How to rob an armored car

CHAPTER 7

DOUG WAS FLIPPING through the classifieds and found himself drawn to a particular ad promising wealth for the writing of children’s books. According to the ad, there was a virtually bottomless market for children’s books and no real skills were required to write one. Doug allowed himself a moment of reverie as he imagined being an admired children’s book author and realized it was a fantasy he had had before.

Two years earlier, while working at the restaurant, Doug had found himself staring at the lobsters in the tank and imagining writing the story of one that escaped. He had wanted the story to be happy and have the lobster make it home to Maine, where he would be reunited with his family. Standing over the hot grill, sweat dripping into his eyes, he had been suddenly thrilled at the idea of being a writer of children’s books and the next day he had sat down to write one.

At first, everything went well. The stage was set, the lobster escaped, and he went off on his happy way to Maine. Annalisa had said she loved it and waited eagerly for the next installment. But as the story developed, the lobster began to change perceptibly, from a happy escapee to a morose and violent drifter. At his best the lobster was aimless; at his worst he was hell-bent on revenge. Despite Annalisa’s admonishments to keep the story light, Doug continually had the lobster running into trouble. By the time the lobster had been arrested for selling nitrous hits at a Phish show and had stabbed a lizard at a truck stop following an argument about leftover fast food, Annalisa had finally persuaded him to give up the story for good.

“You’re weird,” she had said, but her voice had lacked the saucy delight that had been present when she had made the same observation at the beginning of their relationship. It had been the final weeks and now Doug wondered, as he sat and read the classifieds, if he hadn’t thought of the lobster story as a device to keep her attracted to him, an attraction he knew was waning. He stared blankly at the ads, not reading them, wondering what Annalisa was doing now. Right now at that very moment. Waiting tables at some other corporate restaurant, telling all her tables about moving to France, and getting an advanced degree in poetry writing probably. And maybe banging one of the cooks. She liked cooks. Banging other waiters was just so jejune. Or passé. Or coup d’etat. Or something. He was shredding the edges of the newspaper with his fingers.

On the kitchen table was his final paycheck, which had arrived in the mail that day. One hundred ninety-eight dollars. That was it. That was all he had going for him. He had just lost his job and his car and most likely his license, and he had slept with his friend’s wife, and all he had to show for his life was a check for $198. And a handful of little white pills that Mitch had given him. He took another one.

The phone rang. It was Linda, the call he had been dreading. He had so many things he wanted to say to her, serious things about right and wrong and betrayal and friendship, things that had been circling madly in his mind for the past few days. He wasn’t used to keeping secrets and he hated the feeling that he might make an errant comment to Mitch or Kevin. Skills of deceit were not in his DNA.

“How are you?” she asked. Her tone was cheerful, which he wasn’t expecting. He had imagined their next conversation would be a somber rehashing of events, full of admissions of shame and phrases like “never again.” Instead she sounded happy, energetic, and friendly, which made Doug nervous.

“I’m good,” he said, wondering how to play this. Maybe she just didn’t want to share her angst on the phone.

“I was just wondered how your day was going,” she said pleasantly, not sounding at all angst-ridden. “I miss you. We haven’t talked in a couple of days.”

Doug wanted to point out that prior to two weeks ago they had never talked at all. Accidentally having an affair with his friend’s wife was one thing, but having her call up and pretend it had never happened was not only insulting, it was confusing. What was this about? Should he join her in the pretense that they were just friends? Yeah. He should. Maybe that was the answer and Linda had figured it out. If they both pretended they had never had sex, maybe the whole thing would just go away.

“Yeah,” Doug said. He could hardly say he missed her too, because that was some weird schmaltzy shit you said to your girlfriend, not to your friend’s wife while your roommate was watching TV ten feet away, wondering who you were talking to on the phone. He tried to think of something mundane to say, some insignificant detail of his day which he might offhandedly mention to a friend but nothing occurred to him except, “I’ve been thinking of writing a children’s book.”

“Really?” Linda sounded genuinely enthusiastic and Doug realized how nice it was to make new friends, because they weren’t sick of you yet. To new friends, an announcement of your new life plans was a novelty. It wasn’t put into the context of a dozen previous announcements which might not have come to fruition. New friends accepted your announcements with the excitement that you had when you made them, and they understood that when you announced your life plans, you were deadly serious and totally committed, at least for the duration of the announcement. “What’s it gonna be about?”

For want of a new idea, Doug told her about the lobster, and while he was telling her he began to relive the enthusiasm that he had felt upon his first venture. Perhaps writing children’s books was his real calling after all. This was the second time he’d had this idea. Maybe that was it. You had to wait to get your calling twice. He told Linda the whole lobster story the way he had imagined it originally, with a joyful escape and a happy reunion. She was charmed.

“Write it!” she said and Doug was so happy to hear the support in her voice that he forgot he had just slept with her, and all the anxiety that went along with it. “I’ll read it to Ellie. We’ll make her your focus group.”

Doug was about to respond when Mitch, dressed in a camouflage jacket and his baggie pants, walked into the kitchen. “Dude,” he said, “let’s go. It’s Ferrari time.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Who you talking to?”

“A dude from work,” Doug said and instinctively put his head in his hands. Mitch stared at him.

“Hey Kevin, man, you want a beer?” Mitch called out into the living room, alerting Doug to the fact that Kevin was in the apartment while he was talking to Linda on the phone.

“Nah, man, I’m driving.” Kevin came into the kitchen. “Wassup, Doug? Get your coat. We gotta get going. We got a Ferrari to steal.”

“Is that Kevin?” Doug heard Linda ask.

“Later, man,” Doug said into the phone and hung up, praying that the phone had been tightly pressed against his ear and that her voice had not echoed around the kitchen, giving clues to her identity, or even to her sex. To the phone lying inert in its cradle, he said, “Talk to you later, dude,” with an emphasis on the last word, clarifying once and for all that he had, in fact, been talking to a man.

Doug and Mitch went out into the snow, dressed warmly this time, and as they were waiting on the steps for Kevin to finish using the bathroom, Doug turned to Mitch and said, “Dude, do you ever think that no matter how much you try to make your life simple, it just keeps getting more complicated?”

Mitch lit a cigarette. “Yeah. I guess. Maybe. Why?”

“I don’t know, man. I just hate when shit is complicated.”

“What’s complicated?” Mitch looked at him. “Who was that on the phone?”

Doug was desperate for a change of direction in the conversation, even though he himself had just started it. “I’ve decided I’m going to write children’s books,” he announced.

“Didn’t you do that once before? About a lobster or some shit? And the lobster turned into, like, a hardened criminal or something.”

“He was just a petty criminal,” said Doug. “And this time it’ll be different.”

Kevin came outside and they got into the truck, which was warm and smelled of cocoa. “Linda thinks I’m walking dogs,” said Kevin, “and she made me some cocoa. I brought it along for you guys.”

Linda knows you’re not walking dogs, Doug thought. Another thing that was his fault.

“Cool,” said Mitch as they pulled out of the driveway. “Doug’s gonna write children’s books.”

“Didn’t you do that once before?” Kevin asked. “About a suicidal junkie lobster?”

“He wasn’t suicidal, man. He just had some problems. And he wasn’t a junkie. He just sold nitrous hits. And this time it’ll be different.” You couldn’t discuss anything with these guys because they were always bringing up the past. Shit, how would they like it if Doug kept bringing up the fact that Kevin got arrested and sent to prison or that Mitch had been fired from a shitty job?

Kevin shrugged. “Ready to go steal a Ferrari?”

“Ready,” said Mitch.

“You ready, dude?” Kevin asked, looking at Doug.

Doug stared moodily out the window, so Kevin asked him again. And again. Finally, Doug responded that he was ready and Kevin pulled a fat joint out of his pocket and said, in a long, slow drawl, “Awwwwwright.”

THE NEXT DAY, Kevin really was walking dogs, and he was thinking about the fact that there weren’t as many Ferraris on the road as there used to be. But he was also thinking about Linda. Linda had said something to him about Ferraris when he had gotten home late the previous night. It had been their fourth fruitless night of staking out the Eden Inn parking lot and as he headed toward the bathroom, Linda had mumbled something about Ferraris in her sleep.

“Wozzis about Ferraris?” she’d mumbled as he tiptoed through the darkened bedroom.

Kevin took it as a sign. Linda had said the magic word. Maybe she was some kind of good luck charm. He stopped in the bathroom doorway and looked at her, half asleep, or completely asleep, and dreaming about Ferraris.

“Ferraris,” Kevin said, wanting to hear more and to determine her state of consciousness.

“Yuhferrarizzz,” she mumbled and dozed off again. Damn! It was definitely a sign that next time they went there would be a Ferrari. A beautiful red Ferrari just waiting for them, the doors unlocked and the keys under the mat. Now if only he could convince the other guys, who were getting pissed with the whole plan and had started to doubt if anyone in the whole county even had one of the damned things anymore.

Maybe he was just thinking about Linda that morning because he could smell her. Today he had taken her car, rather than his truck, because her smaller Toyota was easier on gas and the car, he noticed, had a strong odor of her perfume. He pulled into Scotch Parker’s driveway and shut off the engine.

Scotch Parker was a Scottish Terrier who was kept in the garage of a million-dollar house because Mrs. Parker had supposedly developed an allergy to him. Kevin didn’t believe it. He got the feeling that the dog really belonged to Mr. Parker and her shoving Scotch in the garage was just the type of passive-aggressive shit that unhappy married couples did to each other. Antagonism-by-pet-treatment, Kevin knew, was a phenomenon far more common than nondogwalkers would ever imagine.

He opened the garage door and immediately noticed that Scotch was lying dead on the floor.

“Shit,” he groaned. He went over and looked at the dog’s little mouth and saw a green puddle by his inert, partly open jaws. Antifreeze. He could even smell it. He looked around the garage and noticed it all over the floor. They must have had a leak, and the dog had lapped it up. Then Kevin remembered that as long as he had been coming there, over a year now, he had never seen a car in the garage. This wasn’t a leak; someone had intentionally poisoned the dog.

Enraged, he dialed 911 and waited in the driveway for the cop car, chain-smoking. He knew that what he should be doing was calling the owner, Mrs. Parker, who was at work, but he had the distinct feeling that she was the one who had done it. Little Scotch did bark a lot, so it could have been a neighbor or just a local vandal, as the garage door was always unlocked, but Kevin was secretly hoping the cop might find some clue that implicated Mrs. Parker right off. Mr. Parker, who loved the dog, had been on a business trip for weeks.

The cop car pulled into the driveway and Kevin was disappointed to see the cop was young and innocent looking. Not the kind to immediately notice clues. He had been hoping for someone brimming with confidence and competence, like the CSI team from television, toting bags of sophisticated electronics and weird machines and sprays. This was just a kid with a clipboard. Kevin pointed out the dead dog and watched as the kid walked aimlessly around the garage.

“You think the dog ate some antifreeze?” he asked after a few seconds.

Drank, Kevin thought. You drink antifreeze. It’s a liquid, you idiot. “Yeah.”

“Hmmmph,” the cop said. His eyes darted around, and from his expression, Kevin guessed there would be no CSI team. This guy was trying to figure out the best way to get back to his cup of hot coffee without getting stuck with hours of paperwork. “Are you the owner?”

Kevin explained that he was the dog walker, hoping that this information would not be the legal paperwork loophole that nullified the whole case. The kid was transfixed by his clipboard, trying to think up an exit strategy.

Finally, he jotted down a few notes and asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Investigate,” Kevin said, as if the answer was obvious. “The lady who lives here, she did it.” He knew better than to let his voice show too much emotion, or he would be in the back of the cop car himself in no time. Make a fuss and the cop would run his info through the system and find out he had a record, and then he’d have to get Linda to pick him up from the police station. So, with extreme calm, he added, “You know, check out the neighbors, examine the scene, ask questions.”

“If I ask anyone if they did this, they’ll just deny it,” the cop said.

Kevin was trying to keep himself from getting visibly annoyed. “You know,” he said evenly, “I’ve seen a lot of cop shows. And I’ve never seen anyone on Law and Order say, ‘Hey guys, if we investigate this murder, the people who did it will just deny it.’”

“Those shows are about people who got murdered, not dogs,” the cop said, equally evenly.

“I thought you guys protected and served,” said Kevin, letting his rising anger show now, which caused the cop to walk toward his car.

“We protect and serve people, not dogs.” He got in and started the engine. Then, apparently feeling he had been too harsh, he rolled the window down. “You can investigate but you’d have to pay for it yourself. I mean, you could fingerprint that container of antifreeze but a fingerprint test is, like, five hundred dollars. And if it was the lady of the house, all it would prove is that people touch their own antifreeze.”

Utterly deflated, Kevin just stared at the cop as he drove out of the driveway. He called Mrs. Parker at work and listened to her fake the emotion of shock for a while, then ask him if he could dispose of the dog’s body. So he put little Scotch’s body in a trash bag and placed it in the back seat of Linda’s car, then drove off to walk his next dog.

WHEN HE GOT to Jeffrey’s house, Jeffrey was alive, which was nice, and the shifty doctor who owned him was home, which wasn’t. Kevin groaned as he got out of the car. The last thing he felt like right then was face-to-face contact with another human being. Part of the reason he enjoyed his job was that such contact was a rarity.

“Hi,” said the doctor, whose name Kevin could never remember because the checks he got for dog-walking were from a pharmaceutical firm. The doctor was a young man, early to mid thirties, and he had the slicked back hair and fit appearance of a stereotypical eighties stockbroker, reminding Kevin more of an extra from the movie Wall Street than of a health care professional. He also seemed too young to own this magnificent house, but hell, Kevin knew very little about how much doctors got paid.

“Hi,” Kevin said, trying to fill his voice with exhaustion to dissuade further conversation. Jeffrey bounced up to him and Kevin greeted the dog, hoping to get him leashed and be on his way.

“Come inside for a second,” the doctor said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Shit.

Kevin went into the house, which was at least warm. It felt good to get out of the elements, if only for a few moments.

“Take your shoes off,” the doctor said brusquely. He had a manner about him that dissuaded argument of any kind. “Come back here.”

Kevin spent a good two minutes unlacing his boots, then went into the den, the same room where he had opened the safe a few weeks before. There was no way the doc could have found out about that, Kevin thought. Besides, the guy looked cheerful, not like someone about to begin a conversation about home invasion. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and the doctor sat down behind his huge cherrywood desk and pointed Kevin toward one of the ornate European-style red felt chairs.

“I have to ask you something, Kevin, and I hope you won’t take offense,” he said, leaning back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach as he put his feet on his desk.

Kevin shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“You were in prison for a drug charge, is that right?” The question caught Kevin off guard, but it was asked with such self-assurance and directness that Kevin could hardly take offense. How the hell did this guy know that? Obviously, as Kevin’s job entailed access to people’s houses, his prison record was something he preferred to conceal.

“That’s right,” Kevin said. “How did you know about that?”

“I give you the keys to my house, I’m going to run a background check on you,” the doctor said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I have a lawyer who handles these things.” Kevin figured that he was about to get fired, which would mean he had lost two clients in one day. Fine, dickhead, go get yourself a dog walker with no criminal record, he thought. It was a competitive business, he knew, and there was no shortage of dog walkers with clean backgrounds. He waited calmly for the news of his dismissal.

“That intrigues me,” the doctor said and looked at Kevin expectantly.

“How so?”

“Well, I’m curious. About, you know. What exactly you did.”

Kevin leaned back in the chair, aware that snow was dripping off his jacket onto this guy’s antique furniture, which made him feel even more out of place. “Look,” he said. “It was a long time ago. If you want to get someone else to walk your dog, that’s cool with me.” He got up to leave.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the doctor, motioning for him to sit down, and what was supposed to be a friendly smile, but to Kevin seemed like a cheap salesman’s grin, flashed across his face. “No, no, that’s not it. I still you want you to walk Jeffrey. I’m just curious.”

If he still wanted him to walk Jeffrey, that made Kevin an employee again, so he had to tame himself and remember his manners. Having lost the freedom of the freshly fired, he said, “I dealt marijuana.” He decided he wouldn’t mention the growing.

“Did you grow it?”

“Yuh.”

“Because it says here manufacture and possession.”

“Damn. You got my rap sheet?”

The doctor took his feet off the desk and sat up straight in his chair, pulling it closer to the desk. “Kevin, I’ve got a problem. I was hoping you might be able to help me out with it.”

Kevin knew what it was right away. The freak was going to ask Kevin to deal off the thousands of pills he had in the safe. Obviously, Kevin couldn’t let on that he knew the guy had thousands of pills in a safe, so he had to sit there for five long minutes while the doctor went on tangents about Medicaid and the health care system, and how this somehow caused thousands of white pills to wind up in his safe. It was far too complicated for a non-health care professional like Kevin to understand, the doctor explained delicately, but perfectly legal. This last part he said with a death grimace meant to be a trustworthy smile.

“I just don’t know that many people who would buy these,” he said. “I figure someone who knew the streets might be able to help.”

“I don’t know much about pills,” Kevin said, his mind whirring. He did know one fact, though, and that was that it wasn’t “perfectly legal” to have your dog walker sell them. To the doctor, Kevin knew, a guy who “knew the streets” was really just a euphemism for a scumbag. It might even be on his to do list: Find a scumbag. Kevin really didn’t want to have anything to do with this but maybe Doug would. Not that Doug was a scumbag but he had just lost his job, and he loved pills. “But I know a guy who does. I should introduce you to him.”

“No, no.” The doctor waved his hands about, shaking his head, a neurotic gesture which belied his bossy confidence of moments ago. “No, I don’t want to meet people. I’m sure you understand how sensitive this is. But there’s a lot of money to be made.”

“All right. I’ll deal with him. I’ll talk to him about it tonight.” Tonight was going to be another Ferrari mission and, judging by the developing tone of revolt among the troops, probably the last. Perhaps the offer of pill retail work would ease the pain of staking out the parking lot in the cold.

They shook hands and said their goodbyes. Kevin still could not remember the doctor’s name. “By the way, doc, what’s your name?”

“Doctor Billings,” he said. “Jeffrey Billings.”

Kevin nodded, and they shook hands, meaninglessly, again.

Sometimes, you only needed to know one fact about a person. The freak had named his dog after himself.

DOUG WAS SITTING in a tree, thinking about whether or not his thing with Linda was really Kevin’s fault. He was deciding it was. He knew that Kevin was still not 100 percent sure that Doug had not turned him in to the police, and perhaps the constant distrust Doug felt from him was what caused him to act dishonestly. Had Kevin trusted him more, he wouldn’t have slept with his wife. There, that made perfect sense.

“Dude,” Mitch said. He was a branch higher up in the tree. They were looking out over the wintry parking lot, waiting for the Ferrari that would never come. Mitch was handing down the joint and Doug took it. They had been smoking pot in the tree for over half an hour and Doug was so high he no longer really felt up to the task of stealing a Ferrari, should one actually show up. In fact, every night they had been out there since the first one, that had been the situation after half an hour, and Doug was secretly relieved when each mission ended in futility. And he had been doubly glad when Kevin had suggested on the way out there that this plan might not work after all, which meant he had performed his karmic duty, by trying to help Kevin steal a car, without the personal disaster of being arrested for it. He was, as they said, off the hook

As time had gone by on their stakeouts, they had learned things. They had watched the valets so closely for so long they felt like they knew them. There was the Italian-looking dude, the fat dude, the gawky kid, and the girl, who worked Fridays and was kind of cute. They had watched her through binoculars and her appearance and attitude as she waited around with the other parking attendants had filled half an hour of conversation time. The Italian-looking dude was not nice, and Doug and Mitch had gathered from random words drifting across the windswept parking lot that the others thought he was not sharing tips. From their tree, they had spent an evening watching him very closely and had actually seen him putting money straight into his pocket when the others weren’t around.

“Let’s go down there and punch him,” Mitch had said and for a moment it had seemed like a good idea. Then they had remembered their mission, which was to sit in a tree and wait for a Ferrari. A wait that in a few hours would be over, Doug remembered, and then he could go back home and look for a real job, working a grill at another corporate restaurant, one that he could get to without a car.

Mitch’s cell phone rang, a loud, high-pitched sound that must have been audible to the diners in the restaurant and certainly, Mitch thought, to the two shivering parking attendants standing out front. He distinctly saw the Italian-looking dude look back into the forest to see why a tinny version of a Grateful Dead tune was coming from the trees and bushes. He fished it out and saw Kevin’s number.

“Shit dude, don’t call me. I’m on stakeout, remember?”

“Dude, why don’t you just put it on vibrate?”

“Because I’m wearing gloves. I can’t push the little buttons,” he whispered angrily. “What do you want?”

“We might have to go home soon. Linda just called. I think she knows I’m not out walking dogs.”

“Shit, man. I’m not going home without a Ferrari,” Mitch whispered. “We’ve invested too much time in this already.” Doug looked up from his branch, droopy-eyed. Damn, he looks stoned, Mitch thought. He looked happy too, and Mitch figured it was because Doug didn’t really want to steal a Ferrari. Damn them both. Mitch would steal the thing by himself.

Then Mitch heard angels singing. A Ferrari had pulled into the parking lot.

What a beautiful sight. For a full five seconds Mitch admired the car, its smooth lines, its stunning bright red color, beautiful even under the faded yellow lights of the Eden Inn parking lot. Mitch felt his heart pounding, felt his senses awaken and sharpen as his inner commando was unleashed. He put the cell phone in his mouth as if it were a combat knife and slid noiselessly out of the tree.

He heard Doug mumble “fuck” under his breath.

He took the cell phone and wiped his saliva off it and put it to his ear. Kevin was talking about something.

“Dude, the fox is in the henhouse,” Mitch whispered.

“What?”

“This is it. Go time. The fox is in the henhouse.” He hung up and put the cell phone back in his pocket. Behind him, Doug fell out of the tree like a dead elephant.

“Dude,” Mitch whispered. “Keep it down.” On an adrenaline high, Mitch turned around to look at Doug, whose body language was screaming reluctance. It was too late for him to back out now. It was a five-minute walk back to Kevin’s truck, through brush and thickets and there was no way Mitch was going to wait. “We’re going in.”

The gawky valet was talking to the Ferrari’s owner, who was probably telling him to take special care of it or some such crap. The kid was going to drive it eighty feet. Mitch didn’t think there was much to fear. Well, except for the Ferrari thieves lurking in the trees. The Italian-looking dude had gone around to the other side to open the door for a stunning blonde and Mitch watched intently as the couple went inside. The gawky kid started to get in the car, but the Italian-looking dude stopped him, almost pushed him away. What was that about? While he was trying to figure it out, Mitch’s cell phone rang.

It was Kevin.

“Dammit, what? I told you they can hear the ringing.”

“Dude, put it on vibrate.”

“Whaddya want?” Mitch whispered forcefully.

“What the hell are you talking about, a fox or something?”

Mitch sighed heavily, the sigh of a man surrounded by idiots. “I said, ‘The fox is in the henhouse.’ OK? There’s a goddamned Ferrari in the parking lot.”

“Really?” Kevin was now showing the interest that Doug clearly lacked. “Why did you say something about a fox?”

“Dude, it was a code. OK? I thought you might have figured that out.”

“How would I have known that? If you’re gonna use a code, maybe we could agree on it first. Didja ever think of that?”

“Do you want me to steal this goddamned car or don’t you?”

“Steal it,” Kevin said and hung up. Mitch put the cell phone back in his pocket and turned to Doug, who was looking through the bushes out into the parking lot. “What’s going on over here?”

“Dude, I think they’re fighting over who gets to drive the Ferrari.”

And they were. The Ferrari was idling in the parking lot with the driver’s side door open while the Italian-looking dude and the gawky kid were yelling at each other over who got to drive it eighty feet. Finally the Italian dude, who was shorter but stockier and more muscular, pushed the gawky kid away from the car and got in.

“That guy’s a jerk,” Doug said.

“Let’s spring out of the bushes and beat the shit out of him,” Mitch said.

“Let’s just steal the car,” said Doug, with a touch of resignation. Mitch realized he was right. They hadn’t waited in the snow for five nights to punch a valet, no matter how much of a dick he was.

The valet drove the Ferrari very slowly at first and Mitch figured the kid was going to park it right next to the last car in line. But just as he pulled up to the space, he hit the gas and took it around the lot, as if looking for a better space. Clearly, the kid wanted to take the car for a joyride and was trying to spend as much time in it as possible without doing anything that would cost him his job. He circled the parking lot twice as Mitch trembled with annoyance.

“I’m just gonna jump him and smash his face in,” Mitch said. “This is bullshit.”

“Easy, man,” said Doug. “Here he comes.”

The valet pulled the car into a space not more than twenty feet from them, all the way at the edge of the parking lot, and parked it diagonally. That must have been the instruction the owner had given the valets, to park the car well away from every other car. What a tool, Mitch thought. Then he noticed that the Italian-looking dude was not getting out of the car, nor even turning the lights off. Instead, he had cranked the radio, enjoying the sound system at full blast. Mitch could hear the lively beat of rap music and saw the kid bouncing around in the driver’s seat.

“I hate this guy,” whispered Mitch. Doug said nothing. The kid continued bopping around in the seat. When the song finally ended, Mitch heaved a sigh of relief. Then another song began and the kid started bopping again, this time singing along, turning the radio up so loud that the Ferrari began to vibrate.

Mitch’s cell phone rang. Hiding behind a bush in a commando crouch, he fumbled it out of his pocket, cursing. It was Kevin. “What now?” Mitch demanded.

“What’s taking you guys so long?”

“The damned valet won’t get out of the car. He’s listening to music.”

“Well, I’m sitting here idling in the road. I can’t sit here much longer.”

Mitch had an idea. From watching the valets, he had learned that they always took cars in rotation. Another car was pulling into the lot right then, a BMW, and the gawky kid was opening the door for the driver. That meant the Italian dude was up next. The only way to get him out of the Ferrari was to have another car pull into the parking lot, and who knew how much longer it would be before that happened?

“Listen, Kevin, I need you to drive into the parking lot and act like you’re going into the restaurant. Pull up out front. That’ll get the kid out of the car.”

“I’m not coming in there. What if they get my license plate?”

“Otherwise you’re gonna have to idle in the street all night,” Mitch said, and hung up.

The gawky kid parked the BMW and went back to his station. The Italian kid stayed in the Ferrari.

Mitch could see headlights through the trees, coming down the restaurant’s long driveway, and then Kevin’s truck pulled into the parking lot. Immediately, the Ferrari’s engine and radio shut off and the door opened. The Italian kid, who had been watching the restaurant in the rearview mirror, tossed the keys onto the floormat, slammed the door, and ran back to greet Kevin.

“Finally,” said Mitch.

Kevin had stopped to ask the gawky kid a question. It made a great distraction. Mitch and Doug wriggled out of the bushes and low-crawled over to the Ferrari. Mitch was on the ground by the driver’s side door, and he still had a clear view of the valets and of Kevin’s truck, idling at the restaurant’s front door. He was sure Kevin could see him as he got into the Ferrari. Doug quickly hopped in the other side, and Mitch found the keys and fired it up.

“Keep your head down,” he told Doug, as he put it in reverse. No clutch pressure at all, the gears just seemed to slide into each other, and the steering wheel was equally smooth. I guess there’s a reason why you pay all this money, Mitch thought as he shifted into first and hit the gas. The car pushed forward, and he felt the power, increased the acceleration, and burst out of the parking lot. A puff of flying snow and smoke followed them.

“Yee-haw!” Mitch screamed. As he’d roared past Kevin, who was making conversation with the two valets, he had seen them notice the flying Ferrari screaming off into the night. He had caught a glimpse of the Italian kid spinning his head back to where the car had been just moments before. Then the scene had disappeared behind the trees and the driveway had opened up before them.

“Shit,” Doug said. “We gotta wait for Kevin. He knows where we’re going.” Kevin had arranged for them to take the Ferrari to a garage that was less than two miles away, but Mitch and Doug had never thought to ask for directions. The plan had always been to follow Kevin, who was supposed to be waiting in the street.

Mitch pulled over in the darkened, tree-lined driveway, waiting to see Kevin’s lights behind him. Nothing. Apparently, when Kevin had seen them steal the car, he had just sat there, idling, and continued talking to the valet. Mitch rolled the window down, stuck his head out, and peered back down the driveway, as if that would somehow hurry Kevin up.

“Shit, the cops are going to be here in two or three minutes. What the hell is he doing?”

Doug sat in the passenger seat, petrified. They could hear the idling of the Ferrari’s powerful motor and felt the fresh, cold air of the woods in winter. Silence. No Kevin.

“He does know we just stole a car, right?” Mitch spat. “I mean, does he realize this is against the law?” Mitch was aware of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the cold.

Doug said nothing. He was staring straight ahead.

Finally, Mitch saw headlights as Kevin’s truck came out of the parking lot, speeding toward them. He felt pressure lifting from his chest and was aware of being able to breathe again. The truck went flying past and Mitch gunned the Ferrari and fell in behind it.

Kevin didn’t even stop when he reached the road, just spun right, throwing up a cloud of dirt and sticks, which bounced off the front end of the Ferrari. Bet the dude who wanted his car parked away from all the others wouldn’t have been too happy about that, Mitch thought with an evil laugh. Kevin had his gas pedal to the floor; they were climbing up to ninety miles an hour. The Ferrari was in fourth gear and barely feeling it. Mitch started screaming.

“Whooooooohah!” he yelled, and looked over at Doug, whose face was contorted in worry, or misery. “This baby can fly!”

“Just… just watch the road,” Doug said, his voice shaky. “Ice.” He was trying to fasten his seat belt, but couldn’t find the end of it, and he was wriggling around in his seat. It was annoying Mitch.

“Dude, just sit still!”

Doug said nothing but, mercifully, did sit still. Up ahead, Kevin put on his turn signal, and a few seconds later, they turned onto a small road, then took another turn, and then Kevin pulled up another tree-lined driveway deep in the woods. This was a nice long one too, and at the end was a large shack big enough to be a two-car garage. There was a light on inside.

They had come up the dirt-and-gravel driveway so fast that smoke and snow and debris filled the air as Kevin jumped out of the truck and ran up to the door of the garage. He rang the bell, and as he waited, Mitch could see his breath puffing up into the air. He was panting.

“Dude,” said Doug. “I wanna get out of this car.”

“Go ahead,” said Mitch. “Ask Kevin where he wants me to park it.”

Before Doug could move, a burly man in coveralls with a handlebar mustache answered the door. He was holding a welding torch in one hand and looking around the parking lot as he greeted Kevin. He saw the Ferrari and put the torch down, and came over to greet Mitch.

“Wow,” he said, his feet crunching across the snow. “This one’s a beaut. A 599.” He turned to Kevin. “You took the LoJack out, right?”

Kevin froze. Mitch froze. Doug got out the car and said, “Hey.”

LoJack. Mitch and Kevin both knew what it was. Until that second, it had never occurred to either of them that the Ferrari might have an antitheft device that might need to be disabled, a device that at that moment was probably madly signaling to anyone who cared to know where it was.

LoJack, Mitch thought. Well, I’ll be damned. He could see by Kevin’s expression that he was thinking much the same thing.

“No,” Mitch said finally when it became obvious that Kevin was too thunderstruck to answer.

The burly guy jumped back from the Ferrari as if it had tried to bite him. “You gotta get this thing outta here,” he said.

Kevin nodded.

“NOW!” the guy screamed. “Go!” He began waving his arms frantically, backing away from them. “There’ll be cops crawling all over me in ten minutes! Get the fuck outta here!” He ran back inside his garage and slammed the door.

Mitch was still sitting in the idling Ferrari and he looked up at a downcast, deflated Kevin standing over him. “Where do you want to take this thing?” he asked.

Kevin stared at his shoes for a second before snapping out of it. “We gotta dump it somewhere,” he said.

They stared at each other, the forest quiet except for the sound of the idling Ferrari. A feeling of calm control came over Mitch as his inner commando took over once more.

“I got an idea,” he said, aware there was no time for debate. “We passed a steep hill on the way here. Those hills have truck ramps that lead off into the woods. You know, for when trucks lose their brakes? We park the Ferrari on one of those escape ramps and get the hell out of here.”

Kevin nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Doug, you ride with Kevin,” Mitch said. “No use in both of us getting caught in this thing.”

Doug, who had no problem with that, was in Kevin’s truck before Mitch had finished his sentence. Mitch peeled out down the long driveway, slamming into potholes and flying over ruts. Screw it, the Ferrari was doomed now. If he couldn’t sell it, what difference did it make if it got beaten up? He pulled out onto the road, which was still dark and lifeless. No other traffic, the only good thing about this night so far. Less than half a mile down the road, Mitch saw the first escape ramp, a patch of sand that ran off behind some trees. He stopped, turned around, and drove as fast as he could into the sand, grounding the Ferrari. He had gotten at least a hundred feet into the trees, concealing the Ferrari from the road.

Mitch shut the car off, leaped out, and slammed the door, then ran over to Kevin’s truck, which was idling at the end of the truck ramp. He jumped in and Kevin peeled off in the same second. Mitch pulled the wildly swinging passenger door shut.

There was total silence in the truck. After a few minutes, Kevin eased off the gas and drove normally. A few seconds after that, two police cars, with their lights flashing, sped past them in the other direction.

“Shit,” Kevin said. “LoJack. Who woulda thought?” No one spoke, so he added, “I told you guys I wasn’t a car thief. Dude, I told anyone who would listen that I wasn’t a car thief.”

“They’ll sure believe you now,” said Mitch.

After a few more minutes, Mitch put his head in his hands and said, “Shit, what a disaster.”

“Coulda been worse,” said Kevin.

“A whole lot worse,” said Doug.

“That’s the spirit,” said Kevin. “Coulda been worse. Coulda been worse.” He began repeating it like a mantra.

As they neared Wilton, the pumping adrenaline had ebbed and their lives began to seem normal again. None of them wanted to talk about the botched Ferrari job and Kevin, determined to talk about something positive, said to Doug, “Dude, I might have a job for you.”

“Walking dogs?”

“No. I don’t have enough dogs for three people. Dealing pills. Interested?”

Ordinarily, the answer would have been no. But business opportunities were scarce and clearly car-thieving wasn’t going to be as lucrative as promised, so Doug said, “Awright.”

“Do you know a lot of people who like pills? Because I can keep you busy. This guy I know, he’s got tons of ’em.”

“Awright,” said Doug, who just a few weeks ago had been thinking of becoming a chopper pilot and just a few hours ago had been imagining himself a famous children’s book author, and who was now realizing that the most realistic career choice at this point was felony trafficking. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Kevin pulled up to Mitch and Doug’s apartment. He and Mitch briefly reviewed the dog-walking schedule for the next day.

“Wanna come in and smoke a bowl?” Mitch offered.

“Nah, I can’t. Linda thinks something’s up already. I gotta get home.”

They said their goodbyes and Mitch and Doug went in and sat on the couch. No Ferrari, no money. Doug was partly relieved, Mitch knew, but he himself felt nothing but failure and rage. LoJack. He should have known better.

He folded himself into the couch, turned the TV on, and stared at it blankly.