CHAPTER 8
REVENGE
In May, a casino parking lot in Laughlin, Nevada at 10:30 in the morning, is blistering hot. Less than a month, after losing FICA to Players Industries, John Cross sat on a mountain bike fingering a Glock 26, subcompact pistol, in an open, black leather pouch fastened around his waist. As he waited, he practiced quickly pulling the pistol in and out of the open pouch. It was a Monday morning after what he expected would have been another very busy, prosperous weekend for the Player Industry’s Cheers Casino.
At this time of the morning, there were few cars to hide behind in the massive parking lot. Every few minutes, John would straighten and peer over the roof of the car that concealed him. He was looking for any unanticipated problems.
It was five hundred feet to the concrete apron in front of the main entrance to the casino. The shimmering heat waves performed a liquid dance on the black pavement.
The popular Cheers Casino was one of the first casinos that Player Industries had purchased. It was so successful that Mike Asino had bought several casinos in Las Vegas and Reno.
Laughlin, Nevada has a population of only seven thousand. While it is only an hour and a half south of big city of Las Vegas, the two cities are as different from each other, as night is from day. To reach Laughlin, you drive south from Las Vegas across ninety miles of empty, flat, dry, barren desert, until you are confronted with several giant casino hotels rising from that desert. The second shock is seeing a narrow wall of green, in the middle of a desert. The third shock, in a state thirsty for water, is the oddity of seeing a wide, fresh water river.
Laughlin competes with Las Vegas for tourists. It offers gamblers with families more than just gambling. Water sports on the Colorado River are a big attraction.
The larger city of Bullhead City Arizona is directly across the river from Laughlin. It has the shopping and restaurants that Laughlin doesn't have. A long bridge over the river links the two cities. Many of the employees working at the casinos in Laughlin, live in Bullhead.
John Cross had chosen the Cheers Casino as his target because it was the most vulnerable of Mike Asino’s assets to attack. Escape would be much easier from the small town of Laughlin than from any of Player’s Las Vegas casinos. Laughlin does not have the police protection and security infrastructure of Las Vegas.
Mike Asino, with his mob connections, was a bully. No one stood up to him. John Cross’ middle class shell of respectability had fooled him. He had expected John to lick his wounds and accept that he had lost his collection agency. John was supposed to slink away like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Asino, was unaware of John’s harsh up bringing on the rough streets of Los Angeles. He had dismissed John as just another Anglo, white bread, wimp. If he had known of John’s background, he might have anticipated that he was going to pay for his disrespect and for stealing the collection agency. Mike Asino was about to learn that he had screwed the wrong person.
John’s wraparound sunglasses and a bicycle helmet were an effective disguise. His racing T-shirt and tight spandex bicycle shorts outlined the lean, hard body of a serious athlete. The mountain bike had a black metal rack fastened to the handle bars. It was now inconspicuously folded, but could be expanded to hold a large package.
At last, the large, grey, box of an armored truck, rolled up to the casino, as it did every Monday morning. It stopped at the casino’s main entrance’s. A concrete apron jutted out into the driveway. John Cross watched the uniformed guard climb out of the truck and amble towards the glass doors pushing a small cart. The sun reflected off the guard’s shiny, brown, leather gun holster. It wasn’t there for decoration.
To John, it was no surprise to learn that Player Industries owned the armored truck company that picked up cash at their casinos and delivered it to the bank. Asino believed in the efficiencies of vertical integration.
John took the Glock out of its pouch and released its safety. He put it back in the pouch and waited. It wouldn’t be long now.
The middle-aged guard finally exited the casino. He was pushing his small cart. It now held one, large, white, canvas money bag. He was walking more quickly than when he had gone in. It was hot. He wanted to get back into the air conditioned armored truck, to cool off before the next boring pickup.
It was dead still. Heat waves rippled across the parking lot. Only the guard with his bag of money was on the apron. The casino’s doorman was hiding from the heat, just inside the lobby doors.
From behind the parked car, Cross pushed off. He pedaled swiftly toward the guard as he had every Monday for the previous two weeks. John rolled onto the concrete apron via the curb opening graded for wheelchair access. He slowed down so that he would rendezvous with the guard as he reached the rear of the armored truck. Noticing that the guard was suddenly moving faster than usual, Cross pedaled harder to compensate for the guards change in speed. This encounter had to be timed right. The hot morning sun was burning his back.
The armored truck driver was able to see the guard, with the money bag, in his side view mirrors until he was directly behind the truck. He had also noticed Cross bicycling across the parking lot but safe inside his mobile fortress; the driver had no interest in a bicyclist that had appeared every Monday morning for the last two weeks. He returned to reading an amusing email from his wife on his cell phone. He never saw John Cross stop, behind the returning guard, jerk the bike's folded carrying basket to its maximum size, pull out his Glock and motion with his drawn weapon for the guard to put the large money bag into the carrier.
The guard stared at John’s Glock, at first frozen with surprise, then he leaned over to pick up the money bag from the cart. Holding the bag in two hands, as a shield, he shoved it with great force into John, trying to knock John off the bike.
Knocked off balance, staggering, John unconsciously squeezed the trigger of the Glock, as he hopped on one foot and attempted to regain his balance. The bullet went through the money bag and smashed into the guard’s chest. Falling to the ground, an ever growing, pool of fresh red blood soon encircled the guard.
Astride his bike, John Cross leaned over, ripped the money bag from guard’s hands and rammed it into the bike’s carrier. He stood on the pedals and pumped vigorously across the concrete apron.
The driver, frozen with fear by the gun shot, finally got his locked door open and almost fell out of the truck. He was old, overweight and out of shape, he had to hold onto the door with both hands before he could stand and reach for his sidearm. He fired off two shots at the escaping thief now over two hundred feet away.
The driver made a motion as if he would chase after John but after a few steps; he stopped his futile chase and turned back to aid his fallen comrade. Hotel employees cautiously approached from the lobby not understanding what had happened. It took fifteen minutes before the police and an ambulance arrived.
John Cross disappeared around the corner of the Casino as he turned down a laneway that ran along the south side the casino. The lane slanted down towards the Colorado River. With his heart was pumping and gasping for breath, he pedaled faster than he had ever pedaled before.
When his adrenalin high dissipated, his pedaling slowed to the pace of someone out for a leisurely ride on a very hot day. Soaked in sweat, he reached the walkway that runs along the wooded bank of the Colorado River. He turned north, toward the bridge that crosses to Bullhead City, Arizona.
No one else was on the river walk. Joggers and strollers used it in the cool of the evening and in the very early morning hours. A few hundred feet south of the bridge, he turned up a path that lead to a parking lot. This was where earlier that morning, he had parked his black Cadillac Escalade.
He threw the bicycle and the money bag into the back of the Cadillac and drove carefully away, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. Even before the police and ambulance had arrived to assist the fallen guard, John had crossed over the bridge into Arizona.
He finally became aware he was still wearing his bicycle helmet and leather riding gloves. He tore them off and threw them onto the back seat.
Only on leaving Bullhead City behind did he consider the enormity of what he had done. He hoped that the guard was only wounded and would recover. The weapon had only been for show. It was an accident. He had never intended to hurt anyone. The guard should never have tried to knock him over. Since he could not turn back the clock, he accepted that he would have to live with the consequences of his actions for the rest of his life.
He took the highway East. A few miles from the small, desert town of Seligman, he turned off the highway onto a dirt road. He followed it until the wheel tracks disappeared in the sand. He was miles away from any signs of civilization. Only cacti and scruffy bushes dotted the surrounding desert. Getting out of the Cadillac, he walked around to the back, opened the hatch to the cargo area, took out a shovel and found a place to dig.
He took almost an hour to dig a large hole three feet deep in the sandy soil. When he finished, he reached into the pouch, belted around his waist, and took out his wallet, his passport, and the Glock. After removing the bills from his old wallet, he threw it along with the passport and weapon into the hole. His bicycle shorts, shirt, shoes bicycle helmet and gloves joined the wallet.
A change of clothes was in a large blue duffle bag packed the night before. The bag had was in the car's back seat. From it, he now retrieved jeans, a T-shirt and cowboy boots. After putting them on, he dumped the bundles of bills, from the money bag into the duffle bag and returned it to the back seat. The money bag, stained with guard’s blood, now joined the other discarded items in the hole along with the bicycle.
He filled in the hole and carefully swept the sand over the burial ground with a soft bristle broom that he had bought for that purpose. All physical evidence of the robbery was buried. All that remained was a memory.
He climbed back into the Escalade, reached into the glove compartment and took out a wallet. It had been resting on top of a passport. He took the money that he had extracted from his now buried wallet and put it into this new wallet. It was Raymond Powell’s wallet. The passport in the glove compartment was also Raymond’s. He had taken them, the night he left Paris. John Cross was now dead and buried. Raymond Powell had risen from the dead.
John headed back along the dirt road to Highway 40 and continued to travel East. At Flagstaff, he turned South on Highway 17.
In the early evening, he reached the Spectrum Mall in South Tucson, off Highway 19. He found the McDonald’s Restaurant he was looking for and parked the Cadillac as close as he could to the restaurant. John left the engine running with the keys in the ignition. He swung the duffle bag’s strap over his shoulder and headed across the parking lot to Food City. He expected to find a taxi waiting there for a fare. Before he had reached the taxi, his Cadillac had been stolen by two young thieves. They hung around McDonald’s every day, waiting for such opportunities.
John told the driver to take him to the Triple T Truck Stop on Highway 10. It was a short drive along East Valencia Road.
The truck stop was like a small town, with parking for over three hundred rigs. It was the largest truck stop north of Arizona’s major border crossing at Nogales. Thirty billion dollars in Mexican exports pass through Nogales every year.
John got out of the taxi at the truck stop’s restaurant. It was a typical North American diner. Truckers stoking up to prepare for a long night’s drive filled the crowded restaurant. He found a booth and threw the duffle bag onto the bench seat across from himself where he could keep an eye on it. The waitress took his ordered for a cheeseburger and fries. For desert, he had peach pie with soft vanilla ice cream. As he ate, he scanned the room, looking for an easy-going, independent owner-operator who would be open to his proposal. Company drivers, in uniform, were ignored because they were forbidden to take passengers. A likely prospect was spotted, an older, overweight, balding trucker with glasses. He looked like he was getting ready to go.
John quickly gulped down his meal and ambled over to his target’s booth. The trucker looked up at him with a hard, aggressive, don’t-bother-me face. John gave him a warm smile and said, “Hi”.
The trucker looked at him suspiciously, not smiling and did not reply. John ignored the rejection and continued, “I’m trying to hitch a ride east.”
“Don’t carry no passengers.”
“I can understand that. You can't be too careful these days. I thought you might have wanted someone to talk to. It's long boring drive through corn country at night.”
“You're right about that.” The trucker paused, thought about it, checked John out and decided that John did not look like an axe murderer. He had taken the bait and now nibbled on it, “Where you heading?”
“The East coast. I grew up on the West coast. I want to see what I'm missing.”
“Believe me, you ain’t missing nothing. What you do?”
John noticed a baseball cap with the prestigious Pebbles Beach tree logo, lying on the seat beside the truck driver. He took that as his clue to an appropriate reply, “I used to teach golf.”
“You're kidding. I love golf. What's your name?”
“Raymond, Raymond Powell.”
“Mine's Hank. Ray, you’re in luck, I’m heading for Philadelphia.”
They shook hands. Hank waved at the waitress to get her attention, indicating he wanted both checks. Hank turned to John and said, “You got a bag? Let's get rolling.”
John returned to his booth and retrieved his blue duffel bag. He indicated to the waitress that he was leaving enough money on the table to pay for the two meals. It would include a healthy tip. Hank protested John’s picking up of the check, but not too much.
With his green and yellow Pebbles Beach golf hat now on his bald head, Hank headed towards the door. John followed Hank out into the parking lot. It was brightly lit by flood lights on high towers. The lights distorted the color of the trucks. The stench of diesel fumes, the screech of air brakes and the rumble of a dozen mighty truck engines, hit John and Hank like a wall. John followed Hank across the pavement to the rig.
It was one of the biggest truck tractors that John had ever been up close to. There was a shiny blue cube, the size of backyard shed, welded to the back of the cab. Chrome coated almost everything, the dual 150-gallon gas tanks, the massive bumpers, dual air horns on the roof and the side view mirrors. The tractor had a protruding long nose and a shiny, flat grill. It gave the truck an aggressive, intimidating look.
Hank hauled himself up by the chrome hand rails fixed to the long, shiny exhaust stack that extended a few feet above the cab. John hurried around to his side of the tractor and did the same. The blue duffel bag’s strap was still slung over his shoulder.
Inside, Hank took the duffel bag from him, opened a door to a small closet. It already seemed jammed to capacity, but he pushed it in. Turning to John, he said, “Welcome to my home. Let me give you the ten-cent tour. Back here, you’ll see we’ve got a bunk that folds up against the wall. A table folds up to where the bunk was. Above that first bunk is a second bunk. It folds into the wall. Over here, is my shower stall with a real toilet built into it. We’ve also got a stove, microwave, refrigerator, and a television. On the roof is an air conditioner and a generator. The generator runs all this equipment when the rig’s engine isn't running.”
“Incredible. What does a rig like this cost?”
“It’s a 600 horsepower, 18 speed overdrive, Peterbuilt 386. I got it second hand with only 800,000 miles on it. A new one like this would cost in the area of $150,000.”
“You own it?
Yeah, me and the bank.”
“It costs as much as a house.”
“True, but it’s the only home I've got. I’m on the road over three hundred days a year. It saves me a ton of money on motels and restaurants. Usually I do my own cooking, you were lucky to catch me eating in the restaurant. This tractor is my money maker. When I bid on a haul, I’m competing with hundreds of others for the job. I’ve got to have my expenses under control, if I want to make profitable bids and survive. Now let me show you my office.”
They stepped back into the cab. Hank turned on the truck’s headlights. The wraparound dash lit up with a mass of gages. He pointed out the CB radio, satellite radio, cell phone, a transponder for crossing both the Canadian and Mexican borders and finally his laptop. It had a special stand, so, as he drove, he could easily receive and send bids to various brokers. When Hank extinguished the cab’s harsh interior lights, subdued red lights under the dash came on, Hank said, “These are my night time travelling lights. I’ve seen similar red lights in submarines. Now let’s get this show on the road.”
The high backed, leather, Airride seats gave good back support. John commented on the visibility from his lofty perch. Hank eased the truck out of the parking lot and headed to Highway 10.
“We will take Highway 10 all the way to Deming, New Mexico, pick up Highway 25 north to Albuquerque and there we take 40 east to Oklahoma City. This a twenty-three-hundred-mile trip and I’ve got to get this load delivered to Philadelphia within four days.”
“What’re you hauling?”
“Wheel rims.”
John made the mistake of asking, “You ever played Pebble Beach in Carmel.”
“Oh yeah. The most expensive round of golf I ever played in my life. It cost me $495.”
“For one round of golf?”
“Yep, for one round of golf.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Well, let me tell you about it and you decide.”
As they rolled across the United States, Hank called upon a lifetime of golf stories for his captive audience. John quickly came to realize that there was no such thing as a free lunch.
The End