Snake eyes, p.18
Snake Eyes, page 18
A minute later, all four were inside the vast, lavish bathroom.
Boone looked around, taking in the gold-gilt taps, the Corian marble. “This is bigger than my old apartment in Baltimore,” he said.
“Set it up,” Bob said.
Petkovic reached over the top of the tank and found the curled rubber hose that extended from its valves. He unraveled it towards the far wall, above the half egg-shaped bathtub. He looked up at the vent on the wall. “It’s too tall for me,” he said.
Bob walked over and reached up with the hose end, placing it inside the grill. “If the blueprints are correct, this is a double-sided vent shaft, with another opening on its other wall, directly into the living room.”
If they were true to Carl’s intel, the card table would be set up on the dining area riser, in the corner of the room sitting just through the wall from their position.
“Masks on,” Bob said.
Boone opened a small canvas sack and handed each a gas mask. Each discarded the opaque disguise and put one on.
“Valve,” Bob said.
Petkovic opened up the tank’s valve fully.
“What if this puts them out completely?” Boone said. “What if we need one of them to access the money?”
“It won’t,” Bob said. “Assuming Carl’s friend knew what he was doing, the mix is strongly oxygenated. It’ll lay them out but if anyone’s unconscious, it’ll be because they fall asleep from relaxation. For now, we wait patiently, let nature take its course. When we go in, we go in hard and quick, in case of stragglers. Nobody says a damn thing. For all we know, he’s recording the room, and that’s a lead to them identifying us. So… keep the chatter to a minimum. Clear?”
Jerry Grosso looked at his hand, a full house, nines over twos. He was trying to look bored, his face a mask of stoic disinterest.
On the table ahead of him sat nearly twenty-three thousand in cash, Philip Di Salvo’s bet forcing Grosso to make a decision.
He looked at the flop. Di Salvo had asked for three cards but had flexed the corner of his mouth a little on the flip, as if they weren’t doing him much good.
He’s bluffing.
The other five players had all folded immediately as soon as Di Salvo raised. But Grosso had been playing poker with the man since childhood. He had tells that could be seen from outer space, if a person knew what they were looking for.
“I’ll see your twenty kay raise and I’ll call,” Grosso said. He’d thought about raising the pot further, making Di Salvo sweat a little. But it was early in the night, and he wanted to take as much of the other man’s money as possible. Scare him early and he’ll take off too quickly.
Di Salvo looked unhappy with Grosso’s call. “You sure you don’t want to up the stakes a little, Jerry Boy?” he asked.
“Nope. And you’re family, Phil. I don’t want to take all your money when we’ve just got started. It would be disrespectful.”
To his right, Grosso’s bodyguard, Mitch, stumbled slightly, like a sentry who’s fallen asleep standing up.
“You good?” he asked dryly.
Mitch sniffed a little. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry, Mr. Grosso. Won’t happen again. Just… tired, I gress.” He yawned deeply. Then he chuckled a little. “I gress? Did I say gress? Heh! Heh heh. That’s frunny. Wait… frunny?”
Mitch stumbled again, taking a wild half-step backwards, slumping against the wall to hold himself up.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Grosso asked. “And where’s Arno?”
“Don’t know, boss… feel… woozy.” Mitch collapsed, falling to the carpet in a heap. A few feet away, one of Di Salvo’s men began to stagger.
What the hell is…? Grosso didn’t finish the thought, a fog building in his head, like he was falling into years of slumber.
He tried to turn his head but forgot why, halfway there. Mitch was on the carpet, leaning against the wall, staring at his shoes as if lost.
Across the table, Di Salvo’s head dipped, the older man nearly falling asleep.
Gas, Grosso thought. Someone’s… whuh?
A pair of hands grabbed him under each armpit, forcing him to his feet.
“The vault,” one of the men said, his voice echoing strangely. “You need to lock it, quickly, before everyone’s cash is stolen.”
Does that make sense? His head was swimming, thoughts discordant, drifting away from him.
“Boss… boss, I…” Mitch mumbled. Grosso could see him in his periphery, grabbing wildly at one of the men’s legs, missing.
“Deal with that one. Come on, Jerry, let’s go see about that cash.”
A second figure, shorter, came into frame, softly flipping Mitch over with the sole of a boot, so that he was faced down on the carpet and trying to right himself.
They walk-marched Grosso towards the other side of the room.
That’s not right, he thought. Vault’s… He gestured wildly towards the bedroom suite doors.
They changed course, dragging him that way, pushing through the bedroom door. On the wall opposite the massive four-poster king-sized bed, a picture was pulled back from the wall on twin hinges, a safe behind it.
“Jerry, I’m going to ask you a question,” one of the men said. He reminded Jerry of Darth Vader for some reason. Heavy breathing, that’s it. He glanced up. The man had a mask on of some sort. Gas mask, he managed.
“I’m going to ask you for the combination,” the man said. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to assume you’re not alert and break one of your fingers. I’ll break something until you’re alert enough to get it right.”
Bluffing, Jerry’s brain told him. They’re… Nobody would have the balls. I’m a “made” guy. “Go… go fuck yourself,” he exhaled.
He felt a gloved hand on his, grabbing his pinkie finger. A moment later, the man yanked upwards on it, at the knuckle, the bone snapping loudly. “AIIIEEE…” He was so dazed, even the scream seemed to taper off. “Can’t… Can’t think.”
“We better hurry this the fuck up,” one of the men said. “He’s taking too long.”
“Which do I break next, Jerry? Or, you can tell me the numbers.”
It’s just money. Get it… get it back when… He couldn’t complete the thought. “Four, nine, six, six, one, eight,” he muttered.
He felt hands guiding him sideways, his vision still a blur of movement as they plonked him down on the bed.
Grosso let himself fall backwards, onto the soft mattress. He knew he was in the bedroom, but he couldn’t remember why.
Bob punched in the code. The safe lock clicked and he worked the large handle a quarter turn, then yanked it open.
“Shit,” Carl said.
Petkovic shook his head. “Man… I don’t know who told Tiffany there would be millions, but that sure ain’t it.”
“That was what Sal thought too,” Carl said. “I guess the legends were just that.”
The pile of money was considerable, each stacked and wrapped tight with a paper loop. Bob started removing them and handing them to Boone, who dropped them into the canvas sack.
“How much?” Carl asked. “Because Stoll is expecting—”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s expecting,” Bob said.
“Are you nuts!? We told him we could buy our way out of this—”
“We told him what he needed to hear in the moment,” Bob said. “This is just bait anyway.”
Carl put a hand on his arm to halt his progress. “Wait a second. What!? You know he’s still got Tiffany, right?”
“And Arthur, who probably actually deserves the concern,” Bob said. “Well aware of it, yeah.” He went back to the cash.
Carl halted him again. “Hey! I know what she is… but I love her. Tell me what the fuck you’ve got planned or this shit goes sideways right now.”
Bob eyed him with irritation. “This can wait. All we need is a security guy downstairs to wonder why the van is backed up so far—”
“No, it can’t. Tell me or we go round, right fucking now.”
“Fine.” Bob resumed handing Petkovic cash. “No matter how much we find here, Stoll is going to kill us. He’ll let the word out that we robbed Grosso, so that it doesn’t come back on him. When we deliver it and are on his turf…”
“You don’t know that,” Carl said.
“Seems likely,” Bob said as he handed the last pile to Petkovic. “It’s what I’d do in his boots. Assuming each pile is ten kay, as the bands indicate, that’s two hundred and sixty thousand, plus whatever they have on the table.”
“What a fuckup!” Petkovic moaned. “This is fucking terrible! We robbed a ‘made’ guy for a little over a quarter mil?”
“Again… it doesn’t matter,” Bob said. “Because we’re going to tell Stoll we got the whole amount. Then we’re going to arrange a meet, which he will insist take place on his turf, where he figures he’s safe as houses.”
Carl looked unsure. “And then?”
“And then we knock down his house.”
33
The elevator doors slid open. Bob looked cautiously around the corner.
The gunshot sounded a split second after a bullet pinged off the near wall. He ducked back inside. “One shooter, probably a guard shift change, or someone checking out the van.”
The van was just ten feet away but with no cover. Bob reached into his fanny pack and took out the smoker. He pulled the pin then leaned low around the corner and rolled it like a bowling ball towards the man.
He ducked back in time for another shot to go wide, to the hiss of smoke escaping the cannister. He motioned with one hand for Carl to push past the van and circle around, flanking the guard. Then he leaned out and to the left, opening fire wildly with the carbine, squeezing off enough rounds to force the guard behind cover as Carl darted for the van’s protection.
“… Two assailants at least, a white cube van license plate SSB 340,” the man was barking into a walkie-talkie. Bob leaned around the corner, his motion enough to spark a response, the guard also leaning out and firing off another round. In his peripheral vision, Bob saw Carl rise above hood height, bracing the M4 against it and firing two rounds. The guard went down, grunting, clutching at his legs.
“Go!” Bob ordered the rest. “Go, go!”
They leaped into the back of the van and Petkovic pushed the young, bound Stefano out, onto the concrete. He slammed the doors. Carl climbed into the front passenger seat as Bob squeezed through the gap and behind the wheel.
He started the engine. It sputtered, not turning over immediately.
Carl gazed through the windshield as the giant corrugated garage door began to roll down. “They’re trying to lock us in! Hurry the FUCK UP!”
Bob turned the key again. Come on, you useless sonuvabitch.
The one thing I didn’t consider. A useless fucking catering truck.
The engine fired up and he threw the wheel-hub stick into drive. He stepped on the gas and the van lurched forward. Bob stood down on the pedal, the van picking up speed as the garage door dropped to half height.
“HOLD ON!” he yelled as the van smashed through the gap, the windshield cracking and spidering even as the edge of the door buckled.
The van crashed onto Brown Street, the back end fishtailing as Bob corrected the wheel. He kept his foot down, ignoring the red light at the next intersection, tossing the wheel left and right as it swerved around the evening traffic.
Jerry Grosso stumbled out of his bedroom, the fog in his brain preventing him from fully understanding what was going on.
His left hand hurt like hell.
The hall seemed to be on a slant, like the innards of a half-capsized ship. He stumbled ahead, trying to balance with his arms, one hand flashing through his field of view, tracers of light coming off his fingers.
In the living room, his guests were lying on the floor across furniture. Those at the table were slumped back in their chairs, sleeping, or had their heads in their hands, trying to stay awake.
Where… where’s Arno? Arno would know what to do. He stumbled down the hall towards the kitchen, his large frame supported by leaning against one wall.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand, snatched his hand away and almost fell over.
His head felt slightly less foggy. He had no understanding of time, no idea how long it had been since the men helped him up, helped him—
No. That’s not it. The safe. They were robbing the safe.
He looked at the hand. Finger’s broken. They broke my fucking finger! He pushed the galley door open, and it swung inwards.
Arno was on the floor, bound and gagged, the chefs a few feet away, as well as the caterer.
He kicked Arno gently in the ribs. “Arno!”
“Hmmmph!” Arno said through the balled-up socks.
Fuck. The gangster realized he was going to have to do it himself. He slowly lowered his massive frame to the floor, taking care to not put too much strain on one knee. He tried to pick at the silver duct tape they’d used to wrap the bodyguard’s arms so tightly.
But he wasn’t making much headway, and his head was still swimming.
Behind him, the door pushed open. Mitch staggered in, then fell over, slamming to the marble floor next to him.
“Mitch!” Grosso barked. “Help me, damn it!”
The guard rolled over, then shook his head furiously to clear cobwebs.
“I think we were gassed,” Mitch said.
“No shit. Help me!” Grosso insisted again.
The guard staggered to his feet again then spotted something on the other side of the room, Grosso’s line of sight cut off by the kitchen island.
Mitch slumped down next to him, a butcher knife in hand. He leaned over and cut Arno loose.
The security chief frantically removed the tape from across his lips, then the balled-up sock.
“These fuckers don’t know who they just hit,” Grosso snarled.
“Yeah, they do, boss,” Arno said. “They knew exactly who you were.”
“You see any faces, anyone recognizable?”
Arno shook his head. “They had masks. I didn’t recognize any voices.”
Mitch turned his head suddenly, as if the notion had blown some of the fog away. “I did.”
“Eh?” Grosso turned his way. “Out with it.”
“The guy. The guy who said to take them to the vault. I recognize that voice. My brother got into it with a guy, end of last week.”
“Lenny?” Arno said. “Isn’t he still grifting cards—”
“He’s kicking up to us, so I said he could work the corner down the street. Some guy pulled a moral objection on him and…” He blushed deeply. “… I went down there with Richie Doukas to have words, get my brother’s money back.”
“And? Spill it,” Grosso commanded.
Mitch shook his head gently as he said it, like he still couldn’t believe it. “We got our asses kicked. He had help from your security dude… the one who got shot, Taylor.”
Grosso turned sharply and eyed him. “Did you shoot him?”
“NO! No, boss, I swear. We took our lumps and let it go. But that guy knew Taylor, I swear. Same voice, exactly.”
“If he knew him, he probably visited the casino in the last week, checking us out,” Grosso said. “Start pulling tape and get the word out. We run down every robber we know; every bank guy, every upper story guy, every fucking guy who ever mugged someone cheap and easy. These guys were organized, so they’ll be getting out of Philly. I want to know who they are before that happens.”
Arno rose to his feet and helped Grosso up. “You got it, boss.” He frowned. “There was one weird thing, might help.”
“What?”
“One of them only had one arm. Can’t be too many one-armed pros around.”
“You see, that’s what I’m talking about!” Grosso exclaimed. “We know who we’re looking for; not real specific yet, but we’ll get there. We run these fucks down, then we make them pay, long and slow. An example needs to be set.”
34
They switched cars three blocks north, dumping the catering van for a nondescript, ten-year-old Honda SUV.
They drove cautiously across the city, obeying speed limits and lights until they reached an underpass at Hamilton and 10th Streets. They left the Honda parked in the shadows and retrieved the Subaru all-wheel drive station wagon.
Once they’d loaded up, Bob pulled out onto the road again, cautious driving once again prevailing.
They were twenty miles from King of Prussia, Philly well behind them, when Carl took a long, anxious look over his shoulder and through the back window. But it was dark, nothing but headlights discernible.
He turned back around. “I take it that this is the last fucking vehicle change for a good long fucking time,” he complained. “Because between the way you drive and that fucking racket on the radio…” He let the complaint trail out.
“Do we have heat on us?” Bob said. “No? So it worked? Good. And that racket was T-Bone Walker. Show some class.” Carl’s incessant worrying was starting to get on his last nerve.
“It’s oldie shit,” Petkovic griped. “Can’t you put something from this century on or something?”
Petkovic was the only one who hadn’t outright denied shooting Taylor and Bob hadn’t figured out the best approach with him yet. Either way, none of them seemed inclined to confess. He was going to have to play them against each other, get someone to talk straight.
He'd been tempted to run out, leave them to each other and the Mennonite gangster. Nobody involved was likely to ID him anytime soon. But the other three were pros, from the region. Someone would figure out their involvement eventually, and barring payback for Taylor, they offered him nothing.
But I promised Jody I’d figure out who did this. So for now, I’m stuck with them.
“We’ve got right around four hours to drive to get back to Somerset, a straight shot along I-76, and in that time we have to figure out a way to handle Eamon Stoll. If we’re lucky, he decides he wants to meet in the morning and not at one a.m. So we need a plan. Maybe focus on that.”
