[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure Read online

  • • •

  His mother had named him Russell, but from the time he was nine, they had started calling him Profit. He had begun as a lookout for the local gang in his south-central Los Angeles’ neighborhood. By the time he was ten he had his own corner, and was moving more crack per day than the dealers twice his age. Despite his chosen profession, Profit had an innocent face, one that he exploited to make people trust him. He looked harmless to the people who cruised through the neighborhood looking for a safe source of rock. The real danger had been the seventeen-year-old with the Tec-9 machine pistol in his coat who Profit paid to watch his back. Two eight-year-old lookouts in both directions, and Russell had all he needed to be a successful businessman. One thing Profit did, that few others in his profession were known to do, was read. Regardless of his lack of schooling—he went only when he wished—he had above average intelligence, and had educated himself by reading everything he could get his hands on.

  By the age of twelve he had realized that the constant battles among the gangs were just plain bad for business. The gangs all had what were called junior members, mostly the little brothers of the current members and Profit begun making alliances with other junior members using his money, brains, and hired muscle. He was patient, and by the time the senior members had killed each other off or gone to prison he was ready to unite several rivals into one highly organized gang.

  With competition no longer a worry, the money grew exponentially, and in just a few years Profit was living up to his name. When he needed more territory, he simply moved in and took over. He adopted the Columbia Cartel’s methods of expansion. Rivals were offered plomo o plata: lead or silver. Take the money, or get a bullet in the head. Resistance had been cut down swiftly, and after a few examples, most learned it was far easier to just take the money.

  As his kingdom grew, he acquired cops, judges, lawyers, money launderers, and border hoppers. One young D.A. had attempted to take him down, but the response had been the car-jacking of his wife and daughter. After a three-hour ordeal, the man had his family back, and had decided on a new target for his political ambitions. Profit was left alone and continued to prosper.

  He was now twenty-eight years old, the head of the largest gang in LA’s history, and one of the country’s largest drug traffickers. He had branched out into investments and real estate. He owned restaurants and liquor stores, gas stations and dry cleaners. All washing his money from the crack trade. He presented himself as an honest businessman. He partied with the young and famous. Prosecutors were afraid to charge him. Most cops were in his pocket. His enemies were all now partners. Profit was the very example that crime does indeed pay.

  Profit was currently instructing his lady friends on what to pack for his trip to Vegas. He had invested in a young English boxer, and was looking forward to watching his investment pay off.

  • • •

  Sam departed the plane carrying the bag containing his laptop and a few days’ worth of clothes. He was traveling on a new set of ID papers. Ones he had altered his looks to match. As he exited the concourse, he encountered his first slot machine. He had been off the plane for maybe one minute. There were people waiting for their flights, dutifully pumping quarters into the bandits. He just shook his head and proceeded past the crowd waiting for their luggage. Most of what Sam needed was already in Vegas. He headed straight for the Enterprise Rent-A-Car desk. The woman at the counter hardly looked at him. Reserved car, prepaid. Name and address matched the license the man offered. He was soon out in the lot on a shuttle bus, and then in the seat of a one-year-old Dodge with tinted windows and adequate air-conditioning. It would do just fine. He pulled out of the airport and headed toward the strip. It was 1 a.m., and he had a big day awaiting him tomorrow. He drove toward the light of the Luxor Hotel shining like a beacon into the clear night sky.

  • • •

  Profit was in first class with two of his business partners. The row behind him was occupied by two young women in tiny, yet expensive designer dresses. The jewelry that adorned their necks, wrists, and fingers, was not only real, but present in large quantities and designed to be seen. They were ornaments for the man in front of them. Behind the girls were two men who stretched the capacity of the first-class seats they occupied. They had been with Profit for many years and had kept the man alive through several dangerous encounters with all forms of enemies. They were also currently uncomfortable, as they were without their usual hardware. This would change as soon as they met some of the crew who would pick them up at the airport. Until then, they would continue to squirm in their seats.

  Profit was in an expansive mood today, cracking jokes and teasing the flight attendants. He frequently enjoyed a trip to Vegas, and his men had a routine worked out. The hotel would be the MGM Grand, as usual; they had eight rooms reserved for Profit and his crew. Fourth row seats for the fight were also reserved, and hotel security had been notified of some special arrangements—allowances made for certain people who could pay. The crew were driving up in a couple of secure vehicles and bringing the hardware. They would meet them at the airport. They had one night to party before the fight was on; should be a good time.

  • • •

  Sam had no problems at the hotel’s guest check-in. The clerk seemed surprised at the man’s reservation. All the rooms were nice, but this one faced directly across from the MGM, which blocked most of the view of the strip. Hope this guy likes green neon, the clerk thought; it was all Sam was going to see off the balcony. But the Tropicana was still one of the better hotels, and it was right in the middle of the strip. Most people didn’t spend much time in their rooms anyway.

  “You’re all checked in, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, I’m all set, thank you,” Sam replied.

  “Directions? Maybe a wake-up call?”

  “Sure, make it about seven.”

  “Seven o’clock, it is. Elevators are right behind you. Enjoy your stay at the Tropicana.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Sam smiled and walked toward the elevator. He was overdue for his medication. A young couple joined him on the elevator, too engrossed in each other to notice him. He had to clear his throat to get their attention when the elevator reached their floor. The girl smiled at him, and with a giggle dragged the man down to their room.

  “Young couples in love,” Sam voiced to himself. He punched the door-close button.

  The elevator stopped at his floor and he turned to the right to find his room. After a short fight with the key-card, he got the door open and moved directly to the window. The slider opened to a balcony facing the MGM Grand. He counted the floors up and smiled to himself. The room was perfect. He looked around the balcony. A large potted plant was bolted to the floor in one corner. There was plenty of room behind it for the equipment he would have later today. Sam looked up at the roof, then on to the sky. No stars; they were overwhelmed by all the neon.

  I guess I’ll trade for a few days, thought Sam. He could smell the desert. The cool of the desert night would soon pass. Tomorrow would bring heat, in more ways than one. This would be a difficult job: heavy population, his own security, and guys who wouldn’t worry about bystanders. Sam vowed not to let that happen.

  What he was doing was good, wasn’t it? This guy was guilty; guilty one hundred times over. Yet, he was above the law. He hid behind lawyers, and loopholes, and paid-off civil servants. Everyone knew it; yet, they accept it as the way things are. They just accept a system that allows the Profits of the world to exist. Why? Where was the outrage? Where was the cry for justice? Did they fear reprisal, blacklisting, political fallout? Were these justifiable reasons for looking away, for ignoring the obvious? Was everyone so caught up in their own little world that they no longer cared for the big picture? Were reality TV shows and dresses on the red carpet more important than justice? “Justice for all,” the document said. He’d had to memorize it in school. It had become a joke. Sam
was not laughing. If he were successful—if he could get the country’s attention—maybe people would care again. Maybe.

  The pain hit without warning. Sam doubled up and sank to the floor. He bit his tongue before he could stop and kicked his feet against the pain. It went on for a full minute. Sam was finally able to crawl to his bag and retrieve his meds. Another minute and he was in the bathroom. He managed to get them down and keep them there with a minimum of water. What he really needed was some milk. Maybe some crackers, too. He reached for the phone. The Tropicana’s kitchen was open all night.

  • • •

  Sam pulled up to the gate and punched in the code Paul had given him. The gate decided that it was all right to let him in today, so Sam slowly cruised through and turned to the left. As he went by the office, he saw a person’s silhouette at the desk, its feet up, TV on. The shape did not turn its head as he drove by. He followed the signs to unit 32B, a ten by twenty with a full-size garage door.

  He quickly checked to see if he had any company. The aisle was clear, but he could hear voices in the next one over. He looked up at the orange roof of the storage facility. He hoped it reflected at least some of the heat. Technically it was winter, but winter in Las Vegas was still hot and dry. Sam had wisely gotten up early to beat the heat, but it was only 8 a.m., and the temperature was already in the high 80s and climbing. He needed to get moving.

  He left the car running and quickly exited with the key in hand. Sam paused long enough to closely examine the lock. The small bit of wax, which Paul had left on the lock, showed that it had not been picked. The desert dust on the handle and door looked thick. With one more look up and down the aisle, Sam inserted the key and opened the door.

  A blast of cooler air quickly disappeared as the door bounced on its springs. Sam returned to the car and quickly drove it into the unit. The door was soon down and the lock inserted into the hasp to hold it shut from the inside. Only then did Sam turn on the light and examine the contents of the unit left there by his brother-in-law almost a month ago.

  Sam peeled off his T-shirt and picked up a crowbar leaning against the wall. He had the three crates open in about five minutes and compared the contents to the list he had in his head. Paul had even half-assed disguised the place with some old furniture, on the off chance that it would be opened by mistake. He made use of an old chair and a coffee table as he examined the items more closely. A small toolbox contained an electrical tool kit complete with soldering iron and a magnifying lamp. Also a book and some printouts from the Internet to help guide him through the areas he may have problems with. Some servos that Paul had suggested he swap for some higher quality ones; doing so shouldn’t be difficult. He eyeballed the small crate with the red paint on it. It was way more than he needed, but the stuff was only sold in that quantity or larger. He’d leave it in the crate until he was ready for it. He unzipped the nylon cases long enough to see the long guns. He had to smile. Like most men, Sam loved having the right tool for the right job. Paul had a good eye; Sam had taught him well. But these tools were for later; there were things he needed right now.

  Sam dragged the other crates over and pulled out the packaging to get to the items he needed for tonight. He plugged in the laser and ran it through a self-test. It answered him back with a polite beep, telling him it was ready to go. The earphones he adjusted to fit so he could easily pull one side off while keeping the other on his head. He assembled the tripod and mounted the laser to it. Everything was finger tight and would break down quickly. The small monitor had a cord that refused to stay unraveled, and Sam fussed with it for a few minutes. The camera was really no different from the night-vision goggles or the night-scopes he had used in the army. The quality was better, and the addition of the IR capabilities was a definite plus. He hoped that they worked at the range he was using them for. The literature claimed it was within the specs, but you couldn’t always trust the advertising.

  He assembled the camera’s tripod and test-mounted it. Easy. The GPS unit got fresh batteries installed, and it fired right up. He would plug in only the way-points he absolutely needed. Talk about leaving a trail. If he lost the GPS it was better than breadcrumbs if someone wanted to find out where he had been. It would stay on him at all times. The transmitters were perfect. Paul had included six of them; Paul was optimistic. Sam smiled; he would be lucky if he got to use one. The receiver picked up all but one signal from them. He was down to five, but Sam doubted this would be a problem. There were two cell phones, both prepaid, with plenty of minutes, and untraceable. A frequency checker, for any bystanders and himself. He spent a few minutes playing with it to get familiar. The sweat running down his back made him put it down. He opened the bottle of Gatorade he had brought along and drained half of it. He could play with the laser more at the hotel.

  It had to be close to a hundred degrees in here, by now. He stood and took off his pants. He would need them dry when he went back to the hotel. Now clothed in his underwear, he began separating the equipment into two piles.

  When he was done, he reached for the set of golf clubs that were standing in the corner: a new set of Pings. Sam had to smile again at the irony. He didn’t golf, but good old T. Addicot had. He figured if Pings had worked for T., they would work for him. He removed the clubs, and began packing the equipment in the pouches and bottom of the bag. The tripods went in the top, along with the clubs carefully arranged around them. The small monitor would fit in the large shopping bag Paul had provided. He would bring that up to the room after he went looking for the missing equipment this afternoon. Paul had apologized for coming up short on the list, but at least he had been smart and had left off items that Sam could get himself. Sam threw his new clubs in the trunk before pounding the crates back together.

  From the gym bag, he pulled a towel and a can of spray deodorant. He cleaned up best he could before he got dressed and opened the door. Nobody in the aisle. He could see the heat rolling off the blacktop. Good. He replaced the lock in the hasp, and pulled a green zip-tie from his pocket. It was the expensive type with the metal band within the plastic, the same one the police used for cheap handcuffs. You couldn’t just snap this one off as easy; it had to be cut off with a tool. Sam would know if anyone had been in his unit next time he was here.

  He drove out past the office. An elderly woman was smoking a cigarette by the gate. He gave her a quick wave as he drove through, and she waved her Marlboro in return. Sam pulled out the page he had ripped from the phonebook, and checked his destination’s address and name. With the air-conditioning cranked up, he turned east into the morning sun.

  The state of Florida holds 79,594 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 53,327 are repeat offenders.

  —NINE—

  Twenty minutes later, Sam was looking through the plate glass window of a large hobby store. On display was a large selection of model airplanes, remote control cars, and all the related gear. Sam also checked the people inside. One guy was at the counter reading the paper. He was older than Sam by maybe ten years. A thirtyish man and his son were checking out plane engines on the other side of the store; apparently it was a slow day for business.

  The door chimed as he entered the store, and the man looked up from his paper.

  “Hello. Help you find anything today?”

  “Not sure yet. Where do you keep your radios?”

  “Back corner.” He pointed. The man and his son approached with an engine for the latest father-son project. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled at the eager kid before he walked in the direction indicated. Sam saw what he needed as soon as he looked through the display case. A Futaba radio with four servos. Designed for use in model airplanes, the kit came with a powerful radio—one with a very good range—and a collapsing antenna. The standard four-servo kit was enough for the throttle, two ailerons, and the rudder of the average model airplane. Perfect.

  “What
can I do you for?”

  The man had a name tag that read Phil. He looked like a Phil. He had a gentle look about him. If this man had any nieces and nephews, he was undoubtedly the favorite uncle. Probably gave great Christmas presents.

  “Well, I’ve got this nephew who’s into airplanes, and my sister got him a new one for his birthday. Problem she says is he needs another radio for the thing. She told me that this Futaba one right there would be great. Does that sound right to you?”

  Phil’s eyes perked up. A radio kit would make this slow day suddenly a whole lot brighter. Radios were by far the most expensive item he carried. The one the man was indicating was top-of-the-line.

  “Sir, I would say your sister really knows her RC. That is a very good radio.” Phil pulled out his ring of keys and pawed through them to get the one he wanted. “Did she say how many servos the boy needed?”

  “Just four. She knows I tend to go overboard on the gifts, but she said any more would just be a waste,” Sam replied.

  “That’s true. You can get this radio with four or six servos. But if four is all you need, I can certainly fix you up. Lemme open it up and check to see that it’s complete.” Phil opened the box before Sam could protest. He didn’t want any prints on his purchase. But Uncle Phil was an honest man and took care of his customers, so Sam let him inventory the box while he watched.

  “Nothing for yourself today?”

  “No, not really my hobby. Looks like fun, though.”

  “It is addicting, I started in high school and opened this shop after a stint in the air force. Been at it ever since. So’s my boy, those are his trophies on the shelf there.”