think I know some people in Atlanta that would.”

I finally start the car. “So we're headed to Atlanta?”

Harlem glances at the dashboard clock. “Atlanta is like sixteen hours away from here.”

“Fine. We'll drive in eight-hour shifts. We'll get there around noon tomorrow.”

“But will he still be there?” Harlem wonders aloud.

“There's only one way to find out.”