14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 47

AT JUST ABOUT midnight, One drove a white panel van packed with cartons of synthetic drugs and kilos of heroin toward a meet with a man called Spat.

One had dealt with Spat before. He was a middle-aged guy, a deadly old hand, and go-between for a midwestern drug distributor.

One’s sole purpose tonight was to offload a few hundred pounds of drugs and take in stacks of Andrew Jacksons and Ben Franklins. The sooner that was done, the happier he’d be.

The meeting place was a residential area in West Oakland, a dodgy part of the Bay Area known for poverty and crime.

Now One crossed the Bay Bridge to Oakland, then followed the sign to I-980 west and downtown Oakland, obeying the speed limit and signaling for every turn. Last thing in the world he wanted was a traffic stop. He’d done enough killing for one day. His hands were actually shaking from the trauma of firing the gun.

The GPS was giving him the turns, and he easily found Sycamore Street, a desolate residential block. The houses were scabby with tar paper, the asphalt was littered and potholed, and a group of tough guys gathered on one corner, harassing one another, looking for a fight.

One parked the van, then lifted the M-16 from the foot well and put it on the seat next to him. He ran his finger under his collar, scratching the itch left by the pepper spray that had gotten under his mask.

Time dragged its ass. Spat was late. One had half decided to pull out and arrange another meeting, another venue, when he saw a black minivan rolling toward him in the oncoming lane. The minivan parked across the street from him and flashed its headlights twice before the engine was cut.

One’s phone rang. He answered it, saying, “You’re late.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to thank me,” said Spat. “I’m coming to see you now.”

One clicked off, watching Spat get out of his minivan with a large canvas bag in hand.

Then Spat spoke to him through the open window.

“How’s this? I got two kids to unload the van for us. This should take no time. Check it out.”

One took the bag of money through the open window and said, “Not that I don’t trust you.”

“No problem, brother. I’ll be right over there,” Spat said. When Spat was back in his vehicle, One undid the fasteners on the satchel and riffled through the packets of money. A lot of phony money was circulating these days, and it was common in swaps like these for fake bucks to get into the stacks.

He opened some of the bands, fanned out the bills, and turned on a UV light, looking for signs that the bills were counterfeit. At the same time, he did a first count, arrived at the agreed-upon 1.2 million.

He counted a second time, then repacked the bag and called Spat’s phone. The two men exchanged a few words. The minivan started up, then did a U-turn and parked behind One’s panel van.

One pulled the lock release, and Spat opened the cargo doors and checked out the drugs in the same way One had checked out the money: carefully.

When Spat was satisfied, the two young men in his employ moved the cartons efficiently to Spat’s minivan, then got back inside it.

The transaction was completed quickly. Spat came around to the driver’s side of the panel van and said to One, “Talk on the street about some mayhem in a furniture store.”

“That right?” One said. “I haven’t heard.”

“OK, my friend. Vaya con Dios.”

“Stay in touch,” said One.

It was a cool night, but One was sweating. The Wicker House drugs had reportedly been paid for and were on the way to Kingfisher. He’d expected there would be talk on the street. As long as no one knew who he was.

The gangstas on the corner shouted something at him as he drove past.

He gave them the finger before he realized they had only shouted “Lights!” He switched on his headlights, got onto the freeway, and headed home.

He’d earned a good night’s sleep.

He hoped he could get one.