"So Jake -did you bring what we wanted?"
This was going to be no easy meeting, and it had been all Jake could think about as the Greyhound rolled south on Federal Avenue and past the railroad yards on Denver's gritty north side. There seemed to be no way to avoid having a scene with Pico. It was just going to be a question of trying to keep things from getting out of control, that in the unlikely event he had anything to say about it. Pico and his boys weren't easily led, and Jake was already late for their appointment, so he knew they'd be in a foul mood. As the bus crossed over Clear Creek on its way through Arvada, he tried to imagine a scenario, an escape plan. By the time the bus turned east on Colfax he still hadn't come up with one. Jake was in for trouble and he knew it.
Lorenz Pico was holing up at the Glenwood Crest, a little hotel on Colorado Boulevard not far from the state capital. He was registered under the name Leonard Filer, an alias that would be used only for as long as Pico was in Denver -a visitation that was not expected to last for more than a week or two. Down the hall from him were his two main counterparts: Wynn Frye, who was registered as Danny Votalo, and Thomas Larson, who was registered as William Holts.
Pico was a convicted felon, an extortionist and a racketeer who had been engaged in black market activities since the late '20s. He'd run bootleg whiskey as a kid during the prohibition, working indirectly for the Chicago syndicate. During the depression era '30s he branched out to durable goods, pulling heists east of the Mississippi River, selling the goods throughout the west. His favorite targets were trucking fms, some of whom participated fully in his scheme, sharing in a percentage of the illicit profits. Chicago bought him protection from the law. Teamsters apprised him of freight activities and cargoes and there were kickbacks all around. By the war years, Pico was connected well enough to expand into government properties, which he diverted from the war front through a network of underworld contacts. He could get hard to find materials like rubber and scrap metals and could resell items that the average American had forgotten about in deference to war needs.
By the '40s, Pico had a war chest so large that he used it to start a mortgage lending operation, his primary interest being in buying out legitimate truckers that had fallen behind on their bank notes. He got bankers' lists of independent truckers who were in financial shortfall and in danger of losing their rigs, or even their homes. Pico would buy out their outstanding loans and put the truckers in his employ, creating new repayment schedules and new interest rates. It was a hard offer to say no to as it kept the drivers working. It also made it virtually impossible for them to ever clear their debt and become, once again, independent. Instead, they became Pico's men, underwritten by a percentage of his illicit gains. He hired them cheap to trucking firms, using them to undercut legitimate drivers who also became Pico's men when they, too, were unable to meet their bank notes. Sometimes Pico stranded men permanently in his employ, selling their rigs out from underneath them, then hiring them out to freight companies as drivers, where they worked as moles, feeding Pico information about what was being shipped, load sizes and cargo values. Pico's operatives would heist selected trucks and sell their loads, the freight companies would file insurance claims to cover their losses, the drivers would book another run and remain employed, and everybody made money. Pico remained virtually anonymous atop his criminal empire, constantly relocating to temporary quarters throughout the middle United States, always changing his name and using legitimately uninformed managers to run semi-permanent offices in Cincinnati, St. Louis and Kansas City.
Jake had been one of Pico's drivers, though his entry into Pico's underworld had been different fiom that of most who made the descent. He had been pursued by a loan shark who had paid a $1,000 fine the government hit him with following a conviction on shipping stolen goods. When interest rates on the loan escalated Jake's balance to almost $2,000, Jake went underground, fearing the goons who were combing the midwest trying to find him. Pico stepped in and bought his contract, putting Jake in his debt and his employ. It got the apes off Jake's case, but within months Pico's interest charges had raised his debt to nearly $4,000 -four times his original fine. Unable to meet that kind of financial obligation, he was hamstrung, virtually owned by Lorenz Pico, who put no pressure on Jake to pay, but continued to compound his interest.
Pico had special plans for Jake. He was pioneering a new criminal enterprise -the mobile chop shop -and he was using Jake as his point man.
Pico had developed a scheme for targeting big, rural property owners, particularly wealthy men with disposable assets, like machinery and livestock. Frank Walker was one of these. Pico's operation was seasonally based. He stole cattle in late summer and in the late fall and winter months he stole machinery, usually not from the same property owner.
It was a scheme that had been worked to perfection in Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Pico put a mole in the employment of some baron -the "mark" -whose profile was right for the kind of sting he had in mind. Once inside, Pico's man would inventory the mark's assets, feeding the information back to Pico who would use it to set up a clearing house operation. He had lists of "in demand" items and through his inside man he stole what he needed to fill his clients' needs. He created delivery schedules, e.g. "We can get you a 1945 Dodge flatbed delivered in March," or "In November we can get you parts for an International Harvester combine." Pico's men would schedule the heist and fill the order. Usually these lifts took place over the cold weather months, when ranching activity slowed and machinery often sat idol and unattended for weeks at a time. It was banal, as gnfts go, routine as a shopkeeper's day. Pico, however, was possessed of a certain genius for invention and he gave his criminal scheme a new twist -one that put detection of his fencing operation beyond the range of small town law enforcement.
The hallmark of Lorenz Pico's nefarious activities was "industry." His operation was run with the sophistication of a special forces team, complete with intricate staging plans and the machinery to make it happen. Once the mark was identified and his business infiltrated, Pico's men set-up temporary operations at various remote locations around the target's property. Temporary "chop shops" were established that could reduce a truck or a piece of machinery to a pile of resellable parts in the course of a single night.
"You need a part for a Massey Ferguson tractor? We'll have what you need by June first." Or,for those clients who wanted machinery intact, Pico set up paint stations. He could rip off a piece of machinery, pound out the dings, repaint it to order, replace any identifying tags, and have it on the road to a customer within forty-eight hours.
Pico used the same techniques to wholesale slaughtered beef, which was a personal peccadillo of his, a pet project that was high risk-low return, and that his lieutenants were constantly entreating upon him to stop. But it had grown out of his personal history, and was part of a vendetta. The son of Mexican peasants, Pico harbored strong class resentments that he directed against his "wealthy," land owning targets. The "cattle rustling" part of his business was done in the late summer months, when steers were fattening on green pasture grass and ranchers were diverted with haying operations and annual maintenance of windmills and fence lines. His favored targets were ranchers of the Flint Hills in Kansas and the Texas Panhandle, which were known as "steer country."
Part of his point man's task was identifying isolated herds of six hundred to seven hundred pound feeder weight cattle. Usually around late August or early September, after they had spent the summer grazing on grasslands, and when they were only a few weeks away from the feedlots, Pico would target a small herd or, sometimes, part of a large herd, for a little clandestine "harvesting." These herds were often owned not by the rancher who was employing the mole, but by his surrounding neighbors. Pico believed working with an "inside man" in the employ of a large rancher was strategically advantageous, because the barons seemed to keep track of the business of everyone around them. There was information at the center of commerce. It also created a layer of security for the mole, making it unlikely that he could be directly connected to the heist, since it was rarely his employer who got hit. Once the vulnerable herds were located, a team of Pico operatives would come in with portable corral panels and a good sized truck with an enclosed box, and on successive nights they would round up and slaughter cattle right on the range.
A crew of ten or so men, mostly migrant laborers who knew the Pico family and were recruited for their allegiance, set up temporary slaughter sites. Pico often used gypsy construction outfits as "legitimate fronts" for his operations, so often there was heavy equipment, a caterpillar or a back hoe in the area, which could be brought in during the night to dig shallow pits, which would become abattoirs. Forty head of cattle could be slaughtered in a single evening. These herds were usually the property of ranches that were undermanned and which had livestock scattered widely across the countryside. Usually these operators didn't check their grazing herds more than once a week, partly due to lack of manpower, and partly because they tended to become lulled into complacency over the summer months, as day after day their cattle got fatter and fatter, leisurely grazing on long green grass. By the end of summer a weekly check for cancer eye and to count their number seemed to be all that was necessary. These were just the kind of cattlemen Pico exploited.
The targeted beef would be led into the abattoir one by one. Pico's men worked in an assembly line fashion, often trained to handle only one aspect of the slaughtering operation. The first man stunned the beef with a sledge hammer, striking them on the forehead at a point right between the eyes. The key to effective bleeding is to keep the heart pumping, so Pico's boys avoided shooting cattle, which was too noisy anyway, and would have left them with bloody cuts that would have quickly spoiled.
Next they'd hoist each fallen animal by its hind legs, so that it's head was a couple feet off the ground. Using sharp skinning knives they would make incisions from in front of the forelegs to the jawbone. They'd open the carotid arteries at the point where they forked under the breastbone, being careful not to cut too deeply into the chest or to pierce the heart. The idea was to avoid blood accumulating in the chest and to keep the heart pumping. Sometimes they'd hurry the bleeding process by pumping the forelegs up and down a few times.
As soon as the bleeding was done, they'd go to the next station, where a man would skin out the forelegs and the head. They would cut across the leg between the sole of the foot and the dew-claws, releasing the tension in the leg by severing the tendon. The skin was split over the back of the forelegs by quickly making a cut four to five inches above the knee, then the leg was cut off at the square joint. They'd skin out the head by cutting from poll to nostril, then across from jaw to jaw. After the skin was pulled back, they could easily remove the head by cutting across the neck through the Atlas joint. With the head severed, they'd quickly remove the tongue and the cheek meat, immediately chilling them in cold water. A cleaver would be used to split the skulls and remove the brains.
The carcass would then be lowered to the floor and moved to the next station, where it would be propped into place with a pritch pole. The hind legs would be removed. Tendons would be expertly cut so the legs would relax, the skin would be split a few inches below the hock joints, and a knife would be used to locate the lowest joint of the hocks. After notching the spot, a quick sideward push would break the legs right apart.
The next step was to open the carcass, which was accomplished by splitting the skin from breastbone to rump. The knife went in the opening in the neck, which had been made for bleeding, then was drawn straight back over the brisket and just past the last rib, cutting through the hide and meat over the breastbone. A cut was made at the midpoint between the hind legs, exposing round muscle. Beginning at the last rib, a cut was made through the hide and the abdominal wall and on back through the opening between the hind legs, which exposed the paunch. Pico's peasant cutters were trained not to cut into the intestines, reaching inside the carcass with the knife point up to push it in a straight line to the opening between the hind legs. The skin inside the thighs was split just back of the scrotum or udder, then a cut was made that adjoined the split made in removing the hind shank. Again the knife edge was always pointed outward to avoid cutting the flesh. The insides of the thighs and the forelegs were skinned.
Special siding knives were used to peel the skin off the abdomen, shoulders and round. Again, Pico's cutters were expert at leaving the "fell" intact -the thin membrane that lies between the meat and the skin on the carcass. They were going to be shipping this beef, and they knew leaving the membrane would protect against molds and insure that the meat would not dry too rapidly.
The carcass was then moved to the next station for "hoisting," and to prepare for that the cutters sawed through the breastbone, separating the rounds, and on through the aitchbone. A spreader would be inserted between the large tendons, and the carcass was then hoisted with a block and tackle. After cutting the hide down to the center of the tail, it could be pulled right off and the tail could be disjointed. Someone would usually wipe the hocks and rounds with a clean cloth and warm water, then loosen the anus by cutting around it on the two sides and the back, then they'd loosen twelve to fifteen inches of the colon and allow that to drop down over the paunch. The viscera could be removed with the carcass hanging above ground level. The connective tissues holding the intestines would be cut, with care being taken not to tear the kidney and bedfat, then a quick tug at
the paunch would pull the viscera right out of the carcass. Pico's men worked over small trenches dug into the earth, into which they let these innards fall directly. They'd use knives to cut out the liver, intestines, and gall bladder, then they'd remove the heart, lungs and gullet as a single unit.
The hide could be pulled right off to the forelegs and neck at this point, then all that was left was to split the carcass for quicker chilling. The cutters sawed through the sacral vertebrae and the pelvic arch, then on through the center of the backbone to the neck. A cleaver was used to split the neck and free the two halves of the hide and once that was removed the carcass would quickly be washed with cold water to remove the blood and the dirt, and they were done. As long as they could get the carcasses to a cooler within twenty-four hours, where the temperature of the meat could be cooled below forty degrees, they were home free. That was all it took.
Most of the beef was be shipped out immediately, sometimes in trucks carrying block ice, headed for resale to restaurant owners and grocers who had placed orders through "legitimate" brokers in Illinois and Missouri. Some of the sides of beef went to Pico's own freezers. He made gifts of it to his workers, often paying his illegal aliens in this way, which to them was a windfall of good fortune. A family of four could eat for a year on a single carcass. The hides would immediately be salted and then go to tanners. Equipment would often be used to push dirt back into the slaughter pit, covering over the blood and the disposed innards, having it all hidden out of sight by the next morning. Pico would typically rotate drivers on the heavy equipment so that there was always a fresh man who could report for legitimate contract work on a regular daily schedule, creating the illusion that the equipment operator was nothing other than a regular guy. No one would think twice when the gypsy heavy equipment guys moved on a few weeks later, usually to work "on a road building project" in some other state. By the time the big cats were loaded onto flatbeds and rolled out of town, the hijacked beef would be steaks on somebody's table in Kansas City. Pico had it all figured out. He even had a crew that repaired the area where the abattoir pit had been covered over. This clean-up crew had once resodded an area using four foot square rugs of over-grown Buffalo grass that they'd harvested from various sites around the countryside. It didn't have to look perfect, it just had to go unnoticed long enough for Pico's boys to move on, to buy a little escape time before the deed was discovered. They usually slaughtered on four or five consecutive nights, usually moving in a circle within a sixty mile radius. By the time ranchers starting to find cattle "turning up missing," Pico's crew was likewise. And over and over, it worked.
Before any of that could happen, however, a mole had to be placed inside the targeted business, and this was where Jake had entered the picture with Frank Walker. He was hired as an infiltrator -a job for which he was perfectly suited.
Jake's hold on Py was a hypnosis that had been reenacted many times. He was a natural con, a born charmer who even experienced men seemed taken by. Pico recognized Jake's special ability and offered to forgive his debt if he would do the job on Walker. The first hurdle was getting hired, which Jake handled easily. He booked a room at the Longmont Hotel and started asking around about who might be looking for an experienced trucker. There were only three ranchers in the county with operations large enough to hire such a specialist and soon enough Jake had the names of their foremen. He approached each, but he paid special attention to Jarvis Lang, who did the hiring for Walker Ranch. He shadowed him, finding out where he spent his free time, showing up at places where Lang was. They played pool together at Snorty's. There was a dance at the VFW Hall and Jake shared a bottle of Southern Comfort with Lang on the street outside. Jarvis was only twenty-five years old -not that much older than Py -and soon enough he was enamored with Jake, who he found to be good company, and whose confident competence he respected. Lang suggested Jake to Frank Walker, and Walker approved the hire on Jarvis' recommendation. Jake worked at the Walker Ranch for a month before even meeting Frank Walker. By then he'd completely inventoried Walker's assets -including his daughter Lily -and developed a working model for the sting.
Now, however, there was a problem. The scheduled heist was still over a month away. There were standing orders for much of what was there to take, but there was still unfinished business on the sales side. Only half the machine parts they expected to get were spoken for. The offers they had on Walker's flatbed and on his tractor-trailer were too low to make profit. (Pico figured he had to make triple his expenses to make the risk worth taking. "Too many people with loose lips," he'd say.) Jake needed to be in a position inside the operation to determine the best night to make the hit, to direct Pico's men to the right spots and the right properties, and to spot problems and head them off so the heists could take place. If he had a title it would be Director of Operations. But now, how was Jake going to tell Pico that he'd lost his job at Walker Ranch?
Pico sat in a chair in a corner by an open window, facing the door, as befit his paranoia. His enforcers, Frye and Larson, were located strategically around the room, Larson next to the door and Frye in a neutral corner, from which he could see the entire room. "Hello Jake," Pico said as Jake entered.
"Pico," Jake said, tipping his head. He looked at the other two, acknowledging their presence but saying nothing.
"So Jake -did you bring what we need?" Pico asked.
Jake nodded. "Yeah, I got what you want."
"Have a seat," Pico said. "Let's see what you got." He motioned for Jake to pull a chair up next to the bed, which they would use for a table. Pico moved some papers he had lying there out of the way.
"You already have a pretty good list of trucks and machinery." Jake said, as he seated himself. He handed a piece of paper to Pico. "This is everything I've already told you about plus a few more. Walker recently bought a John Deere that's not on your list."
"Very good," Pico said, noting the model number. "I've had doubts about this job. This'll help the margin."
"There's this, too," Jake said, pointing out another item. "Walker keeps a vintage automobile -a 1925Ford -in a garage on the property. 1just saw it for the first time and it's prime."
Pico shrugged it off. "Parts, maybe," he said. "Is it easy?"
"It's in the yard, so it ain't easy," Jake said. "You may want to forget it."
"It ain't worth it," Pico said, shaking his head.
"There is one other thing I think you'll be interested in," Jake said. "Walker keeps a safe on the property." This Pico showed an interest in. "It's in a den in the main house. It works off a combination."
"You know what it is?" Pico asked.
"No -but I think I know where I can find it," Jake said. "Walker's a strange guy. He keeps records of everything: serial numbers, transactions, even verbal agreements. Everybody on the ranch knows that he keeps payroll checks and large sums of cash drawers in a desk in one of his offices. I've seen his ledger book, including serial numbers to a couple wall boxes -they're Meilinks, I know the models -and there were combinations listed for both."
Pico grinned in disbelief at Frye, his right hand man, who remained expressionless. "Are you telling me this sap keeps the combinations to his strong boxes written down on an account ledger, where anybody could find it?"
"I don't think most people would recognize it for what it is," Jake said. "This guy Walker is .. . I don't know, different. He keeps track of things. I guess it makes him feel secure to know exactly what he's got."
"So what you're saying is you think you can go in there and find this book that'll get you into the box. There's a lot of 'may be' and 'could be' there," Frye said, listening from the comer, eyeing Jake suspiciously. His remark was intended for Pico, who listened with one eyebrow raised. "He's right," Pico said. "I want you to see if you can't get us better information. We don't want to go into that house looking for what might be there."
Jake sat up straight in his chair and took a deep breath. "What's wrong?" Pico asked. He could sense that Jake was nervous about something. "You got something bothering you?"
Jake glanced from Pico to Frye and gave a regardant glance toward Larson, standing at his back. "I've got something I've got to tell you," he said, swallowing hard, knowing he was entering dangerous territory. Jake could feel sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, a muted cry of panic echoing from somewhere at the back of his mind. He looked in Pico's eyes and saw only blackness. In his heart he knew that others who had looked into them and found that same empty void were no longer alive to talk about it. "There's been a development that ...complicates things."
Pico looked suspiciously at Jake. "What kind of a 'development."'
"I no longer have the job at the Walker Ranch," Jake said. "Frank Walker fired me."
Larson and Frye both repositioned themselves in reaction to the news, and Pico leaned forward in his chair, his eyes still trained on Jake's. "What do you mean he fired you?" he asked.
"We had a disagreement over pay," Jake said. "He caught me going through his desk, looking for a check I was owed."
Pico looked at Larson and Frye, then back at Jake. "You're right -that complicates things." He leaned back in his chair, seemingly taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Then suddenly his expression changed and he became agitated. "I don't believe you, man," he said. "Your part is to get inside this guy's operation, to find out what he's got and plan the job." His voice began to rise. "It is not your job to have trouble with this guy and get yourself fired!" He got up out of his chair and started to pace around the room. "This is a problem." He picked up Jake's inventory list and hit it with the back of his hand. "All this stuff -it's all spoken for!" It was an exaggeration. "There are people waiting for this stuff, expecting it. What do you propose we tell them? That you couldn't keep your hands out of the petty cash drawer so they can just go fuck themselves? It won't work, Jake!"
"There's a way," Jake interjected, trying to control the situation before it got out of hand. "If you move fast, I can tell you where the properties are and the best way to get them." Pico looked disgusted and frustrated, but Jake charged on. "This Sunday Walker is going to be out of town -I know this for a fact. He going to be gone on some kind of business trip. He won't be back until Thursday. It gets loose around there when he's gone. The cowboys get drunk, they go to ..."
Pico slammed his fist down hard atop a chiffonier next to where Larson was standing. "No, no, no! October first, Jake -that's when this is scheduled for!" he said, snarling through clinched teeth. "We can't have everybody in place until then. Equipment isn't even available right now."
"Then do a smaller sting," Jake said. "Get what I can steer you to now and cancel the rest. Move on. There are plenty of other rich guys ..."
Again Pico slammed the dresser, this time so hard that it rattled a picture hanging above it on the wall. Even Tom Larson flinched a little -and this was not a "flinching" type of guy. He could see that Pico was going ballistic, a combustion he'd witnessed many times before and one which he'd have rather not seen repeated. "We've got months wrapped up in this job already!" Pico said. He frantically ran his hands through his greasy black hair, smoothing it back close to his head. "Are you trying to make me out to be a petty thief? Is that it, Jake?" "No, no," Jake said, shaking his head, a little unsure of what Pico was saying. "What can you guarantee we can get if we go now?" Pico asked. "Some jewelry? A car?" He looked around the room as if the thought was so infradig that it hurt his feelings. Still seated in the comer, Wynn Frye wondered if he didn't see tears in Lorenz Pico's eyes. "You think I work three months for fucking jewelry and a car?" Pico said, a trace of sobbing in his voice. "You son-of-a-bitch," he said to Jake. "You would turn me into a petty thief!"
"Can I say something here?" Frye seemed consultative, like he was going to help Pico understand. "Isn't something kind of out of whack here?" "I'll say something's 'out of whack,"' Pico said, shaking his head in disbelief. "No -I mean who is calling the shots?" Frye asked. "This guy comes in here -what are you down, Jake, four, five grand? -and he's telling you what you got to do?" "And when you got to do it?" added Larson, supporting Wynn Frye's line of thought. Pico looked at each of them, a scowl across his face. "And he ain't even held up his end of the bargain," continued Frye. "Jake's supposed to be working the inside on this job. He ain't even in position -and he's telling you now is the time to go? It's out of whack. That's all I'm saying." "Yeah, Jake should get his facts straight," Larson said, seconding the opinion.
Pico stood equal-distant from the other three men in the room, and he considered the situation, his glance ricocheting this way and that as he surveyed his options. Then he
leveled his eyes on Jake. "So tell me -when did this happen that you lost your job?" he asked. "Just last week," Jake said. Pico rubbed his chin, apparently feeling his beard for inspiration. "So what have you been doing since then?" he asked. "Where have you been staying?"
Jake seemed to grow edgy. Now it was his turn to squirm a little in his own chair as he glanced over at Frye, who seemed riveted on his every word. "I got a little work with another guy in the area," Jake said. "It's not much, but I been staying there."
"In Weld County?" Pico asked, and Jake nodded that it was. "Near Walker Ranch?"
Jake wasn't anxious to tell Pico anything about Pete Parker and his spread. He could only cause trouble and that was the last thing he wanted for Joanne and her dad. "Yeah, it's near Walker Ranch."
Pico seemed to be growing impatient. "How near Walker Ranch?" he asked. "I mean, is it so near that you can keep tabs on what's going on there? Maybe we can save this thing yet."
"No, it's not that near," Jake said, shaking his head. He didn't want to encourage Pico to get creative with their scheme.
Frye and Larson were getting fidgety again. Jake could feel it, though his eyes were cast down to the floor. He didn't want to look at anybody. Mostly he just wanted to be elsewhere. He was wishing these people would just go away and get out of his life. "How about other people working for Walker?" Pico asked. "Any casual acquaintances? Anybody you keep in touch with who might tell you what's going on there?"
"No one," Jake said.
"He isn't trying very hard," Frye said, from the comer of the room. "Not hard at all," Larson said.
"Look -there's something else I've got to tell YOU." Jake raised his head and looked at Pico, ignoring the other two. He summoned up all the courage he could. "If you go ahead with this job, I can't be a part of it. I can provide you with drawings, maps, anything you need to find what you want. If you go this weekend all this information will be good. But I can't do it like we planned."
Pico looked like he'd been hit with a baseball bat. His jaw dropped in disbelief. "This guy has got some nerve," Fxye said, verbalizing what was written all over Lorenz Pico's face. "No brains whatsoever," added Larson.
"There's bad blood between Frank Walker and me," Jake said. "That already puts me in a bad light. It makes me a suspect, the first person the police are gonna want to talk to after all this takes place. I've got to be somewhere public that night, visible, where a lot of people can see me. I've got to have an alibi. It works out for you, too. Otherwise they can tie the two of us together. You'll go down sure as I will if anything goes wrong."
"I don't believe this!" Pico said, seemingly shell-shocked by the new revelation. "You are telling me that you've screwed up this whole thing. And because you've screwed it all up, I've got to work with your schedule, on my own with no help from you, and settle for maybe one-fifth of what I'm in this thing for. On top of that I've got to tell my resellers that the stuff I promised them -some of them pay up front, you know? They put money down, kind of like a retainer. Now you are telling me that -tra-la-la -fuck yourselves! I can't deliver. Is that what you're telling me I'm supposed to say?"
"What about the four thousand dollars?" added Fxye. "How does he propose to pay that?"
Strain showed in Jake's face. "Surely the information I've given you is worth some of that!" he said. "We can come to some sort of an agreement. I can work the rest off."
"Agreements with you are clearly just ...toilet paper," Pico said. "You wipe your butt on agreements and throw them away. That's how you got yourself in this in the first place. Or don't you remember? Don't you remember being a fugitive, hiding from loan sharks and hit men?" "I remember," Jake said, but Pico continued. "Don't you remember who it was who stepped in and paid your debt, set you up with an income so you could live a regular life?"
"I remember," Jake said. "But surely we can work this out. I tell you, you endanger yourself by having me in on the job. And as for me ..." Jake's features seemed to soften for a moment as he thought of Joanne and Pete Parker's place. Even of Py. "I've got a chance to change some things in my life," he said humbly, "a chance to get started with something honest and right, to build something. Trouble with the law right now... It'd kill all of that."
"He's got a short memory," Frye said, speaking to Pico, and Larson added -"And he ain't got no brains."
"He's got a sweet story," Pico said, in no way impressed. "He wants to play on our sympathies."
"I'm asking you for a chance to clear things with you," Jake said, almost pleading. "But let me have a little leeway on how it's done. I'm begging you."
END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN