Then the siren blared and Ryatt took off.
However, there were no meandering alleyways Ryatt could have used to escape. Plain fields spanned as far as his eye could see. While handcuffed in the backseat, he refrained from employing the paperclip, because the pigs who had arrested him were young. And they seemed like the sort who the media labelled ‘trigger happy’.
Ryatt’s fingerprints had been lifted from the slim jim. The judge screamed two years before banging the gavel, jailing a newly turned eighteen-year-old.
For attempted theft!
It hadn’t surprised Ryatt, though. West Virginia wasn’t famous for its equality. Didn’t they still have Jim Crow here? Their constitution supporting the segregation of colored and white children in schools? In the fucking nineties?
Ryatt had first met Jake at the yard. A thirty-something jailbird, Jake belonged to a different wing. But as the prison complex contained only one exercise ground, inmates had to share.
To pass time, they began chattering. Ryatt told Jake how he was arrested when he tried to steal a car. Except this, he never blurted anything out, about who he really was and what he had done. Jake said that if Ryatt ever needed stolen cars, he could contact him.
A New Yorker, born and bred, Jake had been in the carjacking business for as long as he could remember. He said even his father was a car thief, and he used to sell cars to Roy Demeo himself. Ryatt didn’t know if he should be impressed, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to rely on Thomas’s pudgy fingers again to procure getaway vehicles.
Jake’s acquaintanceship proved convenient. Their agreement worked like this: from where and how Jake got the cars wasn’t something Ryatt cared about. What Ryatt did with the cars was no business of Jake’s.
Their partnership worked well, benefiting both parties for seven years. Even the Ford Ryatt used on the Chicago job came from Jake.
So when Ryatt’s gang needed a new set of wheels for their next job, they went over to meet Jake.
Leo took the I-80, which led them eastward. It had been three hours since they picked up Ryatt, and the sun had called it an early day. The highway scooted past him; bright headlamps on the other side flickered constantly on Ryatt’s face, giving him a migraine.
Worried that he might get a seizure, Ryatt turned away from the window and looked at the time.
His Rolex ran slower by an hour, unchanged since his return from Chicago. He nimbly wound the hands on the dial to display EST.
Thomas lowered the volume of the stereo, looking in the rearview mirror, at Ryatt.
“Now we got enough money to retire in style. Why don’t we call it off?”
Ryatt said, “No, I don’t have enough.”
Thomas frowned. “You don’t?”
Ryatt shook his head.
“I ain’t no fool to believe that.”
“You calling me a liar?” It was Ryatt’s turn to frown.
“I’m calling you greedy.”
Ryatt stared into the mirror, trying his best to get angry, to look offended.
But he couldn’t.
Who was Ryatt kidding? Thomas was correct.
Ryatt cleared his throat. “We… I—”
Thomas lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Call it quits before you get any of us hurt.”
“Promise,” Ryatt said and yawned. “I had a full-course meal.” He lay down and stretched on the backseat. “Gonna rest for a few moments.”
* * *
“Wake up.” Ryatt felt two pairs of hands roughhousing him. “We’re here.”
Wiping the drool off his cheek, Ryatt sat straight. Both his partners were looking at him; Thomas’s face curled in uncertainty.
“What’s up?” Ryatt asked.
Leo nodded at the window.
Ryatt peered outside. They’d parked across from Jake’s chop shop, which he used as a front. But something seemed wrong with the picture. A car stood haphazardly at the entrance. Like someone skidded it to a halt urgently.
The car was a Crown Vic.
“What’s a pig doing here?” Ryatt asked.
“We don’t know,” Thomas said. “I saw it angrily pull up and an angrier man tromped inside.”
“It’s him!” Leo said. “But Thomas ain’t believing me.”
“Whose him?” Ryatt asked.
“You remember Staten Island?” Thomas asked and rolled his eyes.
How could Ryatt ever forget that? Not just due to the tough elderly cashier, but this was also where Ryatt’s old nickname began following him. The cashier had informed the press in an interview that the robber had been sucking on a lollipop.
The presumptuous editor of the newspaper had printed Lollipop Man, and the TV and radio downsized the epithet to a catchier Lolly.
“I remember.” Ryatt pinched the bridge of his nose. “What about it?”
Leo jumped in. “The NYPD held a press conference with the police captain… what’s his name—”
“Raymond Hughes,” Thomas said.
“Yeah. You remember the detective standing behind Hughes? He looked like he is always sad.”
“Yes, I think I do,” Ryatt said.
“That’s him,” Leo exclaimed. “I have his name right here.” Leo pointed at his throat. “But I just couldn’t spit it out.” He grabbed his head. “Something like a Hunter… no… Runner?”
“No way. He looked different back then,” Thomas said, not paying attention to Leo’s agony.
“Nah, it’s him!” Leo let go of his head. “He grew a beard now, but it’s him alright.”
“He is still investigating our case?” Ryatt asked, surprised.
“If it really is him—”
“It is!”
“Let’s ask Jake,” Ryatt said.
Leo smashed the dashboard.
“What now, asshole?” Thomas shouted.
“I got it!” Leo beamed. “The detective’s name.”
Ryatt and Thomas looked at the little man expectantly.
“It’s Chase,” Leo said in a poor James Bond imitation. “Joshua Chase.”
* * *
Ryatt cooked up a plan. Leo and he would interrogate Jake while Thomas followed the Crown Vic and tried to learn more about the pig.
They got down and walked to a bus stop opposite. At this time of
