The Take (22 page)

Old
fears of insecurity and danger were visiting again, invading in his deepest,
most private areas. Had those fears ever really left? Hell, they must have. For
a time, anyway.

You
know, he was drawing straights pretty good there for a while, back a couple of
years ago when he was pulling down serious coin every week.

You couldn’t do all that if you were
scared shitless all the time, could you? A guy’d have to be able to look the
world in the eye if he ever wanted to have it by the balls. Well, wouldn’t he?

“Two it
is,” he agreed.

They
started placing the money accordingly, although he told himself that those tiny
rivulets of sweat really weren’t sneaking down his spine.

≈≈≈

They hadn’t been working too long, only a couple of hundred thousand
dollars worth, but because they were inside the van with the doors shut, they
never saw the cop car come around the corner from Burgundy.

It was
just two cops in a black-and-white out on routine patrol, and the thing was,
they would’ve kept right on going if one of them hadn’t spotted something
unusual leaning up against the corner of that van parked over there. Then, he
thought he caught a hint of something — he wasn’t sure what — something
moving inside the darkened van.

“Pull
up here for a second,” he said. His partner, the driver, gently brought the car
to a stop on the other side of the street about ten or fifteen yards behind the
suspicious vehicle.

“What
is it? What’re you seeing?” asked the driver.

“I don’t
know — that thing over there by that van. It’s … it’s …” He squinted
carefully. “Wait here a second.”

He got
out of the car. His eyes never left the van’s rear windows, while he noted
positive movement in its interior. He paused by the driver’s side of the car,
then softly said to his partner, “Run a make on this van.”

He read
him the license number before moving slowly across the street.

≈≈≈

The sound of the opening and closing car door reverberated through the
silence of the van like an exploding hand grenade. Eddie and Felina dropped the
money packets they were holding. Frozen for a moment, Eddie peered out the
side-panel window.

“Cops!”
he whispered in a near-panic. He wheeled around and pressed his back flat
against the van’s wall. “Fuckin’ cops!”

Felina
stole a glance through the side window. The conference at the squad car was
just breaking up, as one of
the
cops cautiously moved toward the van. In his left hand she saw a flashlight
casting beams in the van’s direction. Then she caught his other hand unbuckling
his holster.

“We can’t
let them find us,” she whispered, quickly rolling the carpet back into place. “Get
down.”

Eddie
moved, his head and eyes rapidly turning here and there like a cornered animal
desperately seeking a path of escape. But of course, there was none.

“What
the fuck —”

“Get
down,” she ordered, as she shoved Eddie to the floor of the van. She slid down
next to him on her stomach, facing the rear doors, then said, “You heeled?” Her
whisper was urgent.

“Wh-wha
—”

”You
heeled? Goddammit, answer me.”

He
pulled the heater from his waistband. She grabbed it
and held it with both hands, slowly
cocking the hammer. It was aimed directly at the back doors. From their prone
position, they could only see the waving shafts of light outside the rear
windows. They quit breathing at the thundering click of approaching footsteps.

≈≈≈

The patrolman stopped about ten feet from the back of the van. All
movement in the black interior had stopped. There was no traffic on the street,
as though all other worldly events in that immediate area had been suspended,
while he took care of this. He turned his flashlight on the object that first
caught his attention. A mattress. Now he had to flush out whoever was inside.

Great
waves of uncertainty and tension pounded him, like high surf roiling a stormy
shore. Briefly, he reminded himself that this was the part of the job where he
earned his money. The two percent of the job that was sheer terror. The kind of
thing you can’t really talk to anyone about, except other police officers. The
kind of thing you carry around inside you like a gurgling roux that just won’t
quit churning. Oh, you learn to live with it eventually, and if you have any
civilian friends, they never suspect a thing. But shit, if it would only go
away for just a little while. If it would just —

He
reached for the .357 at his side. Caressing the ribbed handle, he extended his
trigger finger, and he slowly slid the weapon out of its freshly-oiled holster.
As his finger expertly entered the trigger housing, he held his breath. At that
moment, the still night was split apart by the crackling radio back in the
squad car.

“All
First District units, including the French Quarter, proceed immediately to St.
Claude and Frenchmen Streets. Officer is shot and needs assistance. Repeat, all
First District units —”

“Larry!”
the driver shouted. “Forget it. Officer down. Let’s go!”

The
.357 slipped back into the holster. For a split second, the patrolman’s eyes
remained riveted on the rear doors of the van. He would never know what lay
inside, but as he turned and hustled back to the car, he knew his number had
not yet been called.

“L
inda! Linda!”

It was like
an alarm going off.

Eddie
and Felina rushed into the apartment, lugging the twist-tied trash bag with
them. Eddie dumped it onto the floor.

“Linda!”
he cried.

Linda
darted out of the bedroom, a full-length towel wrapped around her.

“I was
just fixing to take a shower.”

“We
gotta get out of here. Now.”

”What
is it?” she said. “What happened?”

He ran
past her into the other bedroom, where he
hurriedly threw their things into the leather suitcase. Felina was
right behind him, scooping up clothes and toiletries.

“Will
you tell me what the hell happened?” she demanded.

Eddie
paused to look up from the suitcase. Through heavy breathing, he said, “We came
this close to killing a cop out there just now. They didn’t see us and they’re
gone now, but they might be back. Shit. We gotta get the fuck out of here. This
minute.”

“Whoa,”
she cried, closing the suitcase on his hands. “Slow down, goddammit. Now
what-all went down out there?”

Felina
was still breathing hard. “It was close, too fucking close.” She gave Linda the
short version, then said, “Anyway, Eddie’s right. We got to leave right now.”

She
threw a few more items into the bulging suitcase. The rest got crammed into a
plastic shopping bag. Eddie took them both, leaving the big trash bag in the
hall.

“I’ll
take this
stuff to the car
and come back for the money. You check around, see if we left anything.”

He
whisked out the door, down through the courtyard into the street. He cursed as
he noticed the mattress still leaning up against the corner of the van. Opening
the rear doors, he tossed the luggage inside, pushing it all the way to the
front, then struggled with the mattress. It took a lot of effort just to
maneuver the hulking piece around to the open door. He just about had it all
the way in when he saw the car.

Something
about it caught the corner of his eye, kind of like a tiny flickering movement
in a perfectly still room. What made this car different? Was it because it was
going slow, almost too slow, for the empty street? It was an ordinary-looking
big white sedan, not really worth his attention, except for the blackwall
tires.

The car
double-parked, then the two occupants climbed out. Ties and overcoats. Cops for
sure.

Cold
sweat worked its way out onto his face, then onto his neck. He felt gummy all
over. The men came across the street toward him. He stepped to his left,
partially shielded behind the open van door. Instinctively, he put his hand on
the gat in his waistband.

Shit,
this was all happening so fast, I mean, what could he do? He certainly couldn’t
get up and run — they’d probably plug him right in his tracks.

Nope,
he’d have to wait it out for just a second here, maybe draw on them at close
range. At least, then he’d have surprise on his side, as well as maybe have a
fighting chance. Get the big one first. He falls, the other one might dive for
cover.

They
walked past him and into Linda’s apartment building. Goddamn it. He’d propped
the gate open so he could run back inside after loading the bags.

And now
they just walked right in. Goddamn it.

No, wait. What am I gonna do here? I just
can’t go in there blasting. I mean, sure, they’re cops but I don’t know what
they want. I mean, maybe they’re not actually looking for me. They might just
be asking questions about Garner’s killing, looking around for witnesses and
shit. Yeah, that’s it. They’re just doing their routine legwork, asking if
anybody saw anything. Why, they’re prob’ly checking the whole building, not
just Linda’s place.

He
considered creeping up to the door and into the courtyard to see where they
were headed, but decided against it. No sense taking unnecessary chances. Linda’ll
know what to do if they come to her door. She always knows what to do.

He
remained frozen by the gaping van doors for another minute or two, breathing
hard through his mouth. Moments later, another car pulled up, then double-parked
behind that Dodge.

This
was a Caddy, a beautiful snowy white one like he always dreamed of having, but
the two guys who got out, well, they damn sure weren’t cops. They were wearing
ties and overcoats like the first two, but they were different somehow. The way
they were looking around with every step they took, it was like they were
expecting an ambush or something. It just didn’t look like the way cops acted.

In fact, from here they kinda look like —
like Mess’cans!

Mess’cans. Shit. Salazar’s boys? Are they?

How the fuck did they find out where we
were? Wait, maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re with those cops, some kinda
bigshot detectives or something. It did look like they were followin’ ‘em. But —
 
but that Caddy damn sure ain’t no
cop ride.

Mess’cans. Ho-ly shit.

He
pretended to fiddle with the mattress, while they breezed by him like he wasn’t
there. From one of them, the taller one, he caught the whiff of cologne. They
paused by the open gate, gave a quick look around, then slipped inside, the
gate shutting behind them.

T
he heavy knock
on the door startled Felina out of a Mexico daydream. It was more like the thud
of a closed fist rather than the rapping of knuckles. Almost immediately, it
was repeated.

Linda
was in the shower with the bathroom door closed, unaware. The trash bag lay on
the floor in the hall. Felina slid it into the closet by the front door.

“Wh-who
is it?” she said through the door.

“Police
officers. Open up.” Another couple of thuds.

Leaving
the chain lock on, she cracked the door wide enough to see the two men in
overcoats silhouetted in the dim hallway.

“Let’s
see some ID,” she said, trying to sound like the fear wasn’t right below the
surface.

The
badges came out, and she undid the chain. The men bulled their way in, shoving
past her, nearly knocking her to the floor.

“Hey!”
she cried. “You can’t —”

The big
one grabbed her blouse collar, tearing it as he threw her across the room. She
hit the floor at the base of the sofa.

“Ow!”
she yelled. “You motherfucker. Who the fuck do you think —”

He was
across the room astonishingly fast for a man of his great size. He pulled her
to her feet, then slapped her hard
across the mouth. The low-pitched whack of his beefy paw on her
smooth, youthful face drew blood.

“Where
is it?” he asked.

”What?
Who are you? What the fuck is this?”

”I’m
not gonna ask you again,” the big man growled. “Now
where is it?”

”Where
is what? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking
about.”

Another
hard hand across the face, this one on the temple.

A cut
opened on the side of her left eye, as she lost her equilibrium for just a
moment. She was hurting. He grabbed a fistful of her soft black hair, yanking
her head back so that her body was arched backwards. He placed his foot up on
the couch, positioning his thigh right under her curved back.