The System - A Detroit Story -

The System

- A Detroit Story -

By

John Silver

Copyright (c) 2011 by John Silver

All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce the material in these pages, or portions thereof, in any form unless given express permission by the author. This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only and may not be given away. 

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, incidents and scenes are used fictitiously and/or stem from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locals is purely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

Chris, Clarence and Zippy Boost Escalades

The beater cop surplus Crown Victoria pulled behind the car hauler carrying three Escalades, two black and one white.  Chris Wolfe rode shotgun and Clarence Russell drove. The Escalades, not new but off lease and fresh out of auction were easier to boost and harder to trace. Carried by a Mom and Pop hauler- good intel on this one. Chris took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked it out the window. He reached down to the seat and put the cop gumball on the dashboard.

Clarence adjusted the windshield wipers against the intermittent rain. Several times. Chris looked at him and didn't say anything, knowing it was just one of the many things Clarence did to get his mind tuned for the boost.

They rolled over a pothole and the old Crown Vic took it without complaining.  Chris and Clarence bounced in the seat.

"Gonna miss this ride," said Clarence.

"Not me," said Chris. "Frame's bent and it stinks. Has that auto parts store smell. I hate it." He looked out the window, scanning the area. "Worst part is, you still smell it, even when you're gone. Stays in your nose."

Chris studied the hauler's hydraulic loader. Old school and simple, but easy to get your fingers pinched, even sheared off. Saw it happen once. He rubbed his eyes, watery from the Vic's rubber and stale oil odor.

"One more year, man," said Chris. "One more year…"

The car's odor was making him sick. He scanned the area again, wet and dull shades of gray. One more year, maybe a little less and he'd have enough cash squirreled away for the TradeWind. Docked and waiting for him, bobbing white and pristine in a little marina just south of Miami.

Right now, he had to push it out of his mind and focus.

Risky, using the gumball on Northbound I-75, but it was late, raining, and Chris figured the odds about 200 to 1 that a State Trooper would roll by this time of night, let alone a Hamtramck cop. Hamtown. Just two cruisers in the entire city, four cops on the road at any given time, nine times out of ten busy responding to bar fights. No worries there.

A DPD squad car passed on the other side of the freeway, no flashers and siren, but moving, 
fast
. Chris watched it pass and figured it going about ninety, ninety eight miles an hour.

He looked at Clarence and said, "hit it."  Out of habit Chris felt for the Glock 9mm in his jacket pocket and scanned the freeway one more time front, back, and side to side.

"Alright, man," said Clarence, pulling his gray hoodie over his head. He reminded Chris of a young Mohammed Ali ready to enter the ring. Only meaner, a true black panther.

Chris plugged the gumball cable into the cigarette lighter and it instantly rotated and flashed red. This was it- crossing the line, moment of truth, point of no return, whatever it was called. He always had the same feeling, starting in his legs, a tickling sensation that didn't last long.  

…just stick to the system…

Clarence flicked the brights on and off then pulled along side the hauler. Chris motioned for the driver to pull over on the oncoming ramp to Holbrook. Even in the darkness Chris clearly made out the perplexed "who me?" look on the driver's face. The driver looked down at him, confused. Chis saw it before, the "are you guys really cops?" look. 

He could pass for an undercover cop.  Short black leather jacket, black knit sock cap, black t-shirt and jeans, lace up leather boots and two days worth of stubble. Everything cop except the thin leather driving gloves with sticky palms.

The hauler pulled onto the off ramp and drove all the way over to the curb of the intersection of the Chrysler service drive and Holbrook, in view of the stark tan concrete and green glass offices of American Axle.  Perfect. The driver stopped, engaged the air brakes and kept the engine running.

Clarence stopped behind the hauler, unplugged the gumball and said, "I got your back." 

Chris jumped out, sprinted to the hauler and leapt up to the driver side door. Glock in hand he motioned to the driver to roll down the window.  The bristle faced driver jerked back at the sight of the gun.

"Unlock the other door," said Chris, pointing the gun at the driver's face. "Don't try anything stupid or I 
will
shoot you."

The overweight driver, wearing blue striped work overalls that were nearly bursting at the seams moved his entire body as he leaned over and pulled the handle of the passenger side door. Sometimes these old dudes carried guns and jumped at the chance to use them. Sometimes they were gentle as small children. Chris slipped around the front of the hauler, never taking his eyes or the gun off the driver and jumped into the cab. 

"Drive," he said, pointing the gun at the driver's ribs.

"Where?" said the driver. His hands gripped the steering wheel.

"Turn right on Holbrook. You got a gun?"

"No," said the driver.

He put the shifter into first gear and the hauler lurched forward, belching black diesel exhaust. He slipped through the rest of the gears and picked up speed. Clarence followed close behind.

Chris looked around the cab. "Where are the keys?"

"Buyer wanted the keys sent separately," said the driver.

"You gotta be shittin' me," said Chris, pushing the Glock into the driver's side. "Where are they?"

"They aren't here. Honest. Look for yourself," said the driver, keeping his eyes on the road, his hands trembling. "Please, man. I just get paid to haul and not ask questions. If they were here you could have 'em," he said. "The buyer had them sent FedEx to his lot. Didn't want them stolen." Chris read his eyes and believed him.

"Where's the lot?" said Chris.

"Clio. North of Flint."

No keys, no problem. Worth more intact, but these Escalades were going to be torn down for parts.

They drove down Holbrook past the massive manufacturing complex, under the giant blue overhead walkway, past the empty concrete loading docks and beyond the view of any active security cameras.

"Slow down," said Chris, near an empty field, two blocks down Holbrook. "Pull over here." The driver, who Chris guessed to be about sixty, looked as gray and pasty as the dull light reflecting on the wet street. "No problem, man," said the driver. "Just don't shoot."

The hauler stopped with Clarence behind. He killed the Crown Vic, got out and squirted some charcoal lighter fluid out of a yellow can on the seats, dashboard and floor. He pulled a bundle of kitchen matches held together by a rubber band from the pocket of his hoodie. Clarence tossed the can of fluid into the front seat.

"You got a cell phone?" said Chris to the driver.  The driver hesitated, looked down the barrel of the Glock and at Chris's no-nonsense stare.

"Yes."

"Give it up," said Chris.

The driver reached into the top pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a small, silver phone and handed it to Chris.

"Get out," said Chris. "Now."

The driver groaned as he opened the cab door and stepped down to the wet street. 

"Start walking that way," said Chris, pointing to the open field. "Move it." 

The driver turned and walked into the open field through the tall dead grass, shaking his head. Chris watched him trudge through the weeds and mud toward I-75.  All the fields looked the same, littered with worn out tires, stained mattresses, garbage, old sofa frames with rusty coil springs exposed and plastic bags.

Clarence lit the matches and tossed them into the Crown Vic's open window.  The front of the Crown Vic's interior ignited instantly.  Chris heard the whump and smelled the sharp charcoal fluid vapor.

Fire engulfed the old Crown Vic. With half a tank of gas, Chris figured it would blow fast. Chris and Clarence hopped in the cab.

"I give it five minutes," said Chris. He slammed it into first and skillfully ran up through the gears.

In the side view mirror, almost six minutes later, Chris saw the Crown Vic lurch as the gas tank exploded, a large orange fireball filling the gray wet night sky.

*    *

Chris pulled the hauler into a crumbling asphalt lot enclosed by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The fence was overgrown with vines, and the large double gate had been taken down or ripped away. The lot sat adjacent to a windowless abandoned brick and cinderblock factory. The lot held two rusty and abandoned semi-trailers.

Zippy Sanchez walked briskly from behind one of the trailers toward the hauler carrying what looked like a long, flattened screwdriver.

Chris killed the lights but kept the engine running. Clarence jumped out of the cab before it came to a complete stop and ran back to the back of the hauler. Zippy was waiting.   

"Nice haul, man," he said.

"No keys," said Clarence.

A siren sounded in the distance. Clarence and Zippy stopped and turned toward the sound.

"No way," said Clarence.

"Move," said Zippy.

Chris hopped out of the cab. While Clarence dropped the loading ramp Zippy took the tool he was holding and slid it between the driver's side door frame and window on the first Escalade. With a sharp click the door lock released and Zippy hopped inside.  He cracked open a cover on the steering column, gently inserted the other end of the tool, twisted it, then pressed the Escalade's ignition button. The big engine cranked then turned over. With another motion of the tool Zippy broke the steering lock. He deftly backed the Escalade off the trailer, turned the headlights off and sped out of the open gate.

The siren faded – not cop, could be an ambulance, Doppler effect indicating that it was going away from the lot, and them.

Clarence, holding a similar tool, followed suit with the next Escalade. He backed the white Escalade off the hauler, silently nodded to Chris and pulled out onto the wet, moonlit street.

Chris jacked open the door of the last Escalade when a small Suzuki security patrol vehicle pulled in the gate and stopped in front of the hauler with the brights on. Chris stopped and squinted into the light.

The door opened and a beefy, boy-faced security guard stepped out, holding a large flashlight. He stood behind the door. "Hey!" he yelled, shining the light in Chris's face. Chris pulled the Glock from his jacket pocket and walked toward the guard holding his arm straight, pointing the Glock directly at the guard's head.

"Put the light down and step away from the door," said Chris.

Laid off cop, Chris guessed. Old habits die hard. Dudes didn't make much in the first place. Long hours, every run may be their last, now they were lucky to get a little above minimum wage as security guards or mall cops. And they do shit like this?

The guard dropped the light, put his hands out to his sides and stepped away from the door.   

Chris saw the fear and regret in his face. Fear for having the 9mm pointed at his forehead and regret for being stupid enough to stop where he had no business being.