Smash & Grab (2 page)

Quinn's almost on the ground, arcing his way toward the street and the grassy area that's our landing spot. I breathe for the first time since he jumped.

“Beautiful up here,” Leo says, taking it all in one last time. He grins at me, his helmet cam on, the red light a staring eye. He blows me a kiss and takes a swan dive, looking like one of Peter Pan's Lost Boys or something, flying without pixie dust.

“Here goes,” Elena squeals, and then she's gone, too, screaming madly all the way down. I stand on the ledge a moment more. Alone. I wait, my hand going to the zippered pouch on my jacket where I keep my phone. I pull it out and unlock it, then look up the last few texts from Derek. I feel this need to read through them one more time. Up here it's easier to know what I want.

Where are you? Thought we were supposed to meet for coffee. UR late. WTF?

It's the
WTF
that bothers me most—angry and entitled, like I owe him something. There are more. Three more. The first one's angry, the last one concerned.

The news. God. Your dad. Call me.

And that's the one that did it. Put the nail in the coffin for me. I don't want to talk about my dad with him.

I finally leave a text of my own.
A cowardly one,
I think, but I don't let that stop me.

It's over. Sorry. I can't do this right now.

It's a weak breakup, but it's a relief to type it anyway. And besides, after the news covers Dad's arrest on every major television station tonight, Derek will thank me for letting him off the hook. He won't want to be mixed up with me. Our relationship is over. And I am happy about it.

I am.

I swear.

I close my eyes and listen to the wind whistling around the building, to the distant screech of tires on asphalt, to the faint echo of my friends calling to one another below. This is where I belong. I want to savor the high coursing through my blood for a moment or two longer, knowing that I got Quinn, Leo, Oliver, and Elena up here and then safely to the ground.

They could've died. The risk is there—real—or this wouldn't be illegal. One wrong pull on my lines and I crash into this building or one beside it. If the chute gets twisted coming out, there won't be time to right it. Less than a minute from here to the ground, and any mistakes mean that minute could be my last. Standing here now is like looking straight into the face of death and deciding to jump toward its gaping black mouth with the intention of steering away at the last minute…or not.

Things have been bad lately. More than bad. The arrest was almost a relief. There was all this awful tension building at home. It is at the very least an explanation for why my parents spend most nights yelling at each other, for why our house doesn't feel like a home. I'm not suicidal—really, I'm not…but I can't deny that sometimes I am curious about it. About how peaceful it might feel to let things end.

I let out a long, slow breath. Then I close my eyes and step into the air.

The van is cool.
Well, not cool exactly, but the perfect getaway car for a heist. It's nondescript, dust-covered gray, with a lineup of cartoon-character people stuck to the tinted back window. A mom. A dad. Two kids. A dog. Man, I hate those stupid gringo decals. Like anyone really needs them to figure out whose ride this is. But as awesome as they are, the real kicker is the
MARY KAY CONSULTANT
sign stuck to the driver's side door.
Eddie's gonna love that.

“This one,” I say, smiling at the prospect of showing it to him. Getaway drivers—hell,
all
guys—like something sexier than this, but since he's not here…

I'm getting that slight tingle in my fingers. It's my gut's way of telling me the job's going to go right. I unzip my backpack, pull the tow kit and my gloves out from under a stack of college books, where I hid them. I tell the other guys the books are just props to make me look more like a student—out studying late for an exam, instead of a thief trying to steal a car—in case one of LA's finest happens to pull me over. But that's only partly true. I've actually read most of them. Plus, I like having them with me. They're my good-luck charms.

My cousin Benito—he goes by Benny—yawns and takes point at the back of the vehicle, eyes glued to the entrance to the apartment building's parking lot. I'd lay odds he's not watching the street, though. He's been staring at the sky on and off for the past hour, daydreaming. The LA skyline is pretty sweet, but not something he hasn't seen a million times before. We don't talk about it, but I know he dislikes this part of the job as much as I do. You'd think stealing cars wouldn't be nearly as big a deal as the bank jobs, but in some ways it's worse. More personal. This van belongs to someone—a woman with kids. We have to steal our getaway cars.

“I gotta get a Red Bull or something, dude. I'm dyin'. Hurry up already.” Benny stretches and groans loudly, his arms coming up over his head, his back arching. He's nearly four inches shorter than me, twice as thick, and nothing but muscle. He reminds me of a boxer or something, all coiled-up energy. “You think the boys are still at the party?” Benny sounds wistful. We left the rest of our crew at Jeannette's house. We never take the whole team to lift a car. We'd attract too much attention. Last we saw of them, they were gathered in Jeannette's backyard scoping out the girls. “Maybe we could go back after we drop this bad boy off?” he asks, hopeful.

“Nah, man. It'll be over by now.” I stick the wedge into the car door and pry it back enough to shove the air bladder into the gap. I start squeezing the hand pump, the bladder inflating in time with the pulse in my neck. Two seconds more and I've got the long metal rod in place, hovering over the unlock button. The car clicks. The lock disengages. The sound sends a tremor down my spine. I pull open the door. The cinnamon-apple scent of the car deodorizer makes my lungs squeeze shut in an instant. It's so bad that I consider breaking into a different car. But that'll just waste time, so I yank the air freshener out and throw it to the ground.

I drop into the driver's seat, check all the usual places for keys. It's nuts how many people leave a key inside their car. Stupid. Every time I find one, I want to leave a note that reads, “Doors have locks for a reason.” Mom types are the worst about it. I mean, I get it. My sister's only three, so I know little kids'll make you stressed and forgetful and stuff, but this is LA. You can't let your guard down. Ever. Still, somehow they always do. Easy targets. I'd be a pendejo if I didn't go for their cars first.

The glove compartment is stuffed with insurance papers and not much else. There's nothing in the driver's side door, tucked into the visor, or under the floor mat except crumbs. But then, boom! There's a key tucked into the coin tray beneath a thin layer of sticky-looking pennies and a stash of baby wipes, diapers, and a box of Goldfish crackers. I grab the crackers, then slip the key into the ignition and start 'er up. Some god-awful kids' music fills the car, a dozen high-pitched voices singing about peanut butter and jelly. It's a song that my own mom would never be caught dead playing for my little sister. She'd rather play Maria some Plastilina Mosh or my dad's stuff from when he used to do covers around LA with his band. I start fiddling with the buttons until I find a station that doesn't make me want to rip out my eardrums.

“Let's roll,” I say.

Benny slips into the passenger side. I put the car in drive, and we ease out of the garage. I'm in no particular hurry. It's quiet this time of night. Most people who live around here are asleep. I put on my turn signal and hang a left. There're maybe ten other cars on the street and then a stretch of empty road, but I don't speed up. The first rule of stealing is not to
look
like you're stealing. Speed hints at panic, and panic calls attention to itself.

“Wanna grab a burger or somethin'?” Benny yawns again, and suddenly it's contagious and I'm yawning myself. The brief jolt of adrenaline I had when we settled on this car is already fading away. There was a time when I would be jacked-up for hours, but now stealing cars is just too easy, that's all. Thinking about it makes my stomach sour. I don't want it to be easy. It means it's become my normal.
Not good.

“Nah, I'm beat. We got church in the morning, remember?”

“Ha! It
is
morning, genius. Don't be such a tight-ass white boy. You might as well stay up all night now. So…burgers? Come on, you know you want one.” Benny jabs me in the ribs, grinning. I hate it when he calls me white boy. Makes me feel like I'm not like him, that I don't totally belong. I try not to care. The boys tease Carlos for being fat all the time, and he doesn't complain—except it's not the same. Carlos can lose weight. I'll always have a white father. I give Benny the side eye and punch his shoulder.

“Ow, bro,” he laughs, massaging his arm. I rub my eyes. They're squinty with fatigue. I won't even get four hours' crash time before I'm squished into a pew, listening to Father Diaz give the mass. I shovel a few Goldfish into my mouth and offer Benny the box.

“No burgers,” I say. “I gotta help my mom fill an order for her company before church. It's gotta go out Monday first thing. I'm gonna be wrecked if I don't squeeze in an hour or two of sleep.”

This is only partly true. I do have to help my mom tag and box over a hundred T-shirts for this hipster clothing store downtown—her first big order in a very long time—but I also want to read this book my English teacher recommended. Benny doesn't need to know that, though. He'll just start ribbing me again. It's better for both of us if he thinks I'm doing something nonintellectual. Benny and I are more than cousins—we're best friends—but this is one area of my life he doesn't get. None of my boys are all that interested in pleasure reading
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
or
To Kill a Mockingbird.
You'd think they would be, because it's such an escape, but man, for them it's the opposite. Benny had issues learning to read in the first place, and getting called out of class to hang with the reading specialist embarrassed him big-time. The others would rather be shooting hoops or out picking up girls or whatever. Gabriel dropped out of school a while back, and Eddie and Carlos have started entertaining the idea of doing the same. It's just not that important to them. I get why. Hard to think about the future when you're trying to survive today. It just sucks when they get defensive every time I try to do something different.

It's a theory I have. The hole theory. Sometimes people who are stuck in a really deep hole don't see the point in trying to get out. The climb just feels too high. And when
you
want to escape, they get all freaked out because if you actually manage to
get out,
they're stuck in the hole alone. I think Benny's afraid that if I get too into books and stuff, we won't have anything in common. Or that I'll start seeing him differently. That won't happen, but I can't make him believe that, so I just don't talk about what book I'm into currently or acing my SATs or applying for college scholarships.

“Oh, bro, that sucks.” But Benny doesn't look the least bit sorry about the prospect of my having to fold a bunch of lady shirts before mass. In fact, he's grinning like a freaking five-year-old who's just heard the world's best fart joke.

“So how come Eddie doesn't take this crap over for us? He's the driver—it should be him,” I say, barely keeping the frustration out of my voice.

“ 'Cause Eddie's about as stealthy as an elephant. What, you don't like spendin' time with me, homes?” Benny pretends to be insulted.

“Not even a little bit,” I say dryly. Dude practically lives at my house, we hang out so much.

He laughs, lowering the window and sticking his hand into the wind. He lets it ride the current, dipping and swooping. He's back to watching the sky. Again. His expression changes, goes all serious.

Probably he's thinking about the fact that none of us is completely in charge. If we were, we wouldn't be robbing banks in the first place. The question of who the real boss is is complicated. For us, it'd be Soldado, the leader of Florencia Heights, but he answers to dudes even higher up than him. We're just the final link in a very long chain.

After a bit he says, “You know you wouldn't seriously let Eddie do it anyway. You gotta have your fingers in the whole thing all the time.”

He's not exactly wrong. I feel better when I have more control—even if it's just perceived control. Simple truth: we're the guys on the ground. If stuff goes sideways, we'll be going to jail. Not Soldado or whoever he reports to. When it comes to putting my butt on the line, as much as I love my crew—
my boys,
Eddie, Gabriel, Carlos, and Benny—they aren't all that careful about stuff. This is also part of my hole theory: If you're deep in the hole, you aren't scared of going deeper. But if you're halfway out, man, the fall is freaking terrifying.

I think it ticks Gabriel off that I want to control things—like I don't trust him or the other guys or something, but it isn't that, not exactly. I mean, they know all my secrets and have my back no matter what. And I got theirs. But I don't always trust their decision-making when it counts. Not for nothing, but Carlos gets sloppy sometimes. Like the bank we hit a few months back when he let out a string of curses in Spanish, handing the cops the biggest clue so far as to who we are. I mean, they don't know for sure we're Mexican—we could be Puerto Rican or Cuban—but given how many Mexicans there are in this city, it's the first conclusion they'll reach. I doubt they're going to think it's a bunch of white dudes dropping f-bombs en español just to screw with them. Every job leaves a trail, no matter how hard you try to muddy it up.

Eddie is the getaway man mainly because he lacks the kind of presence you need to have to go into the banks. He's maybe one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, and even at a yell his voice is weak. Like someone socked him in the voice box or the balls or something.

Gabriel is the only cool head other than mine, but as good as he is at being in charge, too, I can never quite let him, not all the way, even if he is five years older. Mostly because the way he acts, sometimes I think he
expects
to end up in jail someday. Like he figures it's his birthright, since his dad's there. His mom has told him as much more than once after he's screwed up. And most of the time he doesn't seem to worry too much about the consequences of what we're doing.

The God's honest truth is that the guys rely on me to be the brains. And as the brains, I feel the need to oversee all the decisions these guys make when it comes to the jobs. We'll be okay. As long as we keep to the rules we came up with when we got roped into this whole thing: