supplied the van, dropping it off in a mall parking lot with the key and an advance of three thousand dollars cash and promise of the balance on delivery.
(It had crossed Billy’s mind to take the money and run, but he was told the guy was good people and true to his word. And ten grand to bag a kid was a piece of cake. Besides, Billy had his professional code. Not good for business.)
He pulled slowly past the Amoco lot, which was one of those gas station /minimart setups that were open twenty-four hours and manned by a couple of kids. He drove on, checking his rearview mirror. Nothing—just black road as far back as he could see.
Around the bend, he saw the lot, and set back under some trees a dark locked shack with a big sign reading BOILED PEANUTS—SALTED AND CAJUN STYLE. They were big in Central Florida with stands dotting the roadsides. But Billy could never understand the attraction. They looked like cat turds and tasted worse.
There were no other cars in the lot, so he backed in, facing the road, and turned off his headlights, keeping the motor running. He was early. He reached under his seat and pulled out his Python. It was fully loaded. He always had it on these jobs—standard operating procedure, whether he knew his clients or not. It made him feel more comfortable about driving off into the night with seven thousand dollars.
He kept the CD playing, but very softly so he could hear the outside sounds. There were none but cicadas and frogs.
After ten minutes, he began to get nervous. He turned off the CD.
After ten more minutes, he began to wonder if this was the right place. He looked back at the kid, who had stirred, but didn’t wake up. He wished the guy would arrive, because he didn’t want to have to go back there and shoot up the kid again if he awoke. Let the old man take care of that. He had done his part.
Twelve minutes later, Billy was still waiting, the kid still asleep. The dashboard clock said 10:04. He was over half-an-hour late.
Just as Billy began to think he had the wrong place, a big black Mercedes pulled alongside. Startled, Billy gripped his gun, his heart thumping like a kettle drum in his chest.
The driver gave a little wave and got out. He was alone. He was about six feet and slender, dressed in dark pants and a pullover. His hands were empty and there was no gun in his pants or holster across his torso. But around his neck he wore a stethoscope.
“Sorry I’m late,” said the man.
Billy nodded. Already he was feeling better, especially with the big M500. Billy imagined he was a wealthy millionaire who would take his kid off to a foreign country to beat an extradition rap. What didn’t make sense was how he had ended up with a trailer-trash wife. Unless he had met her in a bar on some business trip down here and one drink led to the next and that led to some hotel bed where he knocked her up. Billy had glimpsed the mother during stakeout. She was a looker.
The man peered into the windows of the van. “You have Travis?”
“Yup.”
“Good.”
“You the father?”
“Uncle,” the man said. “Can I see him?”
“First things first,” Billy said. He got out of the van, holding the Python at arm’s length.
“You don’t need that,” the man said. Then he turned around with his arms raised to show that he was carrying no weapons. But there was an envelope sticking out of his rear pocket. The man pulled it out and handed it to Billy.
Billy backed up a safe distance behind the van and with a penlight inspected the contents. Hundreds. A stack of hundred-dollar bills. He pulled a few randomly out of the pack and held them over his light to make sure they weren’t counterfeit or photocopies. They weren’t. When he was satisfied, he stuffed the envelope into his jacket and led the man to the rear of the Caravan.
They looked around and waited for a car to pass. Then Billy opened the rear door.
Travis was lying on a mattress with a blanket over him. He was still asleep from the shot two hours ago. Billy’s instructions had been to avoid restraining the kid in any way—no cords or handcuffs. Just to put him to sleep. The stuff was good for a minimum of six hours—and they had supplied three backup needles. He was also told to drive under the speed limit and not to get caught, no matter what. There was no worry of that. Billy had been doing small heists for years and knew how to keep his ass off radar screens.
As Billy waited, the man pulled out a small penlight from his pocket and raised the kid’s eyelids. With the stethoscope he listened to the kid’s heart. Billy watched, thinking that the uncle was the family doctor, which explained the big German wheels. No doubt he was footing the bill for his po’boy country bubba.
When the guy was satisfied, he carefully lifted the kid out and hustled him to the Mercedes where he laid him across the rear seat, strapped him in, then covered him with a blanket. He thanked Billy and shook his hand. “This is going to make some people very happy. Thank you.” With that he got in his car and left.
Billy watched the car turn east onto 108, which would take the guy back to A1A and onto U.S. 1 North—the big red taillights disappearing into the black.
About a mile down the road, no cars in either direction, Billy flicked on the overhead light and opened the envelope. “Oh, yeah!” he said, riffling through the wad of Benjies with his thumb. Seventy big ones. He flicked off the light and stuffed the envelope into his inside jacket pocket and turned up the CD—Delbert McClinton’s
At about three miles down the road, Billy flicked on the light and once again inspected the money, his mind tripping over ways to spend it. First he’d get himself one of those fifty-inch TVs and a DVD player and a bunch of DV discs
At about five miles down the road, Billy replaced McClinton with
About six miles down the road, it crossed his mind that maybe he’d have a multidisc CD player installed so he wouldn’t have to keep changing albums by hand.
About seven miles down the road, Billy’s heart nearly stopped.
In his rearview mirror he noticed an unmarked cruiser with its dashboard cherry.
He had tried to keep under the speed limit. Maybe it was a busted taillight, but he pulled over, thinking that it could have been much worse had he gotten stopped an hour ago with a kid tied up in the back seat. Or maybe the van matched the description of a stolen vehicle.
He stuffed the package of money under the seat.
The cruiser pulled behind him, and in the mirrors Billy watched the lone cop get out of his car. He was out of uniform, which was unusual. Unmarked car okay, but with an unmarked officer? Probably off duty. Just Billy’s luck. He could get three years in the slammer for driving a stolen vehicle. Then he’d have to explain the camo suit and bag covered with bloodstains from the dog.
He rolled the window down. “Hey!” he said, real friendly.
“Would you step out of your car, please, sir?” The officer was a guy about fifty, short and stocky.
“Pretty sure I was under the limit, Officer,” Billy said, getting out.
The road was dark, and no other cars came by.
“Around this way,” the officer said. He had black driving gloves on.
“Aren’t you going to ask me for my license?” Billy said, reaching for his wallet.
“Not yet,” the officer said, and led Billy around the front of the car which was nosed into thick brush under trees just off the shoulder of the road. The officer made him place his hands on the van’s hood and spread his legs.
The man patted him down. When he felt the inner pocket of his jacket, the man’s hand went inside. Billy
