Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

We were going to get away with the loot, but if there was electronic paper swirling in the slipstream, our lives would be forever less enjoyable and free. Crossing a state line doesn’t do much good anymore. International boundaries put distance and probability on the criminal’s side but don’t block pursuit. Except in a few remote countries that don’t have extradition treaties with the U.S., modern fugitives can never really relax. There is always the fear of a hand on the shoulder from behind.

Part of my mind started to catalogue which countries lacked treaties and how long a couple of hundred thousand dollars would last in a comfortable adobe. But I caught myself and shut down the mental travel agency to concentrate on the present moment. First things first: I had to make sure we did actually get away before worrying about the fugitive future.

Back at the hotel, we valeted the car to get it out of sight and went up to the room. It was perfumed with the bergamot scent of the hotel’s expensive shampoo and lotion. Wrapped in a fluffy white robe, Mary was curled up in an easy chair by the French doors that opened onto the balcony, bent over a book that lay open in her lap. She looked faintly mermaid-like with her long damp blond hair hanging down and the blue sea splashing on the shore behind her.

“Rob!” she said when we came in.

“What?”

“I found out how Baba knew all those things about Evelyn’s daughter.”

“How?”

“This is her diary!” She hurried across the room, holding out the leather-bound volume we found in Baba’s desk.

“Is her name in it?”

“No,” Mary said, “but look, it mentions the things you said Baba talked about-restaurants in San Francisco, a ranch where she used to go horseback riding with her mom… what her father did to her.”

She was standing close beside me, flipping through the pages to show me passages she had marked. The tops and bottoms of the pages were water stained and deteriorated but the middle sections were legible. The entries were in both ink and pencil. The handwriting was a loopy, girlish script that deteriorated in places to a scrawl.

“See there, where she mentions Kelly? Evelyn told you that was the name of her daughter’s baby, right?”

“That’s what she said.”

Turning the yellowed pages, I saw that she was right. The notebook, which looked like it had lain someplace damp and dirty for a long time, was the diary of Evelyn’s daughter and the source of Baba’s mysterious information.

“Who is this ‘he’ Christina keeps mentioning?”

“I think that’s the baby,” Mary said. “She says how beautiful he is and how much she loves him and wants to protect him.”

“But I thought Christina’s baby was a girl.”

“Kelly can be a boy’s name, too. Did Evelyn tell you it was a girl?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember her saying that, but she showed me a picture of a baby dressed in pink…”

“Who gives a shit what the baby was wearing?” Reggie interjected. “We can buy it a blue bonnet and a binkie on our way out of town. Right now we gotta figure out the next move.”

“It’s figured,” I said. “Just hold on a second.”

I turned to the last entry in the diary, dated July 4, 1984. Scanning the final few scrawled pages, I felt a seismic shift in my psyche. As the mental landscape re-formed, I saw a way out of our legal difficulties open up like a pass between two distant hills.

“What do you want to know?” I asked Reggie.

“How quick can we fence the loot?”

“I’ll call Fahim right now and let him know I’m coming. I doubt if he has enough cash on hand, but he should be able to get it within a few hours. We’ll drop the jewels and coins off there this afternoon.”

“We going back to the flop to get our shit or splittin’ from here?”

“Anything there you can’t live without?”

“Nada.”

“Then we leave from here. We’ll have plenty of money to replace anything we leave behind.”

“Where we going?”

“South of the border.”

“The cops gonna be on our tail?”

I looked my partner in the eye. “Right now, I’d say they are after two guys from Sacramento who are supposed to be staying at the Georgian, but by the time they get done with their interviews in a day or two they may be looking for me and you.”

Reggie gave me deadpan for a few seconds, then shrugged.

“We’ll be long gone by then,” he said and smiled a smile that reflected torchlight, tequila, and dark-eyed señoritas.

I turned to Mary. “I was hoping you’d come with us.”

She sprang into my arms. “I was afraid you weren’t going to ask.”

We kissed long and lusciously. When I slipped my hand beneath her robe, Reggie made an annoyed sound.

“All right, you two,” he said with a sour look. “That’s enough of the lovey-dovey routine. Get it in gear.”

Mary went into the bathroom to put her pants and shirt back on while Reggie walked out onto the balcony and stood at the railing with his back to the room, looking toward the ocean. I called Fahim.

“It sounds like a most valuable item,” he said. “The same stones as in the earrings?”

“Pink diamonds,” I said, “but better.”

“Ah! Come at two-thirty. I will be ready for you.”

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past one.

“See you then.”

I called the valet desk and told them to bring the Seville around, then packed the stuff from Baba’s desk in Mary’s suitcase. I put the jewel case in my pocket and stuck the Tomcat back in my belt under my shirttail. A few minutes later, the three of us were strolling calmly through the richly appointed lobby and out into the portico, where the Caddie was idling.

Rather than cruise the cop-infested streets of Santa Monica, I took the 10 east to the 405 and drove north to Wilshire. We had lunch at a sub shop in Westwood, then rolled along Wilshire into Beverly Hills. It was 2:25 p.m. when I pulled up at a meter a couple of blocks from Fahim’s shop and parked in the shade of a banyan tree. The banyan is sacred in the Hindu religion, its ever-expanding branches representing eternity. It is called kalpavriksha, “divine wish-fulfilling tree.” It felt lucky to park beneath it.

“You guys wait here,” I told Mary and Reggie. “Fahim doesn’t like strangers.”

Taking the canvas bag of coins from the suitcase, I walked away through the dappled sun and shade beneath the queen palms that lined the avenue. A well-to-do breeze stroked my forehead, cheeks, and bare forearms like an endless bolt of silk unrolling.

Fahim examined the necklace as he had the earrings, running his various tests. It took all of his savoir faire to keep from showing his excitement.

“Quality as always,” he said. “May I ask how heated the item is?”

“How hot?”

“Yes.”

“Very hot. I wouldn’t even try to move the individual stones in Los Angeles.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Robert.”

He offered me $100,000, citing the difficulty of disposing of something so notorious. I scoffed and countered with $150,000, mentioning Evelyn’s jeweler’s $500,000 estimate of the necklace’s value. Very shortly we settled on a price of $120,000. He paid full value for the Krugerrands, minus a 10-percent handling fee. At the day’s quote, that came to another $22,600. He had all of the money on hand, in hundreds and fifties, and provided a sturdy leather briefcase with a combination lock to carry it in. It took all of my savoir faire to keep a calm demeanor in the presence of that much cash.

I wrote the combination on a piece of paper and put it in my wallet and shook hands with Fahim. We walked from the back room through the shop, past a lady in a mink jacket who was being shown an emerald ring by Fahim’s daughter.