The Best American Mystery Stories 2018

Alan Orloff RULE NUMBER ONE ^{from Snowbound}

“You look like crap, Pen.”

Pendleton Rozier, my longtime mentor, opened the door wide, then coughed into the crook of his elbow. “If only I felt that good.”

I stepped into the entryway of his shotgun shack in Revere, the dump he’d been living in since I met him, and handed over a brown takeout bag. “Here. This’ll help.”

He shuffled over to a beat-up recliner and plopped down, while I sat on a folding bridge chair across from him. He set the bag on a metal TV tray and fished inside. Removed a container of soup and a plastic spoon. “Chicken noodle?”

“They were out. I got lentil barley.” I shrugged. “All they had.”

Pen snapped off the flimsy lid and took a spoonful. Blew on it for fifteen seconds, hand shaking as he did.

I’d known Pen for almost thirty years and had pulled dozens of jobs with him, from the small holdups when I’d just been starting out to an all-out blitz at a UPS warehouse two years ago. He’d shown me the ropes, given me advice. Saved my life a couple of times too. Now my teacher—my friend—looked older than his sixty-four years. He’d been heading downhill for a while.

He slurped his soup, then made a gagging noise as he dropped the spoon onto the tray. “Blech. Who would ruin good soup with lentils, anyway?”

“Sorry.”

He tried to fit the lid back on the container, but after a moment of fumbling around, he gave up and leaned back in his chair. “Kane, as much as it hurts me to say, I’m losing my edge. Afraid I’m going to make a mistake that’ll cost me—or someone else. Feh. I’m gonna hang it up. Retire.” His voice caught. “Right after this one last gig.”

“Didn’t you say you were going to do this until the day you died?” He’d been squawking about retiring for the past ten years, but this time his stone-cold eyes told me he was serious.

“Can’t a guy change his mind? I’m going to relax for as long as I’ve got left. Move to a trailer park in Boca and enjoy some early-bird specials.” Pen sputtered off into a coughing jag. When he finished, he wiped some spittle from his ashen face. “So, how’s the job coming along? Ready for me yet? The ride is gassed up and rarin’ to go.”

I needed some clean wheels for when I dumped the van we were using, and Pen had always delivered. Despite his age—or maybe because of it, no one suspected a geezer waiting in an idling car—he was a damn good driver. At least he used to be. “You sure you’re up to it?”

He waved his hand. “Don’t let the coughing and wheezing deceive you. I’ve never failed on a job yet, and you know it. I got enough left in the tank for this. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”

“Sure, sure.” The truth was, I didn’t need Pen—what I had planned didn’t require a fast getaway, and I didn’t anticipate any problems. But I owed him for all he’d done for me, and it seemed fitting to throw a bone his way and send him off to sunny Florida with a few bucks in his pocket—50,000 of them. Call it a token of appreciation for showing me the ropes, watching out for me.

Pen squeezed my arm. “Thanks, Kane, for giving an old guy one last thrill.”

The late-afternoon Allston Diner crowd had thinned, and the servers were stealing some downtime before the dinner rush began. If there was a dinner rush. I’d only eaten there once before, a few months ago, and that was at 8 a.m. after an especially profitable office burglary two exits down the Mass Pike.

Of course, compared to the latest haul, that job was chump change. Penny ante. A paltry piss in a deep lake.

Across from me, my unseasoned partners in crime—both in their thirties, younger than me by two decades—finished up their meals. Jimmy Fitzpatrick, the Irish thug wannabe from Southie with the nonstop mouth and the pasty skin, devoured anything as long as it was fried and doused with ketchup. Nagelman, who always looked like he’d just been released from solitary, gaunt and pallid, was vegan. Or some such crap. I couldn’t keep up with all the latest diet fads, and frankly, I didn’t trust a guy who wouldn’t eat red meat. It didn’t help that all the leftover slimy green gunk in the bottom of Nagelman’s bowl made me queasy.

I balled up my napkin, tossed it onto my empty plate, and stretched an arm across the back of the vinyl booth.

“They got good pie here.” Fitzpatrick wiped a ketchup smear off his chin.

“Maybe we should discuss what we came here to discuss.” Nagelman glanced around, then leaned forward and adjusted his thick-lensed glasses.

“We can multitask,” Fitzpatrick said. “We ain’t idiots.”

“I didn’t say we were idiots. I just think we should get down to—”

“And who the eff put you in charge, anyway?”

I held up my hand. “Girls, girls. Relax. Why don’t we talk business first, then those that want pie can get pie. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Fitzpatrick glared at Nagelman. “Whatever.”

“Fine,” Nagelman said, glaring right back at Fitzpatrick.

I cleared my throat. Broke out a fresh smile. It was always much more enjoyable to deliver good news than bad, although I sometimes did look forward to dumping bad news on those I despised. “Our interested party is ready. Finally.”

It had taken a few weeks before my fence had lined up customers for the unique—and highly identifiable—treasures we’d stolen from a truck bound for a chichi Back Bay museum. About a dozen bejeweled pieces from some twelfth-century Russian dynasty.

“Wa-damn-hoo,” Fitzpatrick said. “’Bout time. First stop, Vegas, baby!” He tapped out a drum solo on the edge of the table with his fat fingers.

Next to him, Nagelman issued an audible sigh, and the expression on his face screamed relief more than happiness. “Thank God.”

Did Nagelman ever smile? “He wants to meet tomorrow afternoon at three. That work in your schedule?”

Fitzpatrick nodded. “You bet.”

“We’ll all go to the meet, right? As planned?” Nagelman chewed on the inside of his cheek while his pupils jittered.

“That’s right, boys. Tomorrow at about this time we’ll be one million bucks richer. Each of us.” I’d planned the entire operation, but to keep peace—and because that honor-among-thieves notion was complete horse manure—we’d worked out an arrangement. Fitzpatrick and Nagelman would hold on to the goods in a secret location, and I wouldn’t divulge the name of the fence until the deal was ready. As for Pen, I’d pay him fifty thou out of my share, but I hadn’t mentioned his involvement at all, not wanting to get into any arguments about bringing in another guy.

After the exchange we’d split the proceeds and go on our merry ways, off to spend our loot.

At least that was the plan we’d all agreed upon.

Sometimes plans changed.

Nagelman wanted to run through the specifics again—what time to meet and where, who would take the lead during the meeting, contingencies if things went south—and we spent about thirty minutes hashing it all out. When we finished going through it all yet a third time, he seemed satisfied.

“So we’re good?” I asked.

Two nods.

“Now can I order some pie?” Fitzpatrick said.

“Knock yourself out.”

“I gotta take a leak first.” Fitzpatrick got up. “If she comes while I’m gone, I want a big slice of Boston cream, got it? Maybe some extra whipped cream on top. And ask for a cherry too. I’m in the mood to celebrate, and nothing says celebration like a plump red cherry.”

When Fitzpatrick was out of earshot, I leaned across the table. “You gonna be okay? We talked about this, right? Three mil divided in half is a lot more dough than it is split three ways.”

Nagelman dabbed his sweaty forehead with his napkin. “I know. But… you don’t think he’s got a clue, do you?”

“Him? He wouldn’t know a clue if it burst out of his chest like that monster in Alien. Trust me, he’s a dolt.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the restrooms. “But I don’t trust him, so you need to keep an eye out. Make sure he doesn’t get the idea that he can rip us off and sell the goods on his own.”

“He couldn’t.”

“I know he couldn’t; my guy’s the only one around who will touch our stuff. But he might think he can. So watch him, okay?”

“I will, I will. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried in the least.” I smiled. “You want some pie too?”

“No thanks. They probably use lard in the crust.”

“Isn’t that the best part?”

My phone rang. Fitzpatrick.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Just checking in. We got the van,” Fitzpatrick said. “Everything on track with the meet?”

“Yep. Where are you?”

“Gas station. Nagelman’s in the can.”

“How’s he seem?” I asked.

“Like a mouse in a snake’s cage. He could use a Xanax or three.”

“Do you think he suspects anything?” I asked.

“Hard to tell, he’s always so twitchy. I asked him a few questions to feel him out, and he got all sweaty, like he does when he’s stressed. Best guess? I think he’s afraid I know about him and you planning to double-cross me, although I suppose he might sense we’re about to screw him. But so what? If he figures it out, I can snap him in half. His physique is certainly an argument for eating meat, huh?”

“Don’t hurt him, Fitzpatrick. There’s no need.” I didn’t have a problem stealing stuff from people—things can always be replaced. I drew the line at physical harm, unless absolutely necessary. I was an artful thief, not a two-bit goon. Not hurting people was one of Pen’s top ten rules. Right below his numero uno directive: never trust anyone. “Just be cool.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the bossman.”

My other line beeped. Nagelman. “Got another call. Listen, the last thing we need is you getting all macho and screwing this thing up. Remember, three mil divided by two is a lot more than if we have to divide it by three. See you in a little while.”

I clicked over to the other line. “Yeah?”

“It’s Nagelman. I think he might be onto us. Christ, he was—”

“Slow down, slow down. Take a deep breath. Now, where are you? Can you talk?”

I heard a slew of inhalations and exhalations, followed by Nagelman’s only slightly less frantic answer. “Exxon restroom. Fitzpatrick’s waiting for me in the van.”

“Okay. Now tell me why you think he might be onto us.”

“He was asking all kinds of questions. He suggested that me and him double-cross you, but the way he said it made me think he knew what we were up to. I’m pretty sure he was toying with me, Kane.”

Goddamn Fitzpatrick, always looking for ways to mess with people. I hoped he hadn’t somehow spooked Nagelman. Unpredictability made me nervous. “You’re overthinking things here. I’m sure he honestly wants to screw me. He doesn’t like me, and he sure doesn’t respect me. What better way than to cut me out of my own job and steal my share of the take?”

“You didn’t see his eyes, Kane. He’s a psycho. And I’m afraid he knows about us crossing him. He’ll probably kill us both and smile while he’s doing it.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t know squat about our plan. This time tomorrow we’ll be a hell of a lot richer, and we won’t be worrying about Fitzpatrick. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

“I’ll feel so much better when this is over.”

I wouldn’t bet on that. “Sure you will. Now, just try to take it easy. And don’t get into it with him. I know how much of an a-hole he can be, but do your best to play nice. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Remember, kid, it’s just you and me on this.”

Nagelman drove the van; I rode shotgun and Fitzpatrick sat in the back. I hadn’t known where they’d stored our haul until Nagelman brought the van to a stop right before the barricade arm leading into the Jiffy-Stor site. He rolled down the window, punched the code into the security pad, and the red-and-white arm rose with a jerk.

A few snowflakes from a developing storm blew in through the window.

Fitzpatrick leaned forward from the back, poking his head between the two front seats. “Some security. Hell, you could just drive right through that ridiculous arm and nobody would even notice for a week. This place is deserted.”

Nagelman rolled through the entrance and wound his way up a slight hill to the storage facility. Like a thousand similar places, Jiffy-Stor comprised a series of sprawling warehouses, subdivided into hundreds of tiny units, each with a roll-up door and cheap-ass lock.

I didn’t know why anyone would store anything truly valuable here; it was mostly surplus furniture and sentimental keepsakes and junk that people thought they’d use again but never would—like exercise equipment and sewing machines.

“Well, I got to hand it to you. You guys picked a safe place to stash the stuff,” I said. “No self-respecting crook would be caught dead prowling around here.”

“It was my idea,” Fitzpatrick said.

“Actually, I think it was my idea,” Nagelman said.

“Whoever’s idea it was, good job,” I said, cutting off further argument.

Nagelman drove to the back of the place, past five rows of units, and hooked a right to follow the asphalt circuit.

“I can almost taste our dough,” Fitzpatrick said, opening his door before the van had even come to a stop in front of the unit they’d rented.

He was out and fiddling with the lock as Nagelman and I came up behind him.

“Aaaand here we are.” Fitzpatrick snapped the lock open and removed it from the hasp. Rolled the door up. Flicked the light switch. Off to one side were six boxes. “Just to be safe, we marked them OLD CLOTHES.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “Let’s load them up and get going.”

Fitzpatrick turned toward the boxes. Nagelman winked at me and said, “So, Fitzpatrick, how are you going to spend your share?”

Fitzpatrick hoisted a box, smiled. “Hookers. Craps. Booze. The usual.” He walked past me toward the van, flashed me a conspiratorial look, and called out over his shoulder, “How about you, Nagelman? Big plans?”

“Gonna move to San Francisco. Buy into a buddy’s smoothie shop.” Nagelman picked up a box and followed Fitzpatrick. I grabbed a box too, and we loaded them into the van. Then we each made another trip, and we were done. Three million dollars in antique treasures weren’t very bulky.

I thought about Pen lying on the beach in Florida in a few weeks. Nice.

We climbed into the van, and Nagelman started it up.

“What about you, boss?” Fitzpatrick said. “What are you going to do with your dough?”

I thought about Pen, living in squalor, too broke to go to the doctor. “Mutual funds. I’m saving for retirement.”

“We’re almost there,” I said.

“You sure this is the right way?” Nagelman asked, voice nasal, as he steered the van down a winding road three miles past the middle of nowhere. The snow swirled in the wind, mini white tornadoes. The forecasters were predicting somewhere between six and ten inches; so far, about an inch had accumulated on the roads. Maybe I’d copy Pen’s idea and move to a warmer climate.

“Yep. GPS don’t lie.”

Nagelman jerked the wheel to avoid a pothole, then overcorrected, causing our precious cargo to shift abruptly.

“Hey, numbskull, try not to land us in a ditch, okay?” Fitzpatrick barked from the back of the van.

“You wanna drive?” Nagelman said. “Be my guest.”

“I could drive better than you with my eyes closed, that’s for sure.”

“Will you two just cut it out?” After spending the last month immersed in this job with these two chuckleheads—planning it, executing it, waiting for a buyer to materialize—I now knew what it would have been like to have squabbling children. I pointed up ahead. “Hang a left here.”

We bumped along for another three minutes down an ever-narrowing driveway until we came to a house. “This is the place.”

“Here?” Nagelman looked around.

There wasn’t another structure within sight.

“Right here.”

“I don’t like this,” Nagelman said.

“You don’t like anything,” Fitzpatrick said. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.”

“Look, my guy likes privacy when he conducts business. He needs to control the scene. In fact,” I said, pointing up into some nearby trees, “he’s probably watching us right now, so don’t do anything stupid.” Stupider than normal, anyway.

Both Nagelman and Fitzpatrick craned their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of the security cameras through the van’s windows.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We got out of the van and huddled near the driver’s door as I issued the orders. “When we get inside, let me do the talking—all the talking. After I make sure he’s got the money on hand, we’ll bring the merchandise inside and wait for him to do an appraisal. Then we’ll get our money and be off. No fuss, no muss. Okay?”

“Sure, boss,” Fitzpatrick said.

Nagelman nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

“Good. Now, who wants to stay in the van with the stuff?” I asked.

Nagelman looked at Fitzpatrick.

Fitzpatrick looked at Nagelman.

Neither said a word. I knew each was trying to figure out if staying with the goods or going inside with me was the best way not to get squeezed out of the deal.

“Well?” I asked. “Who’s it going to be?”

“Why don’t you stay,” Fitzpatrick said to Nagelman, “and I’ll go in? Just in case there’s trouble, I can handle it better. No offense, of course.”

“What if someone tries to hijack the van while you’re inside?” Nagelman countered.

“I’m sensing some distrust here,” I said. “Forget it. You can both come in with me. No one’s going to hijack the van while we’re inside. I trust my guy completely. Come on.”

I led the other two up a scuffed path toward the front door. Two shutters hung crookedly on ground-floor windows, and one upstairs window had been boarded up. A few optimistic wisps of grass poked through the snow on the front lawn.

When we got to the porch, I stopped, took a few steps backward, and pulled a gun from the waistband at the small of my back. “So here we are.”

“I’ll pat him down, boss.” Fitzpatrick started toward Nagelman, sneer in place. “You idiot. You had no idea we were cutting you out, did you?”

“Hold it right there, Fitzpatrick,” I said.

Fitzpatrick glanced at me, saw my gun pointed at him, and stopped, jaw clenched.

“Now who’s the idiot?” Nagelman said, advancing on Fitzpatrick. “How does it feel to be the one getting—”

“You stop too, Nagelman,” I said.

“What?” He examined my face, realized I wasn’t joking around, and froze.

Fitzpatrick shook his head slowly. “Crap. I knew it. Triple-crossed.”

Nagelman didn’t say anything, but he looked as if he might puke.

“Very slowly, I want you to remove your guns and toss them on the ground, toward me. Flinch and I shoot. Fitzpatrick, you first.”

“I’m not armed. You said we wouldn’t need it,” Fitzpatrick said.

“Me neither,” Nagelman said.

“Sure you’re not. Look, if it’s easier for you, I can take them off your dead bodies. It doesn’t matter much to me.”

Fitzpatrick slowly removed a gun from the pocket of his coat and tossed it on the snowy ground a yard from my feet.

“Thanks. Your turn, Nagelman.”

“It’s on my ankle. Don’t shoot me while I take it out.” He bent down and removed his piece from the holster and tossed it near Fitzpatrick’s gun.

“Now your phones,” I said.

They tossed their phones next to their guns.

“I didn’t trust you a bit,” Fitzpatrick said. “Bastard.”

“Well, someone very wise once told me you should never trust anybody. Good advice, don’t you think?”

I picked up the phones and retrieved their weapons while keeping mine trained on my partners—my ex-partners. “Now, please get down on your knees.”

They hesitated a moment, then Fitzpatrick dropped down at once, while Nagelman eased down one knee at a time.

“Please don’t shoot us. Please,” Nagelman whined.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” I said. “Unless you get up before I drive off. Then I’ll use you both for target practice.”

“Bastard,” Fitzpatrick said again.

“Nice doing business with you. And remember, don’t trust anyone.” I smiled. “Adios, amigos.”

“Bastard,” Fitzpatrick said a third time.

I trotted to the van, started it up, and roared off.

Three mil, not divided by anything, was best of all.

I pulled up next to a Volvo station wagon behind a grocery store about ten miles from where I’d left Fitzpatrick and Nagelman. Pen leaned against the Volvo’s hood, smoking a cigarette. A white crown of snow topped his knit cap. When I hopped out and tracked around the back of the van, Pen had exchanged the butt in his hand for a Beretta, and it was aimed at my chest.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry, bud.” Pen stood straighter and seemed to have more zest than yesterday. More color in his face too.

“Feeling better, I take it?” I asked.

“Amazing recovery, don’t you think? I owe it all to clean living. Wanna toss me the keys to the van?”

I flipped them up in a graceful arc, and Pen snatched them cleanly out of the air. “No hard feelings, right?”

“No, Pen. I still love you.”

“You remember all those times we talked about our dreams, how we couldn’t wait to hit the big score so we could retire on some tropical island somewhere? Well, now I can, thanks to you. I really appreciate your effort.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I must say, though, I’m a little disappointed in you, Kane. Your failure to master rule number one—never trust anyone—reflects poorly on me as a teacher.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I guess that’s how we learn, by making mistakes. Next time you’ll remember.”

I watched Pen drive off. He’d turned on me, and part of me stung from my old friend’s betrayal. I’d been his prize pupil. I liked to think he’d really cared about me.

But another part of me was content, happy even, as I pictured the proud look on my teacher’s face when he opened those boxes and found a jumble of old clothes. I had mastered the most basic lesson, and now I’d passed the final exam.

I’d stashed the merchandise in a safe place before I met up with Pen—an insurance policy against a cagey old pro. If he hadn’t double-crossed me, we would have picked up the goods on the way to our buyer, and we’d have gone through with the deal, smooth sailing. Then I’d have given Pen his dough, and we would have parted ways with a smile and firm handshake—teacher and pupil, partners in crime, dear old friends.

Sad to see, Pen losing his edge. He hadn’t even bothered to check the boxes before taking off.

Thankfully, he’d left the keys to the Volvo in the ignition. I hopped in and started it up, hoping the future would be kind to Pen.

Without the big score, I didn’t think he would ever make it to his tropical island. Maybe one day I’d visit him in that rundown trailer park in Boca, and we could laugh about how things had transpired.

Or maybe not.