Brett Halliday - Win Some, Lose Some

Shayne was getting the hang of. it now. He worked the lever again, dropping the bucket sharply, which dislodged the hook. The Cadillac, like a mouse tossed by a cat, flew through the air and ended up on the gravel bank. At that point, it had probably lost most of its resale value.

“A marvelous toy,” Frieda called up. “And we ought to be going, Mike.”

Shayne meanwhile had continued to improve on his original idea. He turned the bucket completely upside down, swung hard, and caved in one corner of the big equipment trailer, partially jarring it off its blocks. He worked the bucket edge into the opening and came back, peeling off one of the side panels. He tilted the bucket forward. Jumping down, he climbed into the trailer, which was brightly illuminated by the payloader’s headlights. He gutted it completely, throwing everything into the bucket-torches, jackhammers, welding machines, drills, hand tools, one huge payloader wheel and tire. Frieda had the van in position with the rear doors open. Shayne swung the bucket and tipped it all in.

Then he picked up Canada, getting a good deal of sand in the same bite. He tilted the bucket slowly. When Canada started to slide, Frieda guided him into the van.

The back of the van had two fitted bunks, a small stove, and a smaller ice chest. Shayne raised one of the bunks, moved the fat man underneath, and lowered the bunk again. The clutter of stolen equipment around him would keep him from rolling.

“Well, I don’t get it,” Frieda said, “but unless we want to meet those police cars on the highway-”

“We’re going out the back door.”

He pointed at the dirt road the others had used. At the gate, she paused briefly while Shayne looked at the lock. It had been clipped off with bolt cutters. They drove on. Seeing the first revolving light behind her, she braked sharply and cut her own headlights.

“You better drive, Mike,” she said after a moment. “I can’t see a thing.”

“I’ll lead you.”

He found a small pencil flash in the glove box. Jumping down, he set off at a fast walk. When they reached a line of trees, he came back in the van and she turned on the lights.

Almost at once, they came to the empty tow truck, abandoned at the side of the road.

“Here’s where they changed cars,” Shayne said. “Don’t stop. I want to be back on a paved road before they start talking about us on the shortwave.”

“Next time we rob a construction site,” Frieda said, “let’s take a payloader. They’d make lovely pets.”

With its heavy load, the van was giving them a surprisingly stable ride. Sometimes, even on pavement, it had a slight tendency to wander. The road gradually improved, skirting the Homestead Air Base, and came out on Route 1.

“Now can we talk?” Frieda said, relaxing. “I think I’m beginning to see the idea. Canada’s gone. So is a lot of their portable equipment. What the real kidnappers are going to think-”

“Right. That wasn’t a rescue, but a hijacking. According to Tim, there’s been some pretty heavy pilfering going on. They’ll think the regular thieves were working tonight, saw what was happening to Canada, and decided on the spur of the moment to move in. But this was a well-planned operation. When Canada didn’t cooperate, they reacted nicely. They’ve probably got the ransom note written, all their arrangements made. They’ve been thinking about how they’re going to invest all that money. I don’t think they’ll give up as long as they think there’s a chance to recover. If they can find out who’s been doing the stealing-”

“They’ll try a hijack in reverse, and we’ll be there waiting for them. Clever. But how will they know anything’s missing? They were already gone when you did all that.”

“A couple of angles I haven’t told you about yet. They already kidnapped one guy and killed him-a loan shark named Eddie Maye. Eddie’s wife told us he was being followed by a cop. How big a cop we don’t know, but he must have been fairly big because Eddie was lying awake worrying about him. That voice on the bullhorn sounded pretty professional, a cop’s voice. He’ll be talking to the sheriff. And then he’ll ask around-who’s been doing the stealing out here?”

Werner peeled off his goalie’s mask and slapped it against the dashboard.

“Strictly according to plan. Everything taken care of. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Now don’t bug me, boy,” Downey warned. “I’ve taken all the shit from you I’m going to take. I’ve had the full quota.”

“Stop it,” Pam said, but her tone showed that she didn’t expect anybody to pay attention to her.

Werner had torn the sweat shirt back from his shoulder wound. One look had told Downey that the bullet had nipped in and out without catching anything but flesh and muscle. But naturally the boy thought he was on the point of dying.

Downey brought the tow truck to a sliding stop where they had left the cars. “Go straight to the Heights house,” he said curtly. “I’ll be with you in an hour, probably.”

“We won’t wait up,” Werner said.

“I’m going back in as a police officer and find out what’s going on. Something funny, I can guarantee you that.”

“No more!” Werner shouted, suddenly furious. “We’ve had enough, do you understand?”

“Come on, we have to talk about it.”

“No more!” Werner shouted again. “You shit head, you know what you did? You nearly got us all killed!”

Downey slapped his hand away and started the motor. Didn’t they understand they were like olives in a bottle here? First they had to scatter. Then they had to meet for the post-mortem. They couldn’t leave these loose ends flying around.

He got off fast. They would realize soon enough that they could air their grievances inside four walls, not out here where they might be seen and remembered by a couple of teen-agers who had been to an X-rated movie and were looking for seclusion to do their own screwing.

He heard a police siren. He didn’t believe it at first. How could they know? He listened more intently. That was what it definitely was, a siren, but it came from the Interstate.

Werner, driving like a madman in his Ford, came up behind him, honking, headlights up full. He rode up to Downey’s car and clashed bumpers. On top of everything else, with that shoulder he had to be driving one-handed. A wipe-out here would be good news, wouldn’t it? Downey speeded up to establish an interval, got on a better road, and lost them. They had paid a month’s rent on a house in Miami Heights, back from the bay with trees around it and no close neighbors. They’d be sensible and go there and wait, wouldn’t they? Sure they would.

As a matter of fact, for kids, they had done pretty well. Downey remembered the first time someone had shot at him. He hadn’t liked it much, either. He had hit the pavement so fast he skinned his whole face, the first blood he had lost as a cop. And that reminded him that he was a cop still, with a cop’s privileges. He turned on the police band. A couple of highway cruisers were talking to each other. A robbery? Robbery, hell. That was a snatch, man, interrupted by persons unknown, one armed with a gun, one with a payloader.

He slowed down until he was barely crawling. The dispatcher had pulled off one of the cars to look for a tow truck. That worried Downey. How would they know about a tow truck unless somebody saw it, and in that case what else had they seen? Of course, the masks had still been on then. Coming to a full stop on the shoulder, he felt for the pint bottle in his glove compartment. As a matter of fact, he was damn tired. For the last couple of weeks, he had been working full-time at a regular job and full-time on this. He had had to do all the planning, all the psychology. The size of the stake had added to the strain. His two colleagues, he was discovering, were far from being the most transparent people in the world. With Pam especially, he could never be sure what she was thinking. He impressed her, he knew. At the same time, he had a strong suspicion that she thought he was a bit of a phony.