Trouble & Strife Page 13

  Had Dmitri known? No, not possible. He’d been furious I was there. That’s why he shot her, I just know it. But perhaps she had known that Dmitri was my boyfriend. In fact, hadn’t I shown her a picture of Dmitri on my phone?

  Things began to click then. She’d wanted to frame me. And she had double-crossed him that much was clear. A wave of anger washes over me.

  I catch Detective Lee watching me. Who knew what expressions I’d just conveyed?

  “Was Ms. Garcia not supposed to be there?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, jolting upright.

  “The perp’s clearly talking to you here. That comment about witnesses.”

  “No! He was talking to her! She must have been in on it. That’s why the cases were unlocked. She was trying to frame me. I see that now.”

  Neither detective looks like they believe me.

  “Then perhaps you can explain what he says here,” Detective Wilson says. “‘Just keep your mouth shut and you’ll be all right.’”

  But I wasn’t all right, was I Dmitri? I stare at the man who was my boyfriend, captured on the small screen, willing him to explain what he had just done.

  “What about what you say here?” the detective says, interrupting my thoughts. We all watch as I sink beside my boss’s body. “I’m so sorry, Maria,” we hear me say. “I didn’t know he would shoot you.”

  The words damn me. Still I try to explain. “I wasn’t in on it! I swear, I knew nothing about this!” I say, my heart beating fast. I try to stay calm, rational. I try to ignore their obvious disbelief. “I mean I knew him. He was my boyfriend. Dmitri. He used to come to my bar. I guess I didn’t know him all that well. We’ve only been together a few months and—”

  “You were living together,” Detective Lee interrupts. “Sounds like you knew each other fairly well.”

  I try to continue. “I hadn’t even seen him for three weeks. He just came back. He didn’t know I had started a new job. He thought I still worked at the bar.” My voice starts to rise. “I don’t know why he did this to me! I just need to talk to him, find out what happened! This is all a big mistake! I swear it! Just find Dmitri!”

  “We found Dmitri Stamos,” Detective Wilson says. There was something ominous in his tone.

  “Wh—where is he?” I stammer, dreading the answer.

  “We located him several hours after the robbery, just a few blocks from your apartment. We’d staked out the place. He was cornered. When he put up a fight, the police shot him. He’s dead.”

  For the second time in two days, I faint.

  When I come to, I find myself lying on the floor, a pillow beneath my head. The pain is raging so fiercely, I can barely focus. Again, conversations swirl around me.

  “We’ll book her, for second degree murder and grand larceny,” I hear Detective Lee say.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I moan softly. “I was framed.”

  They are not paying any attention to me.

  “Effects from Dmitri Stamos. Wallet with two hundred thousand in cash. Clearly fenced the goods first. We’re tracing it now.” Detective Lee pauses. “And one item from Jenkins.”

  “Oh yeah? He kept something for himself?” Detective Wilson replies, sounding faintly curious.

  “An engagement ring, still in the box.” Detective Lee chuckles. “A modern Bonnie and Clyde, right here in Upper Highlands.”

  Stunned, I think about Dmitri’s excitement the other night. I’ll have a surprise for you, he had told me. The start of something new…

  I bite back a bitter laugh, as the detectives haul me to my feet and read me my rights.

  Back to TOC

  Lee Marvin

  Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Starving

  Travis Richardson

  I’m Lee fuckin’ Marvin. I’ve been double-crossed, shot, and I haven’t eaten a damn thing in over eighteen hours. Some jobs, regardless of the payout, just aren’t worth it. Not that money matters anymore. I’m getting revenge on the people who betrayed me, and then I’m going to devour a huge freakin’ steak.

  The night before the job, I went to the fights with my crew: Bonny, Cale, and Salvador. Everybody except my right-hand man, Knox, who stayed home to go over the job for the nineteenth time. Sipping Scotch and sucking on cigars, I made around six grand between wins and losses. Then I took my woman out for dinner and dancing. I’ve learned it’s best not to leave an ultra-hot woman alone on Friday night or she’ll find other distractions. It was close to two when we made it back to my condo and past four in the morning when Jennifer and I finished our final round of love-making.

  All of this behavior before the biggest job of my life, in retrospect, borders on unprofessionality. I had carried out sixteen big-time heists without a flaw. My team and I had prepared for over a month to perfect this job. If anything, I was blowing off steam and making sure I squeezed out every ounce of juice life had to offer.

  But back to my story. I woke around ten in the morning. Bleary-eyed with a hangover, but feeling great. I brewed a pot of coffee and started to whip up my infamous western egg scramble while Jennifer slept. I had all the ingredients diced, shredded, cracked, and ready to go as the cast iron pan sizzled with a bountiful pat of butter. Then a ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat pause tat-tat-tat knock came from the front door. Code from one of my crew. I grabbed a nearby Walther PK380 and slipped it in my silk robe pocket. Knox stood in the doorway, his face twisted in worry.

  “You’re early,” I said, opening the door.

  He bolted inside, shaking his head. “No, we’re late. The job moved up five hours. The jet’s already in the air.”

  I’m not known for showing strong expressions, but I think my jaw must’ve swung open. A little.

  “Why didn’t Bresson call me? Or you for that matter?”

  “We did. Bresson said he called you a dozen times before calling me.”

  I bolted to the bedroom. Jennifer lay on her stomach, bare ass naked. I grabbed my iPhone, and dammit, the fucker was turned off. How the hell did that happen? The only time I turn it off is when I don’t want a record of my whereabouts, and being in my home is the alibi that I always want to have.

  I turned on the phone and walked back to the kitchen, closing the door so that Knox won’t catch an eyeful of forbidden candy.

  “When does the plane land?”

  Knox lifted his Rolex. “In an hour and a half.”

  “Shit.” I glanced over at the sizzling pan and the unrealized breakfast. My hangover cure wouldn’t happen this morning. “Give me three minutes.”

  It was 10:07 a.m. I walked into the bedroom, dropped the robe, pulled up black cargo pants, squeezed into a black turtleneck, laced up my combat boots, and grabbed my pre-packed equipment bag. Looking over my shoulder, I gave Jennifer’s body a brief once over and then shook out all carnal desires out of my head. All about the job now. And it was 10:10 a.m.

  The crew met at a warehouse off of Jefferson Boulevard in Playa Vista. Except for Knox, we looked like shit. Cale’s a weapons man, great with a gun and steady under fire. Bonny served time in Pelican Bay for a series of smash and grabs at high-end jewelry stores, but got out early on a technicality. He’s athletic and quick. And Salvador’s the best wheelman this side of NASCAR. I’ve worked with these men before and trusted them with my life. The feeling’s mutual, I believe.

  Putting on leather gloves, I went over the plan one more time. Then we loaded into three vehicles, each with stolen license plates. Salvador took the Town Car with a modified super engine and racing suspension. Cale and Bonny commandeered a cargo van with a reinforced steel rear bumper. I slid into a 1975 Cadillac De Ville with a five-point race harness seat belt and padded steering wheel. This unadulterated Detroit steel beast weighed over five thousand pounds. Knox strapped up in the passenger seat. We made it to the Santa Monica airport with little time to spare.

  Our eyes on the ground, a young kid wanting to get into the ga
me texted our burner phones that the private jet landed. Separated from each other by a block apiece on Ocean Park Boulevard, we knew the delivery would head north to a mansion off Mulholland Drive. We just didn’t know the route the driver would take.

  While we waited, my belly grumbled something fierce.

  “Hungry?” Knox said with a mischievous smile.

  My glare shut him up. He returned to staring out the window and shaking his nervous knee. The damn guy worried too much.

  “Got a visual. They’re leaving the gate now,” Salvador announced over his walkie-talkie.

  We started up our engines and left the curb. Salvador passed a black Chevy Surburban before it pulled onto the street. Bonny and Cale followed three to four car lengths behind. I trailed all of them almost by a block, ready to catch up to the SUV if it took on a random route. Salvador drove to the 10 freeway, anticipating our tail would use the freeways instead of surface streets. If they didn’t, Salvador would double back and until he took the lead again. Fortunately, our first instinct was right, and the Suburban entered the 10 on-ramp.

  Half a mile going east, Bonny and Cale’s van motored past the SUV that cautiously stayed in the right lane, traveling at exactly the speed limit. Traffic was heavy westbound to the ocean, but lighter traveling toward downtown. By the time we came up to the 405 northbound on-ramp, everybody was in place. Salvador first, Bonny and Cale’s van second, the mark third, and Knox and I hanging back. On the downward slope of the curving onramp where two lanes narrow to one, Bonny radioed, “Showtime.”

  He slammed the brakes hard. With mouth guard in place, I stomped the gas pedal to the floorboard and smashed into the rear of the Suburban. Glass exploded and metal compressed as the SUV collided into the van. Seconds later our feet hit the pavement, ski masks on. Cale opened the dazed driver’s door, unlocked the rest, and threw a concussive grenade into the back.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouted.

  We turned and crouched. Any glass left inside the SUV blew out as the ground beneath our feet shook. I yanked open the rear door. Two bulky bodyguards and a little man sat in the rear seat in states of semi-consciousness. I reached in and grabbed the leather attaché case off the little man’s lap. His arm followed, attached via a stainless-steel handcuff to his wrist. I dragged him out of the van and onto the concrete. He blubbered nonsensical words.

  “Cutters,” I shouted like a surgeon with my right hand up behind me.

  Knox unzipped a duffle bag and handed me a pair of bolt cutters. Two quick snips to the handle, and I’m on my feet running with the attaché case to the waiting Lincoln.

  I slid into the passenger seat, while the other three loaded into the back. I dropped the attaché into a lead lined box by my feet. If a tracking device happened to be stitched inside the fine premium leather, I didn’t want the signal to go out. Salvador glanced at me, eyebrows raised asking we good?

  I nodded. “Punch it.”

  Salvador burned rubber as we barreled onto the 405. I noted the time on my Omega. A shade over two minutes. Could’ve been better, but definitely could’ve been a whole lot worse. We exited Santa Monica Blvd and switched to a Mercedes several blocks later. We navigated surface streets back to Playa Vista. Watching the side view mirror, nobody seemed to follow us.

  Thirty minutes later we’re back at the warehouse. We haven’t said a word to each other. It’s bad luck to celebrate until we get paid.

  Inside the warehouse, I slid back the lead box and waved an electronic scanner over the attaché. It beeped. Knox handed me a knife. Gutting the bottom of the bag, a slim plastic rectangle with a wire antenna fell out. Bonny’s ready with a hammer and smashed it to smithereens. A signal shouldn’t have gone out in those few seconds.

  Reaching inside the attaché, I pulled out a heavy purple velvet bag. Loosening the drawstring at the top of the bag, I poured out dozens of multi-carat jewels—sapphires, emeralds, rubies, diamonds—onto a folding table. The overhead light caused the walls to sparkle. The crew hunkered in close to take in the awe.

  Salvador whistled. “Beautiful, man.”

  Bonny and Cale nodded. At that moment I realized Knox wasn’t standing with us. Fear seized my heart as I whipped around. He stood twenty feet away holding a TEC-9 with an extended clip. Determination radiated from his eyes.

  “Get down,” I shouted, dropping to the floor.

  Knox squeezed the trigger. Cale and Salvador flew backwards with blood spurting from their chests. I flipped the table over, scattering priceless stones across the concrete floor.

  “The fuck, man,” Knox shouted, blasting holes into my particleboard shelter.

  I blindly returned fire. So did Bonny. But he was exposed, and Knox nailed him. I ran to the exit, firing my last few rounds. Throwing open the door, Jennifer stood by my Jaguar, looking gorgeous as ever. But her eyes were hard as she brought up a small caliber handgun. Ducking, I ran as two bullets flew over my head. A third bullet slammed into my back. I kept my feet moving as Knox kicked open the door and rained bullets everywhere. Scaling a chain-link fence, two more bullets hit. Gritting my teeth, I pulled myself over and rolled down an embankment into Ballona Creek.

  Splashing into the raging water, I felt grateful for the previous two days of rain that turned the usually placid creek into a river. Knox and Jennifer watched from above. My former right-hand man pointed his weapon at me one more time. I gulped air and plunged under water.

  Minutes later I was swimming in the ocean, trying to get out of a current. My back, thigh and shoulder burned like hell. With all the holes in me, I needed to get back to shore or I’d become shark bait. Setting my sights on a jetty, I hoped I wouldn’t bleed out before I got there. I swam to boulders, exhausted and spent. Taking off my soaked clothes, I checked myself. A bullet lodged in a back rib. Probably cracked the bone too. Best to leave it alone. My right quadriceps had a nasty, bleeding crease, but nothing serious. My left shoulder, however, had the worst damage. Lifting my arm created mind-searing pain. That would be a problem. Ripping up parts of my turtleneck, I patched myself up as best I could. I considered staying on the jetty and resting for a while, but couldn’t. My partner in crime for the past five years and a girlfriend of six months teamed up against me. Burning with rage, I had to get revenge.

  A dark marine layer drifted in from the ocean, matching my mood. The temperature dropped a dozen degrees, and I started shivering hard. I dove into the water and swam a sidestroke to the shore. Wearing nothing but the tied-on bandages and jockey shorts, I crawled up to the sand on the beach.

  Most people ignored me as they were packing up, the cold gloom at my back chasing them home. I hoped the lifeguards at the distant station wouldn’t notice me or would write me off as a crackpot homeless man and leave me the hell alone. Trudging through the sand with a painful limp, I came upon a gorgeous brunette wearing a short sweater and reading a Richard Stark novel. My kind of woman.

  I stopped and scanned the horizon for Knox or Jennifer. Neither were in sight. The reader looked up and cocked her head sideways.

  “Looks like you’ve had a hard day.”

  “You better believe it.”

  We stared at each other.

  “You need a ride?”

  I nodded. Without a word she closed her book, folded her blanket, and started walking. I followed feeling that any other day we might’ve ended up in a bedroom, getting to know each other very well. Unfortunately, revenge consumed my mind.

  Her ride was a VW Beetle and not a modern one. After a backfire that nearly caused me to jump out of my seat, she navigated down the road, driving towards my condo in Manhattan Beach. I considered going to the safe house in Inglewood, but if I were Knox, that’s exactly where I would go and wait in ambush for my bedraggled double-crossee to enter the threshold…that is, if I thought my victim were still alive. Of course they could also wait for me at my apartment.

  “Don’t you think you should go to the hospital first?”


  I checked all my three wounds. Blood seeped from them and onto the towel she’d given me. While doctors would be best, alcohol and gauze should handle my immediate needs.

  “I’m good. And I’m sorry about your car. I’ll pay you back for the cleaning.”

  She shot an eyebrow-crunching quizzical look at me.

  “You talk like you’re a man with a future.”

  “You don’t think I’ll make it past tomorrow to thank you properly?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t think you’re a man driven by good choices.”

  I looked her over for the first time, reading mischief in her half-smile. “I take it you like bad boys?”

  “Danger breaks up monotony, doesn’t it?”

  “Keeps things interesting.”

  She nodded with a knowing smile and turned on the radio to a jazz station playing fast tempo bebop. Who was this lady?

  We drove in silence on Vista Del Mar with the Pacific on our right and screaming jets from LAX launching over our heads from the left. A few food trucks parked by Dockweiler Beach caught my eye. I fought the urge to ask this woman pull over and buy me a Korean taco. She’s already put herself out enough for me.

  “If I were to ask you your real name, would you give it me?” she asked.

  “No. But call me John. I’ll answer to that. What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Jenny.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Try another.”

  She glanced over. “Hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Fine. Do you have a history with a Nikki? That’s with two Ks and an I.”

  I shook my head with my own half-smile, holding back a wiseass comment on the spelling. I realized my mind was drifting away from the urgent matter at hand. It was after 1 p.m., and the scheduled rendezvous with Bresson was supposed to be at 7 p.m. at a bar in Culver City. I could ambush Knox at the bar, but that would rightfully spook Bresson who would be carrying a briefcase full of money.