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“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.
CHAPTER 48
TWO MEN SAT in a darkened car on Texas Street, two houses in from the corner of Eighteenth, one block away from a commercial strip. Potrero Hill was a pretty area with a view of the bay from higher on the hill, but lower, in front, all you could see were the facades of the somewhat run-down Victorian houses, the intermittent trees, and the rats’ nest of telephone wires overhead.
The guys in the car were watching one house in particular, a quaint, middle-class house that was light green with dark green trim, fronted with a short brick wall and a walk of cement pavers leading up to an unpainted wood-panel front door.
At about midnight, a silver Camry backed into a spot between a couple of scruffy trees. The man who got out of the car was white and had dark hair with a balding spot at the back of his head. He was wearing a dark-blue SFPD Windbreaker. As he locked up his car, his phone rang. He leaned against his car and spoke and listened.
Then he pocketed his phone, walked up to the front door, and let himself in with his keys. Lights went on in the downstairs hallway and then the kitchen. Those two lights went out, and another went on in the second story, in a front room, probably a bedroom. Within the next half hour, the only light in the house was the blue light from the TV.
And then the TV went off, too.
One of the men in the car said to the other, “I’ve never liked these old houses. I look at them. All I see is maintenance.”
“When you have a family, you like a deck in back. A yard. Barbecue and whatnot. Christ. How long we been waiting here?”
“Take it easy,” said the first man. “After we say hello to Inspector Calhoun and his family, we can go get something to eat.”
“I’m way ready,” said the second man.
“You’re sure you don’t want to sit here and count stars?”
