Chapter Six

Buddy said he forgot she had a piece^[105] in there even saw her throw it back in the trunk when she brought out the shotgun. He said to Foley they may as well leave her, what was the difference where?

It was already set in Foley’s mind^[106] she was going with them.

He wasn’t finished talking to her. He wanted to sit down with her in a nice place and talk like regular people. Start over, let her get a look at him cleaned up. Even if he had time he wouldn’t be able to explain why he wanted to talk to her some more, that wasn’t clear in his mind, so all he said was, “She’s going with us.”

Buddy gave him a funny look, a frown. He said, “Jesus Christ, what were you doing in there? I can understand you need to get laid, but you have Adele, don’t you?”

“Get the shotgun,” Foley said, “and her purse. I’d like to know who she is.”

“I already looked,” Buddy said. “Her name’s Karen Sisco.”

Headlights would come at them from the direction of West Palm and they’d keep to the narrow space between the car and the overpass. A sheriff’s green and-white car went screaming past, then another one and another, a string of green-and-whites in the space of a minute, going out to chase after escaped convicts.

When the road quieted down Foley stepped up to the Chevy’s trunk, keeping to the side of it, and banged on the sheet metal once with his fist.

“Karen? Be a good girl now, you hear? I’m gonna let you out.”

Foley jumped at the sound of a pistol shot, the bullet ripping through metal.

He yelled at her, “You’re putting holes in your car!” and looked up to see Buddy, with the shotgun and a black leather handbag, staring at him.

Foley took a moment to settle down before saying, “We’re not leaving you. I’m gonna open the trunk enough for you to throw the gun out. Okay? You shoot – Buddy’s got your shotgun, he says he’ll shoot back if you do and I can’t stop him. So it’s up to you.”

Foley put his hand out and Buddy, still looking at him funny, gave him the keys.

They heard a voice yell “Hey!” Not from the trunk, a clear sound coming from somewhere above them.

“It’s me, Glenn.”

They looked up to see a figure, head and shoulders against the evening sky, leaning on the rail.

“Hey, Jack, good to see you, man. The fuck’re you guys shooting at?”

Buddy raised his voice saying, “We’ll be there in a minute.”

“I don’t mean to complain,”^[107] Glenn said, “but you know how long I’ve been here? Florida Highway Patrol comes by and I’m fucked.”

Foley looked at Buddy.

“Do we need him?”

“Three green-and-whites saw us,” Buddy said. “One of ’em starts thinking, What’s that car doing there? Ties it to the break and turns around… We got to get out of here.”

Foley walked back to the Chevy and banged on the trunk.

“You coming out?”

He stuck the key in the lock, standing right in front of the trunk, and turned to Buddy. Buddy walked up to the trunk and racked the pump on the shotgun^[108]. Foley said, “You hear that?”

He turned the key and raised the trunk lid.

Karen, hunched in there, extended her arm, her hand holding the Sig Sauer.

She said, “You win, Jack^[109].”

Buddy gave him another funny look.

If he leaned out over the rail Glenn could see part of the open trunk, Foley reaching a hand in to help someone get out.

Jesus, a girl. Standing by the car now smoothing her skirt, touching her hair.

Now they were crossing the ditch; he wouldn’t see them again until they came up the slope. Or, she worked at the prison and Foley grabbed her, used her as a shield going out.

Glenn thought about it returning to the car he’d left on the grassy side of the road, trouble lights^[110] blinking just in case.

Or, Buddy brought her for Foley and he couldn’t wait, gave her a jump^[111] in the trunk of the car. Not in the backseat with Buddy watching. It was a possibility.

Glenn had gotten to know them at Lompoc USP. Buddy asked him what he was doing and Glenn said networking, trying to find out who he should know and who he should stay away from. Buddy said he meant how much time was he doing. Oh, two to five, Glenn said, for grand theft auto. What he told them was he stole Porsche and Mercedes top of-the-line models he picked up on special order and delivered anywhere in the U. S. with clean titles^[112]. See if that impressed them.

Foley said between him and Buddy they’d boosted three to four hundred cars in their time, but never sold any or kept them for more than a couple of hours.

These were cool guys, both fairly tall and stringy, Buddy with dark curly hair that was always slicked back – he kept a comb in his pocket. Foley’s light-brown hair was short and thick enough he could do okay combing it with his fingers. They didn’t seem in great shape – they’d rather watch than work out^[113] – but both had that hard-boned look, like they’d worked construction or in oil fields all their lives instead of robbing banks. Easygoing but looked you right in the eye when you spoke to them or they had something to say.

Glenn stayed close to them and was never seriously approached by any perverts or butt fuckers^[114]. Foley said, “Don’t take it up ’less you think you might like it.” Buddy said, “What you do, just say no, then kill the guy.”

Glenn believed they let him hang around because he was from L. A., West Hollywood, he knew what was happening. He’d tell them stories about when he was in the car-dealing business and got laid a lot: how he’d work on cars at these multimillion-dollar homes in Beverly Hills and wait for the lady of the house to make the move^[115]. Get asked in for a cold drink, a dip in the pool? It happened, man, more often than you’d think, couple of times even with movie stars.

This was when they started calling him Studs^[116].

One day in the yard Glenn said, “I’m gonna tell you guys something only one other person here knows about. I was originally at FPC, the camp over there? And was transferred here with another guy for trying to escape.”

“You know Maurice Miller in the boxing program they call Snoopy^[117]? Fights lightweight? He was at FPC^[118] doing a gig^[119] for fraud, I think credit cards. Anyway, we went out one night jogging, like Snoopy’s doing road work and I’m his trainer. We made it almost all the way to Vandenberg and got picked up by air base MP^[120] s. They thought we were awol^[121].

“I knew if we didn’t make it Snoopy and I’d get sent here or some other joint. But at the time I didn’t worry about getting caught. See, what happened, I got next to a guy over at FPC doing three years on a felony conspiracy^[122] thing, strictly white collar. He got the three years and was fined fifty million dollars and wrote ’em a check. Like that, fifty mil, signed his name.”

Foley said, “One of the Wall Street scammers,” and he was right. He said, “I remember reading about the guy. Went up for insider trading^[123]. Paid off snitch brokers to give him information on stock deals before they went down.”

“That’s basically what he did,” Glenn said, “made a fortune^[124].”

“Everybody thought the guy was a genius,” Foley said, “till they found out he made it the old-fashioned way, he stole it.”

“Anyway,” Glenn said, “here’s a multimillionaire making eleven cents an hour mopping floors, sweeping the tennis courts. Guy that used to be on the phone he said eighteen hours a day, had over a hundred extensions in his office, now has to stand in line to make a call. But the thing I’m getting at, the guy loved to talk.”

“Yeah, to the U. S. attorney,” Foley said.

“He blew the whistle on all the snitches^[125] he was doing business with and got ’em brought up^[126]. I can’t think of the guy’s name.”

Glenn waited.

And Foley said, “Ripley. Richard Ripley. Called Dick the Ripper^[127] on account of how he ripped off the stock market. Big good-looking guy.”

“He was vain, though. What he talked about most of the time, was himself, and I listened. I was all ears.^[128] See, my bunk was right above his. I was polite, I played kiss-ass to a degree, I’d stand in the phone line for him; we’re out gardening I’d do the stoop work^[129]…

All this time he’s talking about what a high roller^[130] he is and I’m taking it all in. I learn he’s got money in foreign banks, plus, around five mil in hard cash, plus, loose diamonds and gold coins. The man actually told me, five mil in cash. Nothing to it.”^[131]

Foley said, “He keeps it at home?”

Buddy said, “Yeah, where’s the guy live?”

Glenn hesitated and Foley said, “He must’ve been getting out soon.”

“He’s out now. It was in the paper.”

“But you didn’t make it,” Foley said, “you and Snoopy.”

“Maurice happens to live in Detroit, the same place Ripley has his home. And he knows the Motor City.”

“So does Buddy,” Foley said, “if a guide’s all you need.”

Neither one of them showing much interest, that time in the yard at Lompoc USP^[132], five years ago.

Glenn got his release and moved to Florida, second only to California in the number of cars stolen.

He tried to keep in touch with the bank robbers, still at Lompoc, wrote to them a few times but never heard back, not a word. So when Buddy called a few weeks ago it came as a total surprise.

Buddy saying it was a small world: he’d just arrived in Florida and Foley was here, at GCI^[133] the past five months. The way Buddy put it, “He don’t like it there and sees a way to bust out. If you aren’t doing anything, you want to drive one of the cars? Take a few hours of your time is all.”

Glenn said, well, he’d been up to Detroit on a deal, but at the moment was free. He said, “Yeah, I think I can make it.”

You had to be as cool as these guys.

“How about if I go see Foley?” Glenn said. “You talk to him, see if he remembers Dick the Ripper. I’d still like you guys to go in with me. You think you might be interested?”

Buddy didn’t comment right out and say if they would or not.

Glenn had seen him three times since that phone call. At a bar in West Palm near Glenn’s apartment. A hotel in Miami Beach where Foley’s ex-wife lived. Adele. About forty but not bad looking. And the third time when Buddy drove him out to Glades Correctional, showed the route he’d take once he had Foley in the car, and where Glenn would be waiting with the second car.

Right here with the Audi parked off to the side of the turnpike, trouble lights blinking, a note stuck in the side window that said GONE TO GET GAS^[134], Glenn waiting now among pines and palmettos a good fifty feet from the car. If any approaching headlights turned out to be a trooper, Glenn would be out of there, through the trees and down the grade^[135] – about where they should be coming up now, with the girl Foley must’ve used as a hostage. But what good was she doing him now? He should’ve left her in the trunk of the car.

A few more minutes passed before he heard them coming.