Authors: Gerald Petievich
"Quantity?"
"A hundred and twenty-five grand."
Waxman wrote on a yellow pad. "I've seen better, but I can offer you ten points for the package. That's twelve thousand five hundred for you."
"Thirty points is the usual price," Boyce said.
Waxman raised his voice. "Where? Off the back of a turnip truck? I'll go fifteen points but..."
"Twenty points is what I want. It's what I have to get to make my end. I'll take twenty percent or I walk."
Waxman took a plastic bottle of hand lotion out of a drawer, squirted a fair amount on a palm. He rubbed his hands together until the cream disappeared.
"You're a tough little bastard, aren't you? What's your name?"
"Ronnie. Ronnie Smith," Boyce said.
"And I'm Max Doe, the brother of John. Twenty points it is. I don't have time to quibble over a few bucks. That's twenty-five grand to you. It will be in hundred-dollar bills. My man will show you the twenty-five G's first, so you have nothing to worry about. Tonight, 11:00 P.M. exactly, be at the LA. airport. There is a phone booth in parking lot D-3. You better write that down. I suggest you get to the phone booth early to avoid any problems. At 11:00 P.m. the phone will ring and you will receive final instructions for the transaction. Be ready to deliver five minutes after you pick up the phone. If the phone doesn't ring exactly at eleven, the deal is off. It means something is wrong. Any questions?" He looked at the palms of his hands.
"Who will do the deal at the airport?" Boyce said.
Waxman took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.
"One person it's not going to be is me, young man. I'm an attorney at law. You saw the sign on the door... it's been nice talking with you. Come see me anytime you have something."
They shook hands.
Boyce walked through the outer office. A fat man with a full-head black toupee and cardigan sweater made a show of handing something to the receptionist. He stared at Boyce. The screen test, thought Boyce.
Ronnie parked the car next to the airport gas station. Carol looked pale; her lips were colorless.
"You just wait here until I signal you for the case," Ronnie said.
"Then what?" Carol said. She looked at the attaché case sitting between them.
"Then you bring it to me in the parking lot, hand it to me, and go straight back to the motel."
She looked at her watch. "It's ten now. When are you going to want it?"
"A little after eleven. Right now I want you to go across the street and rent another car." He pointed.
"What for?"
"Because this car is registered to
you
. That's why. After I take this guy off, somebody might grab the license plate. Rent a big car and drive it back here. Do you have a phony license that you haven't used for anything yet?"
"Yes."
"Use it." He looked at his watch. "Make it quick. The guy is going to call me at the phone booth in that parking lot at eleven." He pointed to the parking lot behind the gas station.
Carol was silent for a moment. A jumbo jet roared to a landing on the runway across the street.
"You're going to ice him, aren't you?" she said. Her eyes were wide.
After a moment Ronnie spoke with a sneer. "When I tell you to do something, you'd best fucking do it without a lot of chickenshit questions. After I take this dude's money tonight, Red and I are going to have enough to set up a front. We're going to parley the score today into two or three hundred grand. No more chickenshit two-and three-grand capers that cost two or three years. Do you understand?"
She nodded, her head down. He continued.
"All you have to do is rent me a goddamn car and carry an attaché case a hundred feet. Is that too goddamn fucking much to ask?"
She turned to him. "But if everything comes apart, I'll be an accessory. That's life. I've already got a ten-year parole. I don't want to go back. Ronnie, I couldn't take anoth..."
Ronnie grabbed her ear lobe and jerked her toward him. His voice was a violent whisper. "Don't give me that shit about not wanting to go back.
Nobody
wants to go back. The difference is when you say you are
never
going back. That's the difference. To do that you gotta score big, woman. Your fifty-dollar checks ain't going to keep you out. They'll put you right back in with the bull daggers. Course, I heard you didn't mind it too much this last time. A tongue wash now and then made the time go faster, right?" He shoved her head away from him violently.
She looked at him with no expression, checked her purse for the phony license, and got out of the car. He watched her walk across the street and enter the rent-a-car office.
Fifteen minutes later she drove into the gas station in a new Ford. She handed him the keys, and they exchanged cars.
Carol watched him drive through a toll gate into the parking
lot. It
was nearly full. The attaché case was next to her on the seat. He wouldn't say what was in it, but she assumed it was a piece, since they had picked it up from a bus-depot locker. She undid the latches and opened it. Sawed-off shotgun. She closed the lid and snapped the latches. Ronnie was nuts. He always had been. She wondered how he had found out about what had gone on in Corona. Was it because her hair was too short? Maybe he was just guessing.
Ronnie's hands were wet on the steering wheel when he stopped next to the phone booth. He turned off the ignition. He tried to think of last-minute details, because he knew that was what he should be thinking about. What if someone tried to use the pay phone?
He got out of the car and locked all the doors. A breeze of jet fuel. His hands trembled. He stepped into the pay booth and checked his
watch. It
was ten-fifty-eight. A few seconds later the phone rang. Waxman's secretary's voice. She was reading from something. "The man in the sweater is our representative. He is in a black Oldsmobile. Follow his instructions." The phone clicked.
A car door of a black Olds slammed two parking rows
away. In
the darkness the fat man came toward him in a wrestler's walk. The pompadour wig could have been a hat.
The fat man stopped and looked around the parking lot. "Are you together?" he asked.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"I work for Max. I'm here to do business." The fat man's eyes were riveted to Boyce's hands.
"You should have said so," Boyce said. "I'm together. Where's your buy money?"
The man stepped closer. "Max doesn't buy anything without seeing the full package. That's the way it has to work. It’s safer for everybody. You understand." The fat man's voice had a flat, disinterested tone, like a cop giving a ticket. He folded his arms across his chest.
Boyce maintained eye contact. "I don't want to get ripped off any more than you do. When I talked with Max, he said I could show you the paper at the same time you show me the buy money. What's wrong with that? Otherwise we stand here jerking each other off about who's going to show first. Right?"
The fat man glanced around the lot. He focused back on Boyce's hands. "If I was to agree to showing at the same time, then you shouldn't have any objection to letting me search you beforehand."
Boyce spread his arms out wide, palms upturned. "Search away! I don't have a piece. You got nothing to worry about from me. The paper is nearby. All I have to do is give the come-ahead."
The fat man glanced around the lot again. He patted Boyce's torso.
Boyce cased the lot. The fat man was alone. No backup near.
"Okay," the fat man said, "you don't have a gun. Now you just stand there where I can see you and give your mule the come-ahead." He pulled up his sweater. Underneath was a canvas money belt and a .45 in a waist holder. "The twenty-five grand is in here." He unzipped the belt and flicked the edges of four stacks of hundred-dollar bills. "Now you signal your mule. If anything goes wrong, I'll kill you first." His hand was on the .45.
"Take it easy, man." Boyce's voice cracked.
He waved his hands over his head. Carol approached with the attaché case. As she came closer he felt sweat running down the middle of his back.
She handed him the case without a word and disappeared quickly into the darkness. Another jet screamed onto the runway.
"Now open the trunk of your car," the fat man commanded. "Lay the case down in it and show me the funny money. I want to count it. While you're doing that I will let you count the money in the belt. If anybody walks by, it'll look like we're just unloading the trunk or something."
"Fair enough," Boyce said. He opened the trunk with the key. The fat man stepped closer. Boyce smelled tobacco on his breath. Boyce laid the case gently in the trunk and flicked open one latch. "Let's see the money in the belt," he said.
The fat man pulled up his sweater. Boyce flicked open the other latch on the case. The man was looking down at the money belt, trying to take it off.
Boyce slammed his fist into the fat man's jaw, knocking him backward and down. Opening the attaché case with flying fingers, he grabbed the shotgun and pointed it down at the angry fat face. The barrel was in the other man's hands. He gave an animal groan.
Boyce pulled the trigger. Recoil knocked him backward into the trunk. The fat man scrambled on the ground. Boyce fired again. The fire flash spun the man's body over.
Ears buzzing, Boyce dropped the shotgun into the trunk, jumped up, and slammed the lid. He ran to the car door. The money belt! He was on the ground tearing at the sweater and the money belt.
Everything is red! Can't get it off!
The fat man gurgled. He ripped the belt from the body and ran for the car door. He jumped in, threw the car in reverse, and backed out. He felt the car running over the body, back wheels, then front wheels.
Keeping an eye on the speedometer, he drove to see Red. At a stoplight, he stuffed the bloody money belt under the seat. His hands felt sticky.
****
FOURTEEN
Red Diamond was waiting on the bus bench at Sunset and Gower. He was where he had said he would be.
Ronnie sounded the horn, and Red got in.
"Any problems?" Red said. He closed the car door.
"I wasted the private eye," Ronnie said. He pulled back into the Hollywood traffic.
"Where's the money?"
"Under the seat."
Red reached under the car seat. "Drive into that supermarket lot up the street on the right." He pulled out the money belt with two fingers. "Jeez."
He unzipped the belt and pulled out a stack of hundreds and began counting. "Oh, no! Oh, shit! It’s a fucking gypsy bankroll!
The hundreds are counterfeit!"
Ronnie slammed on the brakes in front of the supermarket.
"Let's see!"
Red held out the bills. "Look! Look! We've been fucked! That rotten fucking Waxman was going to trade twenty-five grand in funny money for a hundred and twenty-five grand! Paper for paper! That dirty kike!" Red slammed his fist against the dashboard.
Ronnie had a headache. His ears rang from the sound of the shotgun.
"Maybe you should have gone with me, Red."
"Uh...bad idea. Everybody in town knows Red Diamond--they could have followed up on us. You know. Don't worry about what happened. It's just one of those things. You know."