Early Birds
A novella by Alex Wilson
Copyright 2011 Alex Wilson
Cover attribution: KevinT2141
Discover other titles by Alex Wilson at www.wilsonwritings.com
The dog track, one of a half dozen in Pinellas County, Florida, is a private affair. The owner/ managers, Phil and Miriam Rousch, are a middle age couple who struck it rich with the track and attached poker parlor. Miriam and Phil are self-aware enough to know that it’s their own damned fault that their only child, Phil, Jr., is such a wastrel and an arrogant prick. They didn’t want him to know the difficult times they had endured so they spoiled him rotten. They couldn’t help themselves. They were naturally generous people and gave Phil, Jr. a BMW for his 16th birthday when he was a junior in high school and they didn’t ask for much in return.
Now that he is grown, Phil, Jr. resents his one chore; delivery of the receipts to the bank night deposit after the poker closed at midnight on Saturday. It interrupts his carousing with his pals although, with the new 3 am closing curfew in St. Petersburg, he still has time to catch up with them for the last vital hour of drinking. So, he shows up, resentful and grouchy, to pick up the money bags and do his duty. He loads them into the trunk of his new Mercedes AMG and heads for his favorite route to the bank down a dark, seldom-used back road that allows him to approach the bank from the rear to preclude being followed on a main thoroughfare. And, he has on the passenger seat another source of fearlessness; his Glock 9mm. It isn’t registered but he’s sure the cops wouldn’t quibble about that if he has to use it to ward off an attack. He’s above needing to go through the annoying licensing process. In fact, he’s above anything he finds inconvenient.
It’s late and dark and he has a little buzz on. Not enough to cause him any trouble. He can handle it.
When he comes to a bend in the backwoods route, he’s surprised to find the road blocked by an accident. A truck is half on and half off the road and a sedan in the other lane has steam coming from under the hood. As he approachs, his headlights illuminate an old man waving his arms and a woman on the ground with blood on her skirt. Other people are hovering over her looking agitated. He slows to a stop, cursing the delay.
The old man rushes up to his window talking excitedly. Phil, Jr. lowers the electric window just enough to hear the man through the crack.
‘Young man, thank God you’re here. We need your help. We’ve called 911 and they said they will get here as quickly as they can, but all the emergency equipment is tied up with a hotel fire. We have a woman bleeding and we need to get her to an emergency quick. Can you give her a ride?’
‘I don’t know, I’m in a bit of a hurry and have an urgent trip of my own.’
The old man is incredulous. ‘More important than saving this woman’s life?’
‘Take one of the other vehicles.’
The old man sputters, ‘Do you think I would be here begging if we could. Both vehicles are disabled. Com’mon, son, do the right thing, for Christ sake. We’ll wrap her up so you don’t get any blood on your fancy new car.’
‘Alright, alright. Get her in here.’ Phil, Jr. pushes the unlock button.
At the sound of the lock release, the old man’s eyes get large as he looks over the top of the car and says, ‘Oh, my God. What’s that?’ and points toward the field on the passenger side of the car.
When he turns to look, the old man swiftly swings open the driver’s door and, in one smooth motion before Phil, Jr. could look back, puts a needle into his neck and pushes the plunger. Phil, Jr. feels the needle prick and his face registers surprise and confusion. He turns away to find his handgun but merely slumps sideways onto the seat on top of it.
When Phil, Jr. awakes, he’s lying on wet grass on the side of the road. There’s faint light in the eastern sky. As he tries to sit up, his head pounds with a monumental headache. He’s used to morning headaches but not like this one. He lies back down and tooks stock. He suddenly recalls the accident scene and the man asking for help. That’s all he can come up with. But, there are no cars, not even his. He feels his pocket for his cell phone but it isn’t there. He feels his other pocket for his wallet. It’s there. He sits up and looks around. There’s nothing except grass. It’s like he’s been deposited by an alien ship. Eventually, he gets to his feet and looks up and down the road. He tries to remember how far he is from an intersection. With a throbbing head and a bit of unsteadiness, he begins to walk back the way he’d come.
* * * * * * *
They were all having their beverage of choice. Randy and Billy are having a couple of cold long neck Sam Adams from the shop cooler. The General is having Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash. Letticia, raspberry tea in her ornate Limoge cup and saucer with one lump and fresh lemon squeeze stirred with a delicate silver spoon from Paul Revere’s silversmithing shop…the actual Paul Revere and his actual silver shop. Rita Mae Owens prefers a shot of The General’s Jack popped over her lips neat chased with a cold one of Elroy’s Homebrew from a local microbrewery. As she says too often, ‘One to start the fire and one to put it out.’ Rita Mae’s stepson, Sheldon Grandin, has an energy drink. Being perpetually in training, he alternates V-8 with a smoothie concoction of fruit, raw eggs and protein powder.
The AMG Mercedes is in the bay of this auto shop owned and operated by Randy and Billy. It will be broken down into its component parts and sold into the gray market for a healthy premium over what the car cost new. Actually, it was almost new, having but 8,653 miles on the clock.
The rest of the loot, including Phil, Jr’s Glock and the contents of his wallet, is stacked on the shop table in an orderly fashion.
‘So, Letticia, what’s the take?’ asks The General.
‘Well, Bernard, it looks like about $87,400, counting Phil, Jr’s contribution. The car will bring in some, but that’s for Randy and Billy to estimate. The Glock can be sold on the South Side in a New York minute for about, what, $500 cash, Shelly? Altogether, we may have about a hundred grand to add to the kitty.’
Rita Mae turns to Randy McCoy, ‘Could you use this skirt for shop rags or something? I guess I overdid the fake blood thang.’
Randy took the stained garment and says, ‘Thank ya’ kindly, Rita Mae. We’ll just run it through our washer and cut ‘er up. We use up a mess of ‘em.’
‘I’ll bet you do, Mister Grubby Hands.’
‘That’s me,’ he says with a chuckle.
It’s getting towards sunrise and they’re tired. It’s way past their bed times and, although it had been an exciting and successful evening of theater, they now need to get home. All their cars are inside the building that is situated in the Dome Industrial Park in such a way that the overhead rolling door opens onto an interior street allowing multiple exit alternatives and no direct viewing into the building.
Letticia Myers is the first to leave. She packed the cash into a faux Gucci bag and put it in the trunk of her gray Chrysler, a real stealth car. The rest leave at intervals in their modest vehicles and take various routes to their common destination, Happy Days Retirement Home.
When the last car had slipped into the awakening dawn, Ricky and Billy McCoy roll down the electric door and head for their living quarters, bootlegged into this non-residency warehouse building. For now, they ignore the collection of cars and trucks of various ages and colors as well as the brand new Mercedes that they will begin to break down tomorrow. Most of the proceeds from the Mercedes parts will go towards maintaining the shop and the assortment of getaway vehicles and the rest will be added to the proceeds of the evening’s take for Letticia to apply to the cause.
* * * * * * *
Letticia Myers, nee Weiss, is from a wealthy and cul
tured New York family. She was raised on Park Ave and attended The Dalton School and Brandeis. Her father, Marvin Weiss, was a financial wizard who, when he found that he could manage his funds from anywhere, moved the family to Palm Beach where his wife, Vanita, became a leading light in the local social and charitable scene. Young Letticia married into one of real estate tycoon families of Miami, Ben Myers of Grabov & Myers. Although the philandering of her husband eventually led to a divorce, Letticia studied at her parents knees and became adroit at both philanthropic management and financial management. When her father was caught with a Madoff-like Ponzi scheme, the family was disgraced and lost much of their fortune in legal defense and restitution. Marvin did some time for which he was ill prepared and he died in prison. Vanita Weiss moved back to New York and submerged herself in career pursuits of wedding planning and etiquette tutoring for ladies who were to be presented at Cotillion. She changed her name to Russell and kept her distance from old acquaintances, including her daughter.
With her small share of the family’s residual fortune, her own money management fees and the substantial proceeds of her divorce, Letticia did not move to St. Petersburg empty handed. She made some astute real estate purchases that survived the highly-leveraged roller coaster waves of the speculators. One of the purchases was a small and well appointed retirement home, Happy Days, grandfathered into an upscale residential area of town, the Old Northeast. It was a sale of desperation for the seller and she had cash. It was too good a deal to pass up. She filled it with people of her choosing. Once she discovered her mission, she refined her acceptance criteria to build her ‘team’.
Letticia was approached by a local retirement home lobbying group for donations to support the sort-of trade association, then to speak to the group. She came to realize that many of the retirement home owners were either well meaning but inept or were just plain scam artists that saw easy pickings to rip off old folks, their families and/or insurance companies. She volunteered to tour the area’s retirement homes to audit how well they were being run. Not only were there atrocities which she duly reported, but there was a side story of people who were in desperate need of nursing home care but who did not qualify for various reasons, overwhelmingly financial reasons. Somehow, some way, this got to her. Her late-discovered mission was to do something about it. And, this took money. She set up a charity, The Safe Harbor Foundation (not to be confused with the town of Safety Harbor, FL) and devised a way to fund it.
Mrs. Myers returned to her office and locked the Gucci bag in the office safe. Tomorrow, she will begin the process of dividing it into less-than-ten thousand dollar packages that young Shelly will take to 8 or 10 banks to be deposited ostensibly as receipts from the various charitable events that Happy Days conduct. Laundering? Oh, yes. But, taxes are paid and records kept and forms punctiliously maintained and submitted. Everyone is happy, especially those poor souls who are the beneficiaries of her support. Out of funds and out of hope, they were suddenly the lucky recipients of blessed support that paid medical bills and home care or nursing home care. It was a gift from God or, in this case, from Phil Rousch, Jr’s unintended contribution.
* * * * * * *
Donald Flint is a member of what the St. Petersburg Police Department now chooses to call ‘Investigative Services Bureau’, i.e., he’s a detective. He has a rugged ‘lived in’ face and is beefy-to-pudgy in his middle years. Detecting can be pretty straightforward or it can be an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. This robbery is one of the latter. The victim, Phillip Rousch, Jr., did see at least one of the gang up close when he came to the car window and asked for help. The rest looked like bystanders and were at a distance. He did say the man at his window looked like a senior.
But, looking for seniors in St. Petersburg is like looking for sand on the beach. It has 21% over 65 while the state has 17% and in many parts of the country the percentage is under ten. Talk about profiling. The Gray Panthers would take the department apart if it began stopping elders for random questioning.
Nonetheless, the operation was slick and well planned. No grab and run. Rousch claims there was an auto accident with an injured woman on the ground with blood on her and people attending to her in obvious agitation. But, when he awoke, no cars, no people and no clues. Even at the place where tire tracks would normally be found on the shoulders of the road, there were none or they had been meticulously raked clean. There was no sign of blood or broken glass on that stretch of road. Did he imagine all this? Was it a ruse to get away with stealing his parents’ money? A Rousch ruse? Junior has a minor rap sheet for getting into fights and even resisting the direction of a police officer. He may be a pain in the ass, but it’s a stretch to see him doing something this diaphanous…or smart. And, what of his car? He seems genuinely upset at losing the fancy ride that mommy and daddy had given him. It’s like he lost his manhood. So, if it was a genuine heist, it was a good one and beautifully carried out.
Where to start on this one? As there was obvious knowledge of Junior’s route to the night deposit box, it might be an inside job. The dog track employees must be interviewed and studied. Also, if he was followed on previous occasions, perhaps the video tapes of the parking lot will show someone lurking. But, when? This meant a laborious review of tape over weeks, maybe months.
Another approach is to review the files on any older parolees in the area that might have robbery history. No witnesses, no tracks, no clues of any kind. This will take patience.
Donald Flint, Detective First Class had just settled in to organize the investigation when the phone rang.
‘Flint’, he barked.
‘Not In-Like-Flint of Shore Patrol fame?’
‘Is this a crank call? No one has called me that since I left the Navy. If you want to have a piece of me for dragging your drunken ass to the brig, you’ll have to get in line. Which ragged-assed swabbie is bothering me at my vital and prestigious law enforcement duties, pray?’
‘Off, but not by much, hero of water borne gendarmerie. Try member of the service that actually does the fighting and wins the battles, tar.’
‘Wait, it’s coming to me. Yes, yes a vision dressed in unfashionable green. Could it be yet another unruly member of the corpse?’
‘It’s pronounced Corps, you ninny. Won’t you coffee absorbers ever learn?’
‘This is either the ghost of Christmas past or Josh ‘don’t-call-it-corpse’ Malley. Am I close?’
‘Close enough to touch if you dare. So, still in the badge-enabled intimidation racket, eh?’
‘Yep, everyone’s nightmare, especially miscreants. Is you one? And, how did you find me since I have made extra effort to avoid you for lo these many decades?’
‘I happened to run into some of my old USMC playmates and one of them remembered you from when you were busting heads at Little Creek with your Shore Patrol cover. We all knew it was just a way for you to exercise an out-of-control sadism but, hey, everyone has a hobby. I was directed to Investigative Services Bureau. Have anything to do with police work?’
‘Don’t get me started. It’s someone’s idea of political correctness instead of just saying ‘detective’.’
‘No matter what banner you choose, is there any chance to get together if only for a cold one or two?’
‘I’m guessing you’re in town. Have you retired? Why else would you be in St. Petersburg?’
‘I am in town but I’m still a working stiff. I live in Maine now with a terrific lady and I work as sort of a problem solver for corporations.’
‘You’re in town and working for corporations. Which one?’
‘Actually, this is a government job. With the pending wind down of Central Command at McDill, the state is trying to figure out how to interest all the defense contractors to stick around. It’s a strategy study gig.’
‘And, you’ve convinced the State of Florida that you can handle a higher order of thinkin
g? Wait ‘til I tell them of your exploits at Little Creek.’
‘Hold off ‘til I arrange a payoff. You police are all on the take, aren’t you?’
‘You’ll get three-to-five for even breathing a word of that. Better yet, we’ll submit you to a strip search conducted by Bruno the Barbarian.’
‘I love it when you talk dirty. When and where do we meet?’
‘There’s a funky open air sports bar called Ferg’s on Central Avenue directly across from the Police HQ. Any underage drinker can direct you. Can you make it at one today?’
‘Why not? Might as well get it over with.’
‘Always the charmer.’
Ferg’s was well known and easily found as Central Avenue really is central to St. Pete. Flint appeared almost on time and a rousing reunion was staged with much back slapping and arm punching. It was fifth grade recess all over again.
‘Holy Moses, Josh, what do you do to stay in shape? I’ll bet you can even wear your old uniform.’
‘It needs to be taken in a bit to fit my snake hips but I’m not complaining. I see you’re still growing but not getting any taller.’
‘It’s the frustrations of the job. It’s not that I am fed too well, it’s that I have a pitiful diet of consisting mainly of junk food. What can I say? I consider my muffin a security blanket to keep bullets from my vitals.’