The Take (3 page)

He made
a face and said, “You gotta be nuts.”

“I’m
dead serious.” His voice showed how serious. So did his dark eyes.

“But
there’ll be cars. Fuckin’ traffic! We can’t pull any shit out there.”

“It’s
perfect for what we’re gonna do. There won’t be that much traffic that time of
night and, as you know, there’s no houses along there. Zero.”

“Big
deal! There’s bound to be some traffic! How d’you think we’re gonna -–“

“C’mere.”
In one motion Val crushed out his cigarillo and pulled Eddie out of the
recliner.

He
guided him into the bedroom. Sliding open the closet door, he pointed back into
the far left-hand corner. Eddie peeked inside. In the darkness, he could make
out two waist-length jackets on hangers, with pants underneath them. They were
black, or maybe dark blue, he couldn’t tell. He looked closer and saw that the
sleeve of each one, near the shoulder, bore a gold patch that read
Houston PD
.

T
he electronic
door to the five-car garage swung open as the white Rolls pulled out. It was
immediately pelted with a hard rain, which had been falling since sundown. While
it made its way out of the driveway, a winding gauntlet of hundred-foot high
Texas pines, Tony Chávez clicked on the high beams. He didn’t like the long,
boring drive to the airport, and on this particularly dark night, the rain only
made it worse.

The big
car lumbered through the watery streets like the Great White Whale, sloshing
around curves and corners, past all the landscaped big-buck mansions, until it
finally turned east on Memorial Drive.

Approaching
the 610 Loop, Tony looked in the rear view mirror and said in Spanish, “You
wanna take the freeway tonight, boss? This rain’s comin’ down pretty good.”

“I hate
the fuckin’ freeway,” Chico Salazar replied from the back seat. He reached for
a glass in his compact wet bar, then dropped a couple of ice cubes into it. “It’s
bad enough we gotta pick it up downtown to get to the airport. Besides, when it’s
like this, it’s twice as dangerous, ‘cause these assholes don’t know how to
drive in the rain. Take Memorial, like always.”

He
poured a generous shot of Crown Royal into the glass. With that first soft sip,
he fell back into his leather seat with a satisfied sigh. He’d had a rough day
and this drink was just
what
he needed.

His
free hand absently fondled the gray metal suitcase next to him on the seat.
Like the whiskey, it was cold and it felt good.

After
another sip, he slipped a salsa disc into the deck, then leaned back again,
closing his eyes and losing himself in the frenetic rhythms.

Tony
was pleased, too. He didn’t like the Houston freeways, either. Bad enough he’d
have to get on one downtown for the trip north to the airport. At least he
could stay off that damn 610 Loop, which was definitely not the road to drive
on in this weather.

Passing
by the Loop entrance and under the Loop itself at the intersection, he watched
it fade into the rear view mirror as he headed straight down Memorial Drive
into the loneliness of the park. Very few cars were venturing out on this rough
night — in fact, there were none at all the first quarter mile into the
park, except the one way back there in the mirror. But just as they rounded the
first bend, he saw it gaining on him. Then he caught the flashing red light.

Tony
saw it wasn’t a full-blown cop car with the big, annoying roof lights. This one
was unmarked, with only a small Kojak light, spinning around a little off the center
of the roof.

He
slowed to a stop.

“Hey,
what the fuck’s goin’ on, man?” asked Chico in English, suddenly alert, quickly
sitting straight up.

“Fuckin’
cops, boss. I don’ know what they want.”

Tony
eyed the mirror warily, as he saw the blinding high beams of the car stopping
behind him. Two men appeared to get out, but only one of them approached the
Rolls. Tony cracked the dark-tinted window downward a couple of inches. Rain
blew in through the narrow opening onto his face.

He
patted the .357 Magnum under his jacket for good measure. Chico carefully
placed his 9mm to his left on the seat, halfway under the suitcase. He kept his
hand on it. The rain on the roof was deafening.

“What’sa
problem, officer?” Tony asked, as he looked out the window. All he could see
was the midsection of a police uniform, along with a hand holding a black
regulation flashlight. “Was I speedin’?”

“Roll
the window down all the way,” came the voice from outside the window. It was
Eddie Ryan, trying to sound serious so that the quaking deep in his gut wouldn’t
make him puke.

Chávez
complied, but only after bitching about the leather seats getting wet. Now the
flashlight shone first in his eyes, then took a measured trip around the
interior of the car. As it illuminated Chico’s face in the back seat, he
tightened his grip on the pistol under the suitcase.

“Hey,
what’sa problem?” repeated Chávez. Eddie could hear the uneasiness spreading
itself through Chávez’s voice.

“Your
taillights are out,” Eddie replied. The tension in his testicles stole over his
whole body. Why did he let himself get talked into this? “License and
registration, please.”

“Taillights?
Man, you crazy. This car jus’ passed inspection las’ week. Ain’t nothin’ wrong
wit’ the taillights.”

Eddie
hadn’t counted on resistance this early. Remember, Val had told him during
their rehearsal, you’re a cop. They’ll believe it if you just act like one.
Show authority and above all, keep cool.

That last
part was getting tricky. Looking around, he saw no cars in either direction.
Only the lonely
pines,
thousands of them, watched from both sides of the road. “License and
registration,” he repeated, keeping his voice as even as he could.

Chico
Salazar spoke up, smiling. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the
pounding rain. “Look, officer, we’re in sort of a hurry. We got an appointment
we gotta make. Maybe we could just pay the fine now and you could let us be on
our way?”

If they
give you any shit, make ‘em get out of the car.

“Step
out of the car,” Eddie said. “Both of you.”

“Hey,
what is this?” Tony snarled through a tightening jaw.
“Fuck you! We ain’ gettin’ outa this car.”

Eddie
glimpsed Val standing between the two cars,
silhouetted in the headlights of the stolen black Plymouth. Val had
seen enough, as he whacked the trunk of the Rolls hard with his flashlight.

The
heavy thunk brought Chávez leaping out of the car. Eddie swallowed hard and
unholstered the pistol at his side, fingers slipping on wet leather. He knew it
was time.

“What
the fuck do you think
¾
“ He saw the gun in Val’s hand, but couldn’t
make him out at first. Then, “Hey, you got a beard! Cops don’ have — hey,
I know you. Val —“

The
first shot from Val’s .38 split Tony’s breastbone and put him down. The second
shot was point blank into the head as he lay in the wet road.

Inside
the car, Chico Salazar had jerked his automatic up into firing position, but a
single shot from Eddie Ryan’s weapon slammed him back into the seat. He reached
for his gut, torn open and hurting, as he stared in disbelief at his own blood
streaming swiftly through his fingers. He screamed
a curse in Spanish, then collapsed onto
the seat. The soft tan leather was stained with a widening red splotch.

They
had hoped to pull the job off with both men still in the car, but now they had
to get Tony Chávez’s corpse out of the road.

“C’mon.
Help me with this!” hollered Val as he started to pick up the body.

Eddie
froze, hearing only the rain. His mouth was wide open, his smoking pistol still
pointing into the back seat of the car.

“C’mon,
goddammit! Move your ass.” Val shot a hard slap to Eddie’s face, then
reholstered his pistol.

They
loaded Tony into the front seat. Opening the back door, Val pulled out the
suitcase. The whole thing had taken around ninety seconds. Not a single car had
passed.

“Go!
Go,” he cried as they piled into the stolen Chevy and sped away.

B
oth of them
were pumped, their adrenaline levels shooting right into the stratosphere.

“God
damn, Eddie! Way to go.”

Eddie
was delirious. “We did it. We got him!”

“Man,
you
got him. Motherfucker!”

A lot
more hooting and palm-smacking followed as they
hurried through the park to Westcott Street, where they turned left
and headed for the Katy Freeway a few blocks ahead. There they would lose
themselves in traffic.

They
ditched the car in a muddy parking lot up on Cavalcade Street on the North Side,
where they’d left Val’s pickup. Once inside the truck and out of the rain, they
changed clothes, putting the police uniforms and the Kojak light into a trash
bag.

After
tossing it into a dumpster two blocks away, they headed back to Val’s
apartment, soaking wet, but still whooping in high excitement.

Walking
up the steps to the apartment, it was all they could do to contain themselves,
to avoid a commotion. Within moments they were inside, finally winding down a
little.

Felina
came out of the bedroom, excited. “How’d it go?”

“Aw,
like clockwork, baby,” said Val, still animated. “Like fucking clockwork.” He
moved the suitcase over to the floor in front of the sofa.

But
Eddie saw Felina in the doorway to the darkened bedroom, and wanted only to
drag her back inside. Her skimpy halter-top stretched outward, while Eddie
could just hear the buttons groaning under the strain. He looked at her legs
going on and on, all the way up into those short shorts. Quick, hot volts of
desire shot right through him, stirring not just his loins, but his whole body,
his whole being. His breathing became just a little bit deeper right there in
the living room.

She was
what a woman was all about, all right, and he would’ve gladly given up his
thirty grand right then and there to take her away from here, to make her his.

“Mother
fucker
!” cried Val over on the couch,
fiddling with the suitcase.

Eddie’s
eyes reluctantly turned away from Felina. “What? What is it?”

“This’s
one of those electronic deals. With a four-digit combination and everything.”

Finally,
reality blasted its way into Eddie’s mind. Sure, they’d pulled it off and had
gotten away clean. But there was a catch. There was always a catch. Now they
were killers.

“Shit,
man,” he shouted at Val. “We had to kill those fucking guys back there. We just
wasted them. And left them there.”

Felina:
“What? You killed somebody? What happened?” She ran to Val’s side, tugging at
his sleeve. “What the hell happened?”

Ignoring
Felina, Val leaped up from the sofa. “Eddie, man, chill out. Hey, we did what
we had to do.” He put his hands tightly on Eddie’s shoulders to bring him back
down to earth.

“We
just wasted those guys. And you said we wouldn’t hafta —“

“What
the hell happened, Val?” shouted Felina. “Who killed who?”

“Cool
down, Eddie,” Val hollered as he shook him a little. “I said we wouldn’t hurt
them if we could avoid it. But you saw what happened.”

Eddie
was still shaking, his eyes fixed on the floor. “But we didn’t have to
kill
them. We coulda just —“

“Val, goddammit!”
Felina grabbed him.

“Hold
it,” he snarled back at her.
Eddie continued his whining. Felina lashed
back at Val, and
then they
were all yelling uncontrollably, cursing to no one in particular. Finally, they
lowered their voices so as not to draw any attention from the neighbors, many
of whom were yelling at each other in their own apartments.

Val
continued gripping Eddie’s shoulders. “Hey, listen to me, man. We did what we
had to do. It was them or us.”

“But I
just shot that fucking Salazar right where he sat. His blood — it was all
over that fucking car seat.”

Val
grew firm. “Yeah, you shot him right where he sat, all right. You see what he
had in his hand? Well, it damn sure wasn’t his dick, buddy boy. It was his
fucking
piece
. And he was fixing to
blow your Irish ass to kingdom come.” He softened for emphasis. “Look, you did
right, man. Like I said, it was him or you.” Then he returned to the couch and
added, “Besides, they were just lowlife Mess’can drug dealers. We oughta get a
fucking medal.”