BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(46)

“They report the information they’re given.”

He straightened his posture and gave me a confused look. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“When a drug dealer gets busted,” I explained. “The cops display everything that’s seized on a bunch of folding tables. They have a news conference and show the guns, cars, cash and who knows what else. They’ll make it sound better than reality. Last night at just after midnight, a Mister Hector Agriaza was apprehended in his home. Ten million in cash, five million in blow, and a three-million-dollar car collection were seized. You can look at the fruits of their seizure on display. With a deal like this, they simply report what Pat told them was taken.”

“So, you think Pat failed to mention the gold and cash?”

“I know he failed to mention it. He couldn’t claim it, because he doesn’t report it on his taxes. If he reported it, the IRS would say, wait a fucking minute, asshole. You had how much money in cash and gold? You sure as fuck didn’t report it as income.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” He glanced over each shoulder and then leaned toward me. “So, when are you thinking you’ll have a total?”

“As soon as you turds get done with all that jewelry.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ready to say fuck it and toss that shit. Just be done with it. It’s not easy getting all that shit torn apart.”

“It’s worth way too much to toss.”

The four-hundred-ounce gold bars we’d taken had a spot value of over six million dollars. It took the six of us an entire day to sort, categorize, and count the cash, which amounted to over two million. The jewelry was being broken down, separating the gemstones from the gold. The gold would then be melted, making identification of the jewelry impossible.

The gemstones, including diamonds, would be tossed into the ocean. Certified gemstones, contrary to what was depicted in movies, could be traced as easily as a fingerprint.

After the club took its cut of forty percent, each man would be awarded roughly eight hundred thousand dollars. No one would get a cent, however, until the take from the job was totaled, right down to the penny.

He clapped his hands. “I’m wanting to get to that million mark.”

“You’re there,” I said. “And then some.”

“No. I mean in reality. Right now, it’s in theory, or whatever.”

“Has the club ever fucked you out of anything?”

He coughed out a laugh and pushed himself up from his seated position. He folded his arms over his chest and gave me a shitty look. “Yeah.”

I stood and gave him an equally shitty look. “When?”

“The fifty-three thousand dollars you took from me when I accidentally shot at that bitch you’re keeping an eye on.”

I shook my head. “You fucked yourself on that one, Cash.”

“Just like everyone else on this deal, Bake. I’m excited.”

“We’re all excited,” I said. “Don’t worry. It’ll be pretty soon.”

I wasn’t excited. Not at all. Although I’d always found a sense of satisfaction with dispersing the cash to the MC’s members, my recent visit to Andy’s home had me viewing things differently. Seeing her sparsely furnished apartment made it clear that the victims of our robberies went far beyond the reach of the federally insured institutions we victimized.

“What’s the deal with the music?” he asked.

My thoughts had drifted far away from our conversation. I raked my fingers through my hair and looked around the room. “What do you mean?”

He flashed a side-eyed look at the ceiling and then shook his head. “Same fucking song keeps playing. Over and over. Normally it ain’t doing dumb shit like that.”

“Must be something wrong with it,” I said dismissively.

“It was a cool tune the first couple of times it played.” He turned toward the door. “Kinda sick of it now.”

I wasn’t sick of it at all. I went to the window and placed my hands against the cold stone of the ledge. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Who sings it?” he asked from across the room.

I peered down at Andy’s bike and grinned. “I don’t know.”

Then, as Cash pulled the door closed behind him, I allowed the sound of Amos Lee’s music to carry me away.





TWENTY-NINE - Andy





A knock at my door startled me, but not in the way a normal knock did. Holly beat on the door like she was seeking refuge from a mass murderer. Baker knocked in a unique manner: knock, knock…knock, every time.

This knock was different.

I tip-toed to the door and peered through the peephole. The guy from the phone commercials with the black horn-rimmed glasses stood on the other side, clutching a clipboard. Intrigued, I pulled the door open.

“Can you hear me now?” I asked.

He squinted. “Excuse me?”

“Can you hear me now?”

His face washed over with confusion. I must have been the first person to notice the resemblance. Either that, or he was tired of the jokes.

“You remind me of the phone guy,” I said. “The can you hear me now guy.”

He glanced at his clipboard. “Andy Winslow?”