John Grisham - The Racketeer

“Wow,” he says. “Sorry.”

They’re facing each other through a screen door, neither in a hurry to leave. Over his shoulder he says, “Hey, Tommy, over here.” Tommy arrives at the front door in a rush and can’t believe his eyes.

Vanessa says, “Come on, guys, give us some privacy here, okay? Nathan’s in the shower and we’re not finished with our business. Who shall I tell him stopped by?” She then realizes that in her haste she forgot to remove the latex gloves. Red panties, aquamarine gloves.

Neither can take his eyes off her breasts. One says, “Uh, Greg and Tommy, we, uh, were just sorta passing by.” Both are entranced by her nakedness and baffled by the gloves. What on earth has this gal been doing with our buddy?

“I’ll be happy to tell him,” she says with a cute smile as she slowly closes the door. Through the window she watches as they back away, still slack-jawed and confused. They finally get to their truck, climb in, and start laughing as they leave the driveway.

After they’re gone, Vanessa fixes a glass of ice water and sits at the kitchen table for a few moments. She’s rattled and ready for a meltdown but cannot afford one. She’s sick of the house and has serious doubts about the entire project. But she has to go on.

I’m in the back of a cab headed for the airport when I see the call. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes imagining various scenes and conflicts inside Nathan’s house, none of them with good endings. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes, just a couple of rednecks looking for Nathan. I got rid of them.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Did they see you?”

“Oh yes. It’s cool. We’re fine. Where’s the stuff?”

“Out back, in the storage shed. I’ll stay on the phone.”

“Okay.” Vanessa checks the driveway once more to make sure there are no more visitors, then hurries out the back door and to the storage shed. The dog is growling and barking frantically, and I can hear him clearly in Jamaica.

I cannot make myself warn her about the snakes, so I silently pray that she does not encounter them. Digging through a grungy outbuilding is bad enough; throw in the snakes and she might freak out and disappear. When she steps into the shed, she describes the interior. She says it’s like an oven. I relay Nathan’s instructions, and we sign off. She’ll need both hands.

She moves two empty paint thinner cans, kicks aside a burlap bag, pushes the Sears mower as far away as possible, lifts a sheet of plywood, and finds a rope handle. It’s stuck, so she yanks it harder and harder until the door opens. There are no hinges, so the entire trapdoor bolts from the floor and falls against the wall. Under it, on the ground, as advertised, is a soiled bronze casket no more than four feet in length. Vanessa gawks at it in horror, as if she has stumbled upon a crime scene and found some poor child’s body. But there is no time for fear or second-guessing, no time to ask, What in hell am I doing here?

She tries to lift the casket, but it is too heavy. She finds the latch, twists, and half of the top lid opens slowly. Mercifully, there is no dead baby inside. Far from it. Vanessa pauses to study the collection of small wooden cigar boxes all sealed with a band of silver duct tape and for the most part stacked in rows. Sweat is dripping from her eyebrows and she tries to swipe at it with a forearm. Carefully, she removes one of the boxes and steps outside under the shade of an oak. Glancing around, seeing no one, nothing but the dog, who’s tired of barking and growling, Vanessa peels off the tape, opens the box, and slowly removes a layer of wadded newspaper.

Mini-bars. Little bricks. Dominoes. An entire casket full of them. Millions upon millions.

She removes one and examines it. A perfect rectangle, not quite a half inch thick, lined with a tiny border ridge that allows for precise stacking and storage. On the front side is stamped “10 ounces.” And under that: “99.9 %.” And nothing else-no bank name, no indication of where it came from or who mined it. No registration number.

Using a prepaid credit card, I pay $300 for an Air Jamaica flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico. It leaves in an hour, so I find a bench near my gate and kill time, staring at my cell phone. Before long, it lights up and vibrates.

Vanessa says, “He’s not lying.”

“Talk to me.”

“Love to, baby. We now own eighteen cigar boxes filled with these gorgeous little gold mini-bars, haven’t counted them all yet, but there must be at least five hundred.”

I take a deep breath and feel like crying. This project has been on the drawing board for over two years, and during most of that time the odds of a successful outcome were at least a thousand to one. A series of loosely connected events had to fall perfectly into place. We’re not yet at the finish line, but we are in the homestretch. I can smell the barn.

“Between five hundred and six hundred,” I say, “according to our boy.”

“He’s earned the right to be trusted. Where are you?”

“At the airport. I bought a ticket, made it through Customs, and I’ll board in an hour. So far, no problems. Where are you?”

“I’m leaving this dump. I’ve loaded up the good stuff and put everything back in its place. The house is locked.”

“Don’t worry about the house. He’ll never see it again.”

“I know. I gave his dog a whole sackful of food. Maybe someone will check on him.”

“Get away from that place.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Just follow the plan and I’ll call when I can.”

It’s almost eleven, Sunday morning, July 24, a hot clear day with little traffic around Radford. Vanessa wants to avoid another encounter with anyone who might see Nathan’s pickup truck and get suspicious. She heads north on the interstate, past Roanoke, into the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, driving as cautiously as humanly possible with the needle stuck on seventy miles per hour and every lane change properly telegraphed with a turn signal. She watches the rearview mirror because it’s now such a habit, and she watches every other vehicle to avoid any chance of a collision. On the passenger’s floorboard, and on the seat next to her, there is literally a fortune in gold, a fortune in unmarked and untraceable ingots freshly stolen from a thief who stole them from a crook who took them from a gang of thugs. How could she explain such a collection of precious metal to a nosy state trooper? She could not, so she drives as perfectly as possible as the 18-wheelers roar by in the left lane.

She exits at a small town and drifts until she finds a cheap dollar store. The banner across the front windows advertises pre-back-to-school specials. She parks near the entrance and spreads a soiled blanket, taken from Nathan’s, over the cigar boxes. She puts the Glock under a corner of the blanket, next to her, and analyzes the parking lot. It’s virtually empty on a Sunday morning. Finally, she takes a deep breath, gets out, locks the truck, and hurries inside. In less than ten minutes, Vanessa buys ten kids’ backpacks, all with a Desert Storm camouflage motif. She pays in cash and does not respond when the cashier quips, “Must have a lot of kids heading back to school.”

She shoves her purchases into the cab of the truck and heads back to the interstate. An hour later, she finds a truck stop near Staunton, Virginia, and parks next to the rigs. When she’s certain that no one is watching, she begins to quickly stuff the cigar boxes into the backpacks, two of which are not used.

She fills up the tank, eats lunch from a fast-food drive-through, and kills time roaming up and down Interstate 81, as far north as Maryland and as far south as Roanoke. The hours drag by. She cannot park and leave the jackpot. It has to be guarded at all times, so she flows with the traffic while she waits on darkness.