Dog Eat Dog (17 page)

“No, no,” Troy said. “I told you how he is. He runs late.”

“He wouldn’t split with our money, would he?” Mad Dog asked. Troy’s look of bemused disdain reassured Mad Dog. He thought about the money again. What to do with it? He’d send his sister a few thou. She had AIDS and was living in a ragged mobile home outside Tacoma. He could get high, too, when this was done and he could get away from his partners. He had opened one of the bags and dug out a tablespoon of cocaine. He’d buy some smack and really get blowed out on speedballs—escape the torments of his life for a while. He might even get hooked with a hundred grand plus.

Troy wanted to fire up a cigar, but he’d seen a sign on the casino wall: Cigars not permitted on casino floor. No cigars in a gambling hall? What kinda shit is that? Vegas had probably changed, too. God, he loved Vegas. He could dive into the neon sea and forget the day, the hour, and everything else except the dice dancing across the green felt table. He could use a few days in Vegas after the scene at the bungalows. It had come out all right, and he had experienced no fear while the heist was in progress, but whenever he thought about it afterward, like now, nervous fear sent butterflies flying in his guts. He glanced at Diesel, whose glazed eyes bespoke distant thoughts.

“Hey, Big Man,” Troy said. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m great, bro’. You know what I’m gonna do with my end, man, I’m gonna pay off most of the mortgage on my pad. Hey, did you ever think that I’d own my own fuckin’ house?”

Grinning, Troy shook his head. It was as unlikely as anything in the world. “You’re changing in your old age. One more score and you’ll be rehabilitated.”

“Yeah, ain’t that true. I might vote Republican.” He paused. “You know I don’t like abortion. It’s killin’ babies to me.”

Troy nodded, remembering his surprise at Diesel’s vehemence on the subject in the San Quentin yard when the big man had been ready to fight after another convict cracked a joke about abortion. It contradicted everything else about him.

“Do you vote?” Troy asked.

“Oh, yeah. I registered when the kid came. The guys in The Face’s local make sure everybody is registered.”

In a way it surprised Troy; this was the first ex-con he knew who voted. On the other hand, it was obvious why the Teamsters Local made sure of registration. He looked to Mad Dog, whose eyes were blank and whose mind was far away. “What about you, Dog? You vote?”

Mad Dog snorted derisively. “Hell, no! Fuck a vote! That’s shit for suckers.”

A red flush rushed to Diesel’s cheeks. Just then Troy saw Alex Aris enter. “There he is,” Troy said, then stood up and waved.

Greco saw them and came over. As always, he was stylishly dressed, tonight in dark blue cashmere jacket and gray flannel slacks, cuffed and pleated in the latest style. He was smiling as he got close. Troy slid over to make room on his side of the booth.

“How you guys doin’?” he asked.

“Tell us,” Troy said. “You got the news.”

“You mean about those thirty keys?”

“Hell, yes, man. Damn!”

“The best I could do was twelve-five a key. I thought I’d get a little more, but the fuckin’ market is flooded. They gimme three hundred grand and they’ll give me the rest on the weekend.”

“You got three hundred grand in the car?” Mad Dog asked.

“No, no. I’m too likely to get stopped. I got it at a pad. I’ll take Troy and get it when we leave.”

Forgotten was the anger of a minute earlier; both Diesel and Mad Dog grinned widely. Greco looked at them and decided it was time to mention other shares—without mentioning that he had actually gotten thirteen-five for each key, and so had thirty grand in hand already. “What about the lawyer?”

“Lawyer?” Mad Dog said.

“Yeah … the lip that fingered the score in the first place?”

“Oh, yeah. What do you think?”

“He should get twenty-five grand, and I should get five apiece from you guys.”

“Outta what you got already?”

“No, no, out of what I get on the weekend.”

The trio nodded at each other. “That’s cool,” Troy said.

“I’ll give you the change next week.”

The waitress arrived to see if Alex wanted anything. He shook his head. “I’m leaving in a minute.”

When she was gone, Alex looked at Troy. “You know Chepe Hernandez?”

“I met him once. I know his brother better.”

“He knows you. He wants to see you.”

“Sure. What’s he want?”

“You know he’s in La Mesa.”

“The joint in Tijuana?” Mad Dog asked.

“Yeah. He’s doin’ a dime. He could get out whenever he wants, but Uncle Sam has an indictment on him and they’re pressing Mexico City to get him back. You know how they snatch suckers back from down there. Fuck an extradition warrant. But they can’t snatch him outta La Mesa.”

Troy nodded. He could appreciate Chepe’s dilemma. Once the feds had him in Leavenworth or Marion, he would be history. High-security inmates never escaped from a U.S. penitentiary. Under the new sentences guidelines, an international drug smuggler would serve the rest of his life—case closed. Troy remembered that Chepe was fifty a decade ago. He was an easygoing guy with a sense of humor. He’d begun selling joints in Hazard Park on Soto. “You got any idea what he wants?” Troy asked again.

“Who knows? I don’t think he wants you to kill anybody. He can get that real quick and a lot cheaper.”

“I don’t kill on contract,” Troy said.

“I know that. I told him. It’s something else. Somebody owes him, I think. Anyway, he wants me to bring you down to see him. I’m going next week. I gotta take a toilet bowl.”

“They don’t have plumbers down there?” Mad Dog asked.

“It’s not for Chepe. Shit, he’s got a suite like a Hilton. You ready for it? Shit, you can visit and stay all night.”

“You guys go,” Diesel said. “I’ll visit my old lady and check with Jimmy the Face and meet you at the end of the week.”

Troy looked at Mad Dog. “You and me?”

Mad Dog nodded and it was decided.

“I’ll take Troy to get the dough,” Alex said. “You guys wait at the hotel.”

In addition to the fancy Jaguar, Alex Aris also drove a six-year-old Seville. It was nice enough to arouse no attention in Beverly Hills, yet old enough to blend into South Central. He was constantly on the move throughout Southern California. Nobody worked harder at being a criminal.

When they got underway, Troy wondered why he felt flat. The huge score would never be reported. Moon Man had big money and niggers to kill for him—but their underworld was as segregated as most of black and white in America. Moon Man would never know who got him. He probably believed they were rogue cops. Half the Sheriff’s Department narco squad was under indictment for extorting drug dealers and stealing money and drugs during busts. Once upon a time a score like this would have thrilled him. What had changed? Why did he feel tired and depressed? Even if he knew, what could he do? It was too late to change. He had to keep playing or kill himself; he wasn’t
that
depressed.

“How you gettin’ along with Mad Dog?” Alex asked.

“He loves me.”

“Watch his paranoid ass. He’s got priors for turning on friends. Remember when he stabbed Mahoney?”

“I guess I do. I was about ten feet away. I spilled hot coffee all down my front getting outta there.”

“Him and Mahoney were good friends.”

“I know.”

“Okay. I hope I don’t have to kill him ’cause he kills you.”

“Oh, no, that won’t happen.”

Troy looked out at the streets. They were crossing the southwest quadrant of the endless city. He’d once had a girlfriend who lived in the area. It had undergone a metamorphosis in the last decade. Developed after World War II and sold under the F.H.A. and the G.I. Bill, it had deteriorated from bright two- and three-bedroom ranch styles that could have been a Norman Rockwell cover to a world closer to the
colonias
he’d seen in Tijuana. The manicured lawns were weed-infested patches of brown. Torn and rain-soaked sofas were discarded at the curb. Trash filled the gutters and blew into piles against fences. Walls were defaced by graffiti in black spray paint. A pack of stray dogs had overturned a trash can and were digging in the mess. This was not the Southern California of song and legend. It made him remember Chepe in Tijuana.

“What’s the deal with Chepe?”

“I don’t know any more than I told you.”

“Why does he want me? He’s got pistoleros running out his ears. Shit, he was tight with Big Joe and those dudes in the Eme.”

“I think he wants somebody with more sense.”

“Well, we’ll see what he wants.”

“You’ve never been to La Mesa.”

“Uh-uh.”

“You’ve got an experience coming.”

Alex turned into a mobile home park: Narrow streets, mobile homes sited close together, D
RIVE
S
LOW,
C
HILDREN AT
P
LAY
signs. He parked on the road’s shoulder. “I’ll be one second,” he said as he got out and went around a corner.

It was closer to a minute, but it was quick: Alex came back with a big suitcase. He put it on the rear floorboards. “Three hundred grand,” he said.

Back at the Bonaventure, Troy carried the suitcase across the lobby and took the elevator. Diesel and Mad Dog were waiting in the room. The suitcase was opened and packets of currency were dumped on the bed. It was old currency, plucked from sweaty palms all over the city and gathered by denomination in packets fastened with rubber bands. The amount of each packet was written in pencil on jagged pieces of paper torn from a yellow legal tablet.

“Count it out,” Mad Dog said to Troy.

“Take your own,” Troy said.

The packets were in various amounts. Some had $1,000 in fives, others $2,500 in tens, but most were $5,000 packets of twenties. In less than a minute, each of them had $100,000. Diesel started to pack his share in an overnight bag. “While you guys are down there, I’m gonna go home for a couple days.”

“Don’t let that broad take all your money,” Mad Dog said.

Diesel stopped packing and frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“That means … whatever you think it means.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Troy said, stepping between them. “Take it easy. Don’t start arguing over nothing.”

“That was some kinda little dig, like I’m a trick or something.”

“Man, you’re paranoid,” Mad Dog said, waving his hand in a deprecating manner as he turned away.

“
I’m
paranoid! Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Hey, hey,” Troy interjected. “Knock it off. What’s wrong with you dudes? You’re partners.”

“Aw, man,” Mad Dog said, “just ’cause this sucker weighs a ton and was some kinda halfass prizefighter, he thinks he’s bad.”

“No, I’m not bad—but I can keep bad motherfuckers off me.”

“Cool it,” Troy commanded.

“Don’t tell me. Tell him. He started it.”

“I’m telling both of you … freeze on that shit. It’s not about nothin’.”

Diesel swung his eyes to Troy. His face was red, but after a moment he turned away, muttering, “Crazy motherfucker drops a lug like I’m some kind of trick.”

“Let it go, Diesel,” Troy said.

“Hey, I was just putting you on a little,” Mad Dog said. “Fuck you if you can’t take a little ribbing.” His voice was shrill.

“Hey!” Troy snapped, glaring at Mad Dog. Mad Dog was flushed, his eyes glazed, but then he snorted a half-laugh and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Troy. I don’t wanna push your button.” To Diesel, “Sorry, brother.”

“Forget it.”

Troy nodded, but he knew nothing was forgotten. He knew these men. Any wound to the ego festered in the mind. Mad Dog would chew on it and get paranoid. Diesel would feel the paranoia and get scared because he knew how dangerous Mad Dog could be. The only way to keep one from eventually murdering the other was to keep them apart. Diesel’s going to Northern California was good. Troy would keep an eye on Mad Dog. He had mixed feelings about the maniac. He knew Mad Dog so well, knew the torture of his childhood and the torment of his youth. Whatever Mad Dog was, however insane and dangerous, he’d been made that way, and society had abetted the crimes against a child. His mother had burned him with cigarettes before she went into the nuthouse. When she got out, the juvenile court sent him back to her—and she tortured him some more for telling on her. He’d been ten years old and ran away; he was caught breaking into a neighborhood market. That got him into the juvenile justice system, where he was often punched and kicked by bigger boys because he was small and different—until he was once goaded too far and stabbed a bully in the eye with a fork. After that his reputation for being unpredictably dangerous got him a wide berth. Once he understood his situation, he exploited it by behaving with violent insanity, and in return got greater leeway from his peers. Even the toughest kids get nervous about the crazy ones.

When Mad Dog and Diesel and others of their reform school cohort graduated into adult crime and San Quentin, Troy was already a legend. He was chief clerk in the Athletic Department and controlled the lists for weekend and night gym. Coach Keller, who disliked being bothered, signed whatever Troy put in front of him. Troy okayed the gym work crew, one of San Quentin’s better jobs. It had fringe benefits, a place to get off the Big Yard out of the rain, a chance to shower every day, access to TV for sporting events. Troy arranged for Diesel’s job and played mentor to him for the next three years. Diesel was sure that listening to Troy had kept him out of trouble so he could get a parole. Now Troy had led him to a score that thieves dream about. What would Gloria have to say when he dropped a hundred grand on her pretty blond ass? That would shut up all her heckle and jeckle bullshit. Maybe he should get a new suit, too, a whole new outfit, a Brioni or Hickey-Freeman, and wear that when he arrived home. Diesel grinned to himself while he envisioned gloating and strutting as he pitched packet after packet of untraceable money on top of the kitchen table. How sweet it would be. “I think I’ll leave tonight,” he said. “Drop me at the airport and take the Mustang if you want. The Dog’s car might not make it on Mexican highways.”