The Take Page 2

  Val continued: “You scuffle around for the short money, that’s all you’re ever gonna get. I’m ready to move up to the next floor.” He downed the rest of his beer. It did him good, and he sat back down on the edge of the sofa, leaning close to Eddie. “And so’re you, buddy boy. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Hey, I don’t know about any next floor shit. I just need a few grand to pay off Cannetta and my players.”

  Val calmly gripped Eddie’s forearm again, holding it down on the arm of the recliner.

  “Eddie, this’s our ticket out of this black fucking hole of Calcutta. If we play this right, our problems are gonna go away.” His grip tightened for emphasis. “It’s our only chance. Our only goddam chance.”

  It was his desperate look, as well as his fierce whisper, that unnerved Eddie even more. And of course, Eddie knew that for people like him and Val, big chances didn’t roll around on the wheel of fortune too often.

  “But … I don’t know, there’s just gotta be a better way.”

  Val released Eddie’s arm, sinking back into the sofa. He said, “Oh really? A better way? Well, just what do you suggest? That we should trot on down to the bank and ask for a loan? Maybe we should take out an insurance policy to cover our losses. Maybe we should just jump off the fucking Exxon Building!”

  “But I don’t like the idea of robbing him for it. And if the shit really comes down, we might have to …”

  “Relax, buddy boy. I want it to be clean all the way. The key is we take him by surprise. Don’t give him a chance to react. If he doesn’t give us any shit, fine. We grab the dough and run.”

  “And what if he does?”

  “Does what?”

  “Give us shit.”

  Eddie already knew the answer but wished he didn’t.

  Val paused. His eyes narrowed a little and he said, “Then we do what we gotta do.” Eddie started to protest, but Val cut him off, “Hey, maybe a rap on the head if he struggles. But look, it’s not like we’re stealing from widows and orphans. Man, the guy’s a drug dealer. He’s fucking scum.”

  “But he’ll come after us if we don’t kill him.”

  “Oh, now you want to kill him? Make up your mind, man.”

  “No, no. I just want to — I mean — “ All this swirled around Eddie way too fast. He was becoming disoriented. Rubbing his hands together hard, he calmed himself, his eyes darting from his fluttering hands to the label on his beer bottle, then back to his hands. Despite all of the eye-darting, he really didn’t see anything.

  He said, “But he’d come after us for sure.”

  “Damn straight,” Val shot back. “He’ll be double pissed at first. He’ll want to tear us apart. But how’s he gonna know who we are? He doesn’t know either one of us. He’s from the neighborhood, sure, but he came up after we did. Anyway, that kind of money’s no big deal to him. After a few weeks, he’ll cool down.”

  “You’ll be okay,” Felina said, “as long as you don’t show off a lot of money, and as long as nobody finds out he was robbed.”

  Eddie frowned. “Nobody finds out?”

  “It’s the Latin macho thing,” she said. “If people found out about it — you know, other Mexicans — then he’d have to find you, no matter what, no matter how long it took. He’d have to make an example of you, because if it got out that he could be taken, then everybody would try it.”

  The whole thing sounded like suicide. Eddie was about to count himself out, when Val said, “I can find out when he’s gonna be holding the big money.”

  “How?” asked Eddie. “I mean, he’s not gonna advertise it in the paper.”

  Val’s voice evened off. “I been looking into it since that night in T&T’s. It so happens I shoot a game every now and then with Tony Chávez, Chico’s driver.”

  “I think I remember him from around here in the East End,” Eddie said. “A few years younger than Chico, isn’t he?”

  Val nodded. “Okay, so one night, a week or so ago, I get him into a ten-buck game over a couple of beers, and I let him beat me two games in a row. So pretty soon, he tells me he can’t give me a rematch the next night because it’s the third Thursday of the month and he’s gonna be busy.”

  “So?” Eddie asked. He had one eye still on Felina, curled provocatively on the couch.

  “So I say, whaddya mean ‘busy’, and he says he can’t ever do anything the first and third Thursday nights of any month on account of that’s when he takes Chico to the airport. Sumbitch’s got his own private jet, can you believe that shit?” He gestured toward the empty longneck at Eddie’s feet. “You ready for another one?”

  Eddie nodded and Val signaled Felina. She headed for the kitchen.

  Val went on. “So I call my sister’s husband. He works in security out at Intercontinental Airport. Anyway, he calls one of his buddies in Flight Service and finds out Chico’s filed a flight plan for the night in question, leaving at nine-thirty for Grand Cayman.”

  Felina returned with the beers. Val took a big first swig.

  After a light burp, he continued. “Okay, so I go out to the airport that night and park outside the general aviation terminal. I get there a little before nine and wait around, and sure enough, about twenty after, who pulls up but Tony in a white Rolls. He gets out and opens up the back door. Out steps the man himself, Mister Chico Salazar. And he’s carrying a metal suitcase. He goes and gets right on the plane. No waitin’ around.”

  He stopped, eyeing his last Swisher Sweet. Decisively, he pulled it out and lit it, crumpling the empty pack.

  He dropped his voice to a lower key. “So then, I follow Tony all the way back to Chico’s house, over off Memorial. Instead of taking the freeway all the way back, he gets off at Memorial Drive downtown. Then he goes through the park to get to back to Chico’s. The damn park!”

  He exhaled with the effort of someone who had just finished off a major speech, then leaned back as far as he could into the sofa cushions.

  “The park? So what?” Eddie said.

  “Do I have to draw you a fuckin’ map? If he takes that route coming back from the airport, it’s safe to say it’s the same route he takes going out there. If he goes through the park on his way to the airport, that’s where we nail him.”

  “In Memorial Park?” Eddie knew the two-mile stretch of divided road through the park. It was a well-traveled four-lane artery, linking downtown to the elite Memorial neighborhood on the park’s western fringe.

  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.

  3

  The 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 mansion
s, 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.

  4

  Both 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 desi
re 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.

  “Motherfucker!” 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.