The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller (21 page)

Hugh parked his Firebird in a public lot one block south of Canal Street in New Orleans. He and Jimmie wandered into the French Quarter and went to the Chart Room on Decatur, and had a beer. Each carried a bulky gym bag filled with their loot. The next step was treacherous because of the unknowns. The dealer was a man named Percival, supposedly a man who could be trusted. But who in hell could be trusted in such a cutthroat business? For all they knew, Percival could be working undercover and perfectly willing to ensnare them in a sting that could send them to prison. Jimmie had worked his contacts and was confident they were headed to the right place. Hugh had sought the advice of Nevin Noll and fed him a line about a friend who needed to fence some diamonds. Nevin drilled deeper into the underworld and came back with the word that Percival was legit.

His shop was on Royal Street, between two high-end merchants of fine French antiques. They entered nervously but tried to appear calm, as if they knew exactly what they were doing. They were impressed by the display cases of rare coins, thick gold bracelets, and gorgeous diamonds. A chubby little man with a black cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth appeared from between thick curtains and without a smile asked, “Help you?”

Hugh swallowed hard and said, “Sure, we need to see Percival.”

“What are you looking for?”

“We’re not buying. We’re selling.”

He frowned as if he might either open fire or call the police. “Got a name?”

“Jimmie Crane.”

He shook his head as if the name meant nothing. “Selling what?”

“Got some diamonds and stuff,” Jimmie said.

“You ain’t been here before.”

“Nope.”

He looked them over and didn’t like what he saw. He grunted, blew another thick cloud at the ceiling, and finally said, “I’ll see if he’s busy. Wait here.”

As if there was some other place to wait. He disappeared between the curtains. Low voices could be heard from the rear. Hugh became occupied with a display of Confederate dollar bills while Jimmie admired a rack of Greek coins. Minutes passed and they thought about leaving, but there was no place to go.

The curtains opened and the man grunted, “Back here.” They followed him through a cramped hallway lined with framed World War II pin-ups and
Playboy
foldouts. He opened a door and jerked his head to show them inside. He closed the door behind them and said, “Need to search you. Arms out.” Hugh raised his arms and the man patted him down. “No guns, right?”

“Nope.”

“Last cop who came in here got shot.”

Jimmie quipped, “Interesting, but we’re not cops.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, boy. Arms out.”

He patted down Jimmie and said, “Both of you got wallets in your left rear pockets. Take them out slowly and put them on the desk.”

They did as they were told. He looked at the wallets and said, “Now, remove your driver’s licenses and hand them to me.”

He studied Hugh’s and grunted, “Mississippi, huh? Figures.”

Hugh could think of no response, not that one was expected. The man looked at Jimmie’s with the same disapproval, then said, “Okay, here’s the way we handle things. I’ll keep these until Percival is finished. All goes well, you get them back. Understood?”

They nodded because they were in no position to object. Their loot was worth little if they couldn’t fence it, and at the moment Percival was their only prospect. If things did indeed go well, they planned to return soon with another load.

“Wait here. Have a seat.” He jerked his head at two dilapidated
chairs, both covered with old magazines. Minutes dragged by as walls of the damp room began to close in.

Finally, the door opened and he said, “This way.” They followed him deeper into the building and stopped at another door. He tapped it as he opened it and they stepped inside. He closed it behind them and stood guard five feet away.

Percival sat behind a spotless desk in a large chair upholstered in leopard print. He could have been forty or seventy. His hair was dyed a deep auburn color and stood straight on top of his otherwise shaved head. Mismatched rings dangled from his ears. The man loved jewelry. Thick gold bands hung like ropes around his neck and fell onto his hairy chest. Every finger was adorned with a gaudy ring. Baubles and trinkets rattled on his wrists.

“Sit down, boys,” he said in a high-pitched, slightly effeminate voice.

They complied and couldn’t help but gawk at the creature before them. He eyed them right back from behind a pair of round, red-framed glasses. His cigarette hung from the end of a long, gold holder, with the tip stuck between his yellow teeth.

“Biloxi, huh? Had a friend up there one time. Got caught and they sent him away. It’s a rough business, boys.”

Hugh felt the need to respond and almost said
Yes sir,
but “sir” just didn’t seem appropriate. When neither spoke, Percival waved at the desk and said, “Okay, let me see the goodies.”

They emptied the two bags of rings, pendants, pins, necklaces, bracelets, and watches. He made no effort to touch the jewelry, but kept his distance, gazing down his long nose, past his cigarette. He took a drag and said, “Well, well, somebody’s been shopping. Looks like mom-and-pop stuff. Don’t tell me where you found it because I don’t want to know.”

He finally reached down and picked up an engagement ring, half a carat, and that’s when they noticed his bright red fingernails. He clicked his teeth on the tip of his holder and shook his head as
if wasting his time. Slowly, he took a sheet of paper from a drawer and uncapped a heavy gold pen. From behind them, their guard blew a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

Methodically, Percival picked up each item, pulled it close to his hideous glasses, clicked his teeth, then wrote down a number. He seemed to appreciate a pair of ruby earrings, and as he studied them he relaxed deeper into his chair, stretching his bare feet in their direction under the desk. The paint on his toenails matched the polish on his fingers.

Hugh and Jimmie kept their faces grim, but they knew they would laugh all the way back to Biloxi. If, indeed, they made it out alive.

He didn’t wear a watch and evidently didn’t care for them, but he studiously examined each one and assigned a value. All seemed to freeze as time stood still. They were patient, though, because Percival had the cash.

He worked in silence as he chain-smoked unfiltered Camels. The cigar smoker behind them didn’t help matters as he puffed away. After an eternity, Percival kicked back again and announced, “I’ll offer four thousand bucks for the lot.”

They had estimated the retail value at something close to ten thousand but were expecting a heavy discount.

Jimmie said, “We were thinking five thousand was a fair price.”

“Oh you were? Well, boys, I’m the expert here and you’re not.” He looked at the cigar smoker and said, “Max?”

With no hesitation, Max said, “Forty-two tops.”

“Okay, I’ll pay forty-two hundred, cash on the table.”

“Deal,” Hugh said. Jimmie nodded his agreement. Percival looked at Max, who left the room. Percival asked them, “How steady is your supplier?”

Jimmie shrugged and Hugh looked down at his shoes. In doing so, he caught another glimpse of the red toenails.

“There’s more,” Jimmie said. “You’re in the market?”

Percival laughed and said, “Always. But be careful out there. Got a lot of crooks in this business.”

Howling with laughter on the ride home, they would repeat this admonition a hundred times.

Max returned with a large cigar box and gave it to his boss. Percival withdrew a stack of $100 bills, slowly counted forty-two of them, and laid them in a neat row. Max handed back their driver’s licenses. On the way out, they thanked Percival and promised to be back, grateful that he did not rise or extend a hand.

When they emerged onto Royal Street, they inhaled the muggy air and practically ran to the nearest bar.

The easy cash was addictive but they fought the urge to launch another crime spree. They paid Sissy $500 and threw in some jewelry to boot. They plotted for a month, and when the timing felt right they left Biloxi early one Tuesday morning and drove three hours east to the town of Marianna, Florida, population 7,200. Faber’s Jewelry was a small shop at one end of Central Street, far away from a busy café. They parked on a side street and gave each other a pep talk. Hugh and Sissy entered the store and Mrs. Faber herself greeted them. She was delighted to show the young couple her best engagement rings. There were no other customers in the store and she was even happier when Jimmie walked in and asked about some watches. Five minutes later, Mrs. Faber was on the floor, wrapped in duct tape, and every single diamond was gone.

They spent the night in Macon, Georgia, and had dinner in a downtown café, but the town was too big and there were too many people in the shops. They drove two hours east to Waynesboro, the seat of Burke County, and saw an easy target. Tony’s Pawn and Jewelry was on Liberty Street, the main drag, across from the courthouse.

Jimmie had been griping about his limited role in the heists and wanted to swap jobs with Hugh, who considered himself the better actor. Sissy really didn’t care. She was the star anyway and could handle herself with either prospective groom. Hugh eventually agreed to stay behind and waited as they entered and went about their routine.

The clerk was a teenager named Mandy who’d worked at Tony’s part-time for years. She loved showing engagement rings to brides and pulled out the best ones for Sissy and Jimmie. After five minutes, Hugh left the car, with a small pistol in his pocket. He did not realize that Jimmie had the Ruger on his belt under his jacket.

As Sissy tried on rings, Mandy glanced over and saw the pistol. This startled her but she pretended all was well. When Jimmie asked if there were larger diamonds in the safe, she said yes and left to fetch them. In the office, she informed Tony that the customer had a gun. Tony had been in the business for years and knew his inventory attracted all types. He grabbed a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber automatic and went to the front. When Jimmie saw him coming with the pistol, he panicked and reached for the Ruger.

Hugh was ten feet from the front door when shots rang out inside the store. A woman screamed. Men were yelling in angry, desperate voices. One bullet shattered the large front window as the sounds of others cracked through the air and were heard up and down Liberty Street. Hugh ducked away and scrambled around a corner. His first impulse was to get in his Firebird and leave in a hurry. He heard sirens, more loud voices, people running here and there, total confusion. He decided to wait, blend in with the crowd, and survey the damage. He walked across the street and stood in front of the courthouse with other shocked onlookers. Two cops crouched low and entered the store; others followed. The first ambulance arrived, a second one moments later. Deputies blocked traffic and ordered the crowd to stand back.

Word finally spread and the first accounts came to life. Armed robbers had hit the store and Tony fought them off. He was injured but not seriously. The two thieves, a man and a woman, were dead.

As experienced criminals, Jimmie and Hugh knew to leave behind nothing with their names on it. At that moment, Jimmie’s wallet and clothes were in the trunk of the Firebird, along with Sissy’s purse and personal effects. The purse she carried into the store had nothing but a pistol and duct tape. Hugh was too stunned to think clearly, but his instincts told him to ease out of town. With his eyes glued to his rearview mirror, he drove out of Waynesboro, Georgia, for the first and last time.

Augusta was the nearest city of any size. When he was certain he had not been followed, he stopped at a motel on the outskirts of the city and spent a long afternoon waiting for the six o’clock news. The botched robbery in Waynesboro was the big story. The chief of police confirmed the deaths of two as-yet-unidentified people, one man, one woman, both about thirty. After dark, Hugh, eager to leave the state, drove to South Carolina, circled west into North Carolina, then to Tennessee.

He had no idea where Jimmie Crane called home but he had mentioned a couple of times that his mother had moved to Florida after his father went to prison. He did not know where Sissy was from, and even doubted that was her real name. Not that it mattered because he wasn’t about to notify anyone. With time, he would find a way into the records at Red Velvet and perhaps learn more about Sissy. He had been sleeping with her off and on for two months and had grown fond of her.

Two days later, he finally returned home. Frightened out of his mind and convinced he had been nothing but a complete idiot, he gradually fell into his old habits. Armed robbery was not his calling. Arms dealing was for someone else.