After you've
fought a midnight war against faceless winged monsters, and lied
bald-faced to everyone at what you knew about how a friend got torn
up... Taking a bunch of bottles and ampules out of the dispensary
just doesn't seem like such a big deal.
I spent a
day giving a false face to everyone, pretending not to have bruises
covering one side of my ribcage in a dappling pattern. I stopped in,
and saw Ray; he was stable, but they wanted to keep him a couple more
nights, to be sure he didn't have internal injuries. Gina had
visited, earlier. We met at the apartment, drank coffee, ate
hashbrowns, and just sat. We had plenty to talk about; somehow, none
of it mattered just then. Being next to each other, that was okay.
Ray getting out, that would be good.
To say that
we stole twelve thousand dollars in narcotics casually seems to smack of not
caring, and that's not quite right. We stole twelve thousand dollars
in narcotics contemptibly, as if it was a ridiculous chore.
I went in a
back door at two in the morning. I wore a hoodie, gloves and
sunglasses, though I took a nicely route with nobody visible along
it. When I arrived at the right door, I sent Gina a text – one
prepaid cell phone to another – and she, standing on an unmonitored
and sheltered stretch of sidewalk, threw a rock through one of the
building front windows, and walked away to watch. She texted me back
when she saw security among those coming. I took that as my cue,
stepped into the area the camera watched, three steps, through the
door, and out of camera sight.
The first
card I tried worked, using the default code (which, we had checked,
was actually 2-5-7-7-7). I loaded two duffelbags, threw them on a
cart, and texted Gina again. This time, having circled around to
another entrance, she pulled a fire alarm.
Two minutes
later, she picked me up with the jeep, and we rang the phone number
that Ambrose Laurent had written on the inventory sheets.
It probably
shouldn't have worked. One of the people that the police questioned
over the next few days should have seen something. Someone should
have suspected me, realized I was acting suspicious. Nobody did,
though; nobody even showed any sign of having any idea.
Except for
Laurent himself, of course. But that came later. That night, we
just rang his number, responded to the voice on the other end to say
that yes, indeed, we did have a package, and would happily meet them
at the address given.
Another
warehouse. We plodded up to another guard that could have been
stamped out by the same mold as the one from a few days before. He
looked at us as we walked up, and then just thumb-pointed back over
his shoulder at the door.
Inside, a
table. Scales. A metal briefcase, in just the right place to have
money for a payoff, or a gun for a doublecross. It was the first
time in this whole business where I felt like the movies hadn't
entirely let me down, and it brought me to the table with a little
smile. There was a card game going on, but it fell quiet as we
stepped up.
We unloaded
in silence. Waited. A pair of serious types can over from the game,
measured and weighed and double checked, rattling on little pocket
calculators. They looked nervous, and I found myself smiling that
little smile again. When they were done, one of them reached into
the metal case, and set down neat, rubber-banded stacks of bills.
"Two
thousand. Four. Six. Eight. Ten. Twelve. That's it."
I looked at
Gina, then, to see if she was going to pick up the cash, or if I
should. Her expression had shifted, suddenly, from the
burnt-out-don't-care one we'd been wearing all day. Gone wooden.
"Thanks."
I replied, as dryly as I could manage now that our strange mood was
starting to break, plucked the stacks off the table one by one, and
gestured after-you to Gina.
In the jeep,
she started shaking, like it had all just now come down on her. As
it turned out, though, it wasn't the theft that had gotten to her at
all.
