Dead Money Run (2 page)

C
hapter 4

Th
e
Timucua Indians, at one time, numbered over two hundred thousand, but disease and loss of their hunting grounds condemned them almost to extinction by the early 1700’s. Unlike many of their brothers such as the Seminoles, Cherokee and Creek, the Timucua stayed on their lands. By the time they received the permit to build the casino, less than a thousand of them remained and none of them lived in tepees. But they were Indians and with the passing of The Regulatory Gaming Act, they had the right to control their destiny. And, though they were riding high, they still relied on the white man to run the casinos, provide the slot machines, gaming tables and everything else necessary for a casino to make money.

T
he Golden Slipper Casino and Resort was built on land that had been Federal property. Because of some entangled legal issues with people who claimed ownership of the Island and opposed the construction of a casino, it took a few years to get the necessary permits to build the Casino. After a lengthy legal battle, the Government, anxious to amend their many wrongs in their relationship with the American Indian, won out in the end and the Indians got their casino. However, Timucua’s right to use the property was subject to a ninety-nine year lease with the U.S. Department of the Interior.

A
fter my arrest, I felt like the Indians. I had little hope. The real owners of the Casino were a tangled mess of corporations controlled by some government bureaucrats and mobbed up sharpies from Las Vegas and they wanted their money back or my skin.

The fact of it was
, I had been caught on one of the casino security cameras grabbing bags of money out of a small creek behind the Casino and, with both my partners dead, I became the government’s poster boy on why it was not a good idea to steal from Uncle Sam.

Without
the money to hire a decent lawyer and unwilling to put my fate into the hands of a court appointed legal jockey, I worked out a plea deal for fifteen years that just happened to coincide with the amount of money taken. The prosecutor on the case was less than enthusiastic about taking the deal on the part of the government, but the jurisprudence system being what it was and the fact that the power brokers in the deal did not want to expose their underbelly in the casino operation, the plea agreement went through. Besides, they figured I would make parole in five years, as was the custom, and lead them to the money. I fooled them by taking the whole ride. Having a parole officer with his nose up my ass for the next ten years wasn’t any better than staying in prison as far as I was concerned.

The
good news was that the money was clean. Since it was not from a bank, they never had it poisoned or, what we in the game refer to as, marked. So it was finders, keepers and, me being the finder, I planned on keeping it unless somebody got lucky and took it away from me.

There had been several attempts
to kill me while I was in prison, but a guy named Crusher, who jailed next to my cell, watched my back. A professional wrestler before he turned criminal, he wasn’t called Crusher for nothing. By the time he left, I had worked myself into pretty good shape and most people on the inside left me alone. That didn’t stop them from trying. A couple of guards even gave it a whirl, but I broke both arms on one and the other was in traction for six months and would never walk again without the use of a cane.

Every now and then some detective would
pull me out of general population for a sit down to discuss the advantages of giving up the money. The pitch was always the same. If I cooperated they could make my life inside real sweet and easy. I told him to quit fucking his fist and to leave me alone.

In the end,
I didn’t roll over and give up the money. I figured if I did I would still be in prison and fifteen million dollars poorer. Anyway, once I gave up the money, no matter how tough I thought I was, my life would not be worth an ant’s fart, assuming ants farted. For fifteen years, the money was the only thing keeping me alive.

Then there was my sister. I was looking forward to se
eing her again and patching up any issues between us. News of her death ended all of that.

I’m not sure finding out who killed my sister was as i
mportant to me as finding out why she was killed. The two probably went hand in hand, but I knew one thing, my search had to start with Lockman. He didn’t sound like someone who had just lost his significant other when I talked to him. He sounded more like a person looking for another meal ticket. Fifteen million dollars brought a lot of predators to the surface and I had him marked as one of them.

In prison I was considered to be tougher than most
, but there were rules in a prison that offered some protection. On leaving prison, I was entering the outside where there were no rules. Now, I was going to learn how tough I really was.

I needed
two things, a plan and a starting place. Looking for my sister’s killer and Jacksonville Beach sounded like as good a place as any to fill those bills.

When I received the letter from the Federal Prison Board, advising me of my release date, included in the letter was a list of the do’s and don’ts
of my release. They were simple, really. I was free to travel, unrestricted, anywhere I wanted long as I stayed out of trouble and didn’t violate any gun, liquor or drug laws and not to consort with known criminals. I had planned on taking them seriously until I got the letter about my sister’s death. Now, all bets were off.

Fo
r
economic reasons, the Atlanta Penitentiary was built on the south side of Atlanta and transportation from the area was limited.

W
hen I walked out of the prison’s East Gate, I stood for a moment, looking first one way and then the other. Leaning up against a late model Lincoln Town Car was a big shot who looked like he had been raised on prison food. I didn’t take him for a cop because he was dressed in expensive clothes. For the price of his suit alone, I could have bought a car.

“You look like you could use a ride
,” he said, leaning on the Town Car.

It was
n’t a question, so I ignored him. He had a persistent look to him.

“I said, ‘you look like you could use a ride.’”

“What gives you that idea?” I said.

Raising
his right hand, he put his thumb up like he was looking for a ride, “One, you’re standing at the East Gate of the Atlanta Pen.” Then he extended his forefinger, “Two, this is the gate they usually let the prisoners exit from when they get out of the joint.” Next he popped his middle finger up. “And three, you ain’t got no car.”

“You sound like a man who speaks from experience,” I said.

He was smiling now like a cat about to eat a canary.

“Look, let’s try and make this as easy as possible. Are you getting in the car or do we have to make this hard?”

On the word ‘hard’, the rear car door opened behind the passenger side of the car. A dude the size of a gorilla on steroids exited the car. His face looked like it had gone fifteen rounds with a meat grinder and lost. The amount of scar around his eyes was so thick he had to keep blinking to see. Dressed in suit that had that slept in look, there was one thing you didn’t miss. On his feet he had the largest pair of Nikes I had ever seen.

“Do I look that stupid to you
, asshole? Here’s my answer.” I shot him a bird.

“
Enough of the hand signals. You were dumb enough to get caught. Now let’s see how smart you got while you were in the can.”

In one motion,
the canary swallower pushed off the Lincoln and unbuttoned his coat like he had plenty of practice.

“I got it,” I said. “You guys are part of a circus. You in the blue suit, you’re a stand in for Rudy Kazzuti and the fat one dressed in the roof tarp, he’s a fill in for Bimbo the Elephant. When does the tumbling act start?”

“
Fuck you wise guy,” said Bimbo. Those were probably the only four words he knew.

“
I take it this is the hard part,” I said.

“Just
the way you like it, Lou,” said canary man.

I was concentrating so hard I did not hear the door open behind me, just a voice.

“Mr. Malloy?”

O
ne of the prison guards was standing in the doorway with a paper bag in his hand.

“Yes,” I said.

“You forgot your valuables.”

Walking
to where the guard was standing, I took the paper bag from him. I felt like kissing him.

“Everything al
l right here?” he asked.

“Yeah,
” I said over my shoulder. “These gents just need directions to the circus. Maybe you could give them some help?”

M
y wallet was inside the bag and the two, one hundred dollar bills that I had on me when I entered the prison fifteen years ago, were still in the sack where I left them.

Looking at
the canary swallower, I said, “Everything is good if I can get you to call a cab for me.”

“
That’s the least I can do after fifteen years, Mister Malloy,” said the guard.

I never knew the guard’s name, but
when he came back to tell me a cab was on its way, the menagerie had gotten in their car. The canary swallower had started the engine and raced it a few times just to prove he had one. Then he made a U-turn in the street squealing the tires as Bimbo shot me a bird or his IQ. I didn’t know which and he probably didn’t either. When I turned around to thank the guard, he too had left. A few minutes later a cab pulled up and I got in. I told the cab driver to take me to the nearest Greyhound Bus station. My plan for the day was to buy a one-way ticket to Jacksonville Beach. I didn’t think I had seen the last of the circus team, but I didn’t care either.

While
in the cab, I took off my left shoe and sock. I stuffed the two hundreds under my foot and put my sock back on and then the shoe. It was a prison trick. Carrying money around in prison was never easy. Some guys went to the extreme of keeping their money in a small stainless steel tube and shoving it up their rear with a string attached so they could remove it when they had to. For me, the sock trick was more my style.

A
t
the bus station, I caught a break. The bus out of Atlanta was an express to Jacksonville. The downside was to get to Jacksonville Beach I had to take a local.

It was
two in the morning when the bus arrived at the Pearl Street bus station in Jacksonville. All I had in my pocket was the thirty-five dollars left from the hundred the prison had given me and the two, one hundred dollar bills under my left foot. Looking around the bus terminal, besides being tired, I felt a little lost.

“You need a ride.”

Turning around I saw a girl who looked to be about fifteen years old. No, make that eighteen.

“Wh
o were you expecting to see, Stanley?” she dead panned. I was so tired I wasn’t sure of the answer.

“
My name is not Stanley,” I said.

“Please bore me with the details,” she said.

“I need a
place to sleep and a way to get to Jacksonville Beach,” I said.

“I can do that. What’s your name? Mine’s Hilary
Kelly.”

I refocused my eyes and took a
closer look. The girl was really a woman and who could pass for eighteen about ten years ago. She had crow’s feet at the corners of each eye and her complexion had seen more than its share of sun. Pulled down in front of her face was a floppy hat that made it difficult to get a good look at her. She looked attractive, in a cute sort of way. Besides, I was tired and had nothing to lose.

“Mine’s Lou Malloy. Pleased to meet you, Hilary. You got a car or are you on foot.”

“Motorcycle. You okay with that?”

“Sure.” In for a penny, in for a pound my old Pappy used to say.

I had never ridden on the back of a motorcycle before. It was an interesting experience. The little Honda bike didn’t have a sissy bar to hold on to, so I had to wrap my hands around Hilary’s waist to keep from falling backwards. The little bike had more kick than I thought it would.

It had been
over fifteen years since I had been with a woman and, back then, I was just getting started. Holding onto her waist, I could feel her body flex with each turn and acceleration. I fought off the sexual experience. As she accelerated into each turn, she seemed to sense my arousal and leaned into me making things worse, but I worked my mind into thinking of something else. After about ten minutes we turned into a small court with twelve small trailers in it. Three trailers down, she stopped the bike in front of one that had seen better days.

“Okay.
We are here,” she said, bringing the bike to a stop.

Here was not much.
Someone had taken a can of silver spray paint and sprayed it on the outside to cover up some of the rust. The park was the size of a hundred by one fifty foot lot with hook-ups for the trailers. However, at two in the morning, I couldn't be sure of anything. I stood by the front door waiting for Hilary to unlock it. After she did, she stepped back and with the sweep of her hand, ushered me inside. Reaching around the door, she turned a light on. Inside, everything was built in. I was surprised by its compactness and how clean it was. Dropping my bag on the floor, I sat down on the couch. I was so tired my mind was a blank. I had some questions, but they would wait until later. Sitting down was the last thing I remembered.

In my dream, I was
talking with my sister. She was telling me how glad she was to see me and the plans she had for us. Said she wanted us to be like a family. I didn't remember what I said, probably nothing. After fifteen years, what was there to say? I tried to touch her and got a sense of falling toward her. She was smiling and reaching out for me when I felt movement around me.

In prison
, I learned early not to react too quickly to things stirring around me until I knew what was happening. Opening my eyes, I saw Hilary in a chair across the room with my bag opened on her lap. She was looking through it like a person who had searched bags before in a slow and methodical way.

With one swift
motion, I came off the couch and, swinging my right arm, hitting her on the side of the head, knocking her to the floor. She let out a scream and I hit her again. This time she didn’t make a sound. She just lay on the floor, looking up at me.

“What the hell do you think you
’re doing?” I yelled. She kept looking at me without saying a word.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“Trying to find out who you really are.”

“I told you. I’m Lou Malloy and I am an ex-con. I don’t have much more to add to that. Now it’s your turn.”

“I told you. I’m a student.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You have just one more chance then its lights out.”

I waited as she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them like a school girl waiting for her turn on the trampoline. Finally her eyes dilated and, taking a deep breath, said, “Okay. I’m not in school, but the part about being a friend of your sister is true. She told me all about you. The robbery, your being in prison and that you were getting out soon. She even told me the day you were getting out. I figured there was an eighty percent chance that you would come to Jacksonville on a bus. A friend of mine works for the Greyhound Bus Company and they are just like the airlines. When you bought your ticket he gave me the heads up and the rest was easy.”

“How
could my sister know when I got out? I didn’t even know until after I learned of her death?”

Nothing.

“You better start talking,” I said.

“I don’t know, she just did.”

“What if someone was meeting me when I got off the bus?”

“If someone
was meeting you then they would have met you when you got out of prison. I figured the odds were pretty good that you would be alone. If someone met you at the bus station then I planned to move on. It was no skin off my nose. Besides, I figured I had nothing to lose.”

“Yeah, you d
id,” I said.

“What?”

“Your life.”