David Putnam - The Replacements

“So, this doughnut thing you smelted, it weighs forty pounds?”

“Yeah, that’s right. What’d I just say? In fact, the fence discounted the money ’cause it was hot. He wouldn’t give me the whole three hundred thousand in gold. He said the cash was hot. What a bunch of bullshit. But what could I do?”

Marie had caught on to where I was headed with my questions and jumped in. “So, you’re sure about the forty pounds though, right?”

“What’s the matter with you two idgits? That’s what I said. Two hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars, after Mad Mike took his cut, got me right around forty pounds, give or take an ounce.”

Marie looked away as her mind went to work. I stepped closer. Her brainpower far surpassed mine. So as not to disrupt her, I quietly said, “Sixteen ounces in a pound, how many ounces in forty pounds?”

“Six hundred and forty,” she said. “What’s the price per ounce today?”

“Seventeen-fifty.”

When you lived with a bunch of expats who watched commodities like a kettle of hawks, you tended to pick up on that sort of mundane minutia.

Drago’s voice went up to just short of a yell. “Wait. Wait. What’s seventeen-fifty? No way. You’re sayin’ an ounce of gold is going for seventeen hundred and fifty dollars?”

Marie waved her hand for us to be quiet as she tried to compute the large figures in her head.

“I thought gold went up and down a little,” Drago said, “but stayed pretty close to the same price. That’s what Mad Mike Farris told me. He told me that twenty-five years ago when we made the deal, that gold stayed pretty steady.”

“Sssh,” I told Drago.

Marie looked up.

“Well?” I asked.

“One million, one hundred and twenty thousand.”

“A million two?” Drago yelled. “You’re shittin’ me, right? That can’t be right. A million two.” He started to mutter to himself.

I pulled Marie far enough away from the van that Drago couldn’t hear, but close enough to keep the Glock on him. “What do you think?”

“I’m no good at this kind of thing, Bruno. I don’t know.” She thought about it for a moment. “What was that thing about Granville? What was his first name?”

“Stanley Granville, Big Grandy. I didn’t put it together until just now. I asked Mack why the Feds were involved in watching Drago. He said the money from the armored car was federally insured. That story didn’t sound right, not for a twenty-five-year-old robbery, but I went with it. Granville pulled the job with Drago.”

“At first Drago said a bud , and didn’t give a name,” said Marie.

“Right. He’s trying to keep the details down on the fabricated part of the lie so it’s easier to remember. Drago went in for twenty-five to life for the armored car robbery and got out on parole the first time after doing twelve years. He came out, killed Stanley Granville for ratting him out, and went back in for another twenty-five to life, did another twelve and got out this time.”

“Okay, and?”

“Twelve years ago, Granville was the president of the SS.”

“Honey, I know I’m missing something here, so just spell it out,” Marie said.

“Drago was the FBI’s staked goat. They were waiting for Clay Warfield, current president of the SS, to order the hit on Drago for killing their past president and for the hit to be carried out. Then they would have a dead Drago, no loss there, and a conspiracy to commit murder with a RICO violation on the Sons of Satan. The FBI could dismantle a large chunk of the SS and make a huge splash in the news.”

Everything fell into place. That was why they had kept Mary Beth in the surveillance room when everyone else had been reassigned. They didn’t want her to follow Drago if he left. They wanted her as a witness to his death.”

“How does this thing with Granville impact what we have going?” Marie asked.

“The SS will have a ‘shoot on sight’ order out on Drago. I don’t know how he survived in prison this long. They must have kept him segregated for this very reason.”

“I know how he survived, look at him,” she said. “The man could pick up a small horse and dunk it in a basketball hoop without breaking a sweat.”

Maybe a few years ago, but not now. Drago had gone to fat. No doubt, even shot, he was a formidable opponent, but not to the degree she thought.

We moved back closer to Drago. “You mentioned that we could help you get this golden doughnut,” I said. “You have something in mind, don’t you?”

Drago quit muttering. A large smile broke, filling his flat, pie-pan face. “I gotcha, don’t I? You’re gonna do it, aren’t ya?”

Marie said, “Shut up, fatso, and answer him.”

He eyed Marie a moment and said, “Your firecracker little bitch said the gold’s worth one million, one hundred and twenty thousand. You need the million. I ain’t gonna be good with no one hundred and twenty thousand for my end.”

“We don’t want any of the gold, none of it,” I said. “We told you that. The deal here is that we help you get the gold. We take that risk. In exchange, you take the risk of possibly losing the gold when we trade it for the kids. On that end your risk is much smaller. We’re dealing with one twenty-five-year-old psychotic, and not with an international urban terrorist organization. It’s a fair trade.”

Drago didn’t say anything for a minute. “Okay, deal. But when it comes to makin’ the trade-the gold for the kids-I get a say in how we handle it. You don’t just get to piss away all my gold. I get to be part of the plan.” He held out his hand. I took it and shook.

“Now, tell us this great and wonderful plan of yours,” Marie said.

Drago slid off his perch from the back of the van, keeping his weight on his good leg. He hobbled around to the passenger side of the van, opened the door, and brought the FBI bag back around. He sat in the same place and said, “With this.”

He unzipped the bag. His hand turned into a blur of speed and came out with a.40-caliber Sig Sauer pistol. He pointed it at me and smiled.

“You son of a bitch,” said Marie.

I nudged her with an elbow. “Where’d you get this language? I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, well, dipshit’s holding a gun on us and he’s going to shoot us any second now, so I think I’m entitled to use any language I want.”

“No, he’s not,” I said.

“I’m not, big man? Tell me why I’m not.”

“Because you want us to dress up like FBI agents to infiltrate the clubhouse. You need us as much as we need you. You could never pull off looking like an FBI agent. And you need a partner to make it look legit.” I’d figured out his plan as soon as he picked up the bag.

He chuckled. “That’s right.” He set the gun down on the floor beside him and pulled out a windbreaker and a vest, both dark blue with large white letters ‘FBI’ emblazoned on the front and back.

“You’re pretty smart for an Anus Africanus.”

“Don’t you call him that,” Marie said. “Next time you call him that, I’ll take you down, you understand?”

He chuckled again. This time his whole body jiggled and rolled. “Looks like the first order of business is getting ol’ Drago here some clothes.”

“Toss me that gun,” I said.

He eyed me as if trying to decide how far to push his newly found freedom. Then he picked up the gun and tossed it to me. I tossed it right back. He caught it, surprised. I took the loaded magazine out of my pocket, the one I’d taken out of the gun earlier, and tossed it to him. “The gun’s no good without bullets.”

He pointed his finger at me and smiled. He stuck the magazine back in the gun and pulled back the slide to charge the breech. “You know, I might have to change my mind about you Anus-”