Page 389 of Devil’s Disciples

The entire safe’s contents would weigh roughly a hundred and fifty pounds. Although I knew I should have an ample amount of time, I divided the money into four equal stacks and quickly carried them to my car. After making certain no traces of my visit had been left behind, I closed the door to he safe, turned the dial, and locked it.

On the drive home, one of Goose’s other questions came to mind. How I justified stealing from those I stole from.

Although many would perceive my night’s “victim” as being nothing more than another one of SoCal’s quirky citizens, I knew better. Deep down inside—at the core of his very being—he was nothing short of a monster. A monster who now had no means of financing any further operations.

As Bob Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright played on my cassette player, the corners of my mouth curled into a smile of accomplishment.

I wore that smile all the way home.

144

Goose

Tension was at an all-time high. One man short, Baker was forced to be our driver. Normally the calm, cool leader of the group, being behind the wheel had whittled him into a mass of exposed nerves. While I stood and nervously waited, Baker walked in circles. Tito pecked at his throw-away smart phone. The faint glow from the phone’s screen pierced the darkness and illuminated his face with an eerie shade of blue.

Tito looked up. “Two thousand, two hundred, and forty pounds.”

Pacing the floor like a caged wolf, Baker paused and gave Tito a look. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “There’s no way we can get this son-of-a-bitch loaded. We’re going to have to cut into it.”

“It’s got two layers of steel,” Tito explained, alternating glances between his phone and Baker. “Fire retardant filler in between. The filler is similar to concrete. We’ll need to cut the outer layer, chip away the filler, and then cut the inner layer. The only concern on cutting through the inner layer is that we could burn the contents.”

“Cut the outer layer, chip away the concrete, and blow two small holes in the inner layer,” Baker said. “We’ll poke the camera through one hole and use the other for light. After we determine what’s inside, we’ll decide how to cut the inner layer.”

Being in someone’s home caused me more grief than robbing a bank. Although a bank job had countless unknowns, it was fast-paced. Everything simply happened. The occupants and employees of the bank acted, and we reacted. There was no time to think.

Waiting as someone cut into a safe while standing in an unknown person’s closet left me feeling vulnerable. The entire process took an hour—or longer—during which time I was so tense I felt like I could vomit at any moment.

Baker’s pacing was making matters worse. Much worse.

“I’ll cut it,” I said. “Hand me the rig.”

Doing the work would take my mind off the potential of being caught. Of a homeowner coming home and trying to protect his belongings.

Baker spoke into his mouthpiece as he strode past. “Baker to Reno. We good?” After a short pause, he continued. “We’ve got to cut through two layers. Might be an hour. Keep your head on a swivel.”

Tito handed me the plasma cutter.

Although I was slowly coming to terms with Ghost’s death, not having him on the job was a tremendous burden. Our work required that areas of expertise be covered by their respective talents. Baker’s talent wasn’t driving. It was thinking. Planning. Organizing his men.

I slipped on the goggles, grabbed the plasma cutter, and knelt in front of the safe. Depending on the thickness of the material, it could take an hour to cut a hole large enough to slip my hand through.

The “Bakersfield job” had been on the books, and on our minds, for some time. Ghost’s death—and the feeling of necessity to dispose of the cop’s body—postponed our moving forward for some time.

I didn’t need the money from the job. I was driven to perform by other forces. The thrill of it all was a good part of it. The complexity of the job was another. The more difficult a job was, the more satisfaction I received when we accomplished it. The simple jobs provided minimal satisfaction, the complex ones provided much more.

A botched job was like a kick in the nuts.

Supporting my brothers was the biggest driving force. I knew many of them relied on the money as a means of financial support. Reno often gambled away a few hundred thousand dollars over the course of a drunken weekend in Vegas. Cash somehow managed to spend his on who knows what. Tito invested his. Baker gave his away to the less fortunate.

I kept mine in cash, locked in a safe. One day, when the desire to continue left me, I’d retire on an island somewhere.

Hopefully with a sneaker-wearing smart-mouthed brunette at my side.

“Keep me posted on time,” I said over my shoulder.

“Will do,” Tito said.

I focused on the arc from the plasma cutter’s tip as it cut through the steel. At the pace it was going, we were going to be at it for two hours or more.