Capitalism by Henry Simpson

Capitalism by Henry Simpson

As he waited for the light to change, Jeff’s mind kept replaying the TV image of that sheriff’s squad knocking down the front door of the house in Painted Cave. The moment of entry marked the end of his dream. He patted his jacket inside pocket for reassurance. The thick, solid roll of fifties and hundreds was there, $23,000 plus. He had planned to drop it into his bank safe deposit box like on every recent Monday, but now the mission was suspended indefinitely.

Light turned green. His mind went blank as he headed his red Ducati for the freeway and took the onramp east on U.S. 101 with a vague idea to ride up to Painted Cave to check out the scene in person. He thought about Lance, his friend and business partner. He should call him, tell what happened. Lance was in Las Vegas, partying. He made once-a-month visits there to unwind, usually two or three days. He’d left yesterday afternoon. Jeff had money for him, more than $12,000, his share of the week’s take. He could do Lance a favor by delivering the money to him in person. Then they could talk over what happened and decide what to do. Realistically, Lance was neither friend nor business partner. He was an acquaintance with a skill Jeff exploited to make money. Jeff had also been exploited. That’s how Capitalism worked. Lance was smart, with money stashed. He would be all right, unless he was arrested.

Jeff’s thoughts turned to his mental ledger. What, after all these months, did he have to show for his hard work, salesmanship, business sense, and risk taking? He did a rough mental calculation. On the plus side were the cash in his pocket and in his safe deposit box—slightly short of $500,000. Add to that his purchases of a new Ducati and leathers. On the minus side were his investment of $15,000, time, and the wear and tear on his vehicles. He was unsure how to calculate the value of risk until he remembered that, if the law caught up with him, it would confiscate his assets and send him to prison for many years—in other words, limitless red ink. With that depressing thought, he pulled off the freeway and slowed to a stop beneath an overpass.

He scratched his head, amazed at the unlikely turn of events. Lance, the brilliant professor to be, thought he had reduced the odds of detection to almost zero. He was obsessed with security based on fear of returning to prison. How did the Sheriff find out? On most days, the Painted Cave house was vacant. A landlord might tip off the Sheriff after checking it and discovering a meth lab, but this one was retired in Italy. Lance always bagged his refuse and hauled it off site for disposal, so it was not the trash collector. The windows were frosted, impossible to see through. His distributor had never met Lance or seen the lab and could not have snitched. He got back onto the freeway and went to his apartment. First thing he did once there was call work.

“Faith Security,” Dan answered.

“Hey, Danny,” Jeff said.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I got sick, man. Think it’s my ulcer. It’s been acting up again. I’m going to see my doctor. Sorry I let you down like that.”

“What’s the score? You coming back to work anytime soon?”

“All depends on what the doctor says.”

“You get wasted last night?”

“This ain’t a hangover, man. Swear to God.”

“Okay, shitbird. Take care of yourself and let me know what happens.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And lay off the booze.”

He collapsed onto his couch and tried to figure out what Sheriff’s investigators would find. Lance was a clean freak. He brewed only on weekends, and after each brew scrubbed the lab and took his chemicals to his storage locker. It was a Monday, so the lab should be as sterile as an operating room. It was obviously a chem lab, with glassware, sinks, ventilators, and other equipment. But Lance could explain it based on his job and university studies. Jeff felt somewhat relieved, until he remembered Lance complaining that he could never scrub anything clean enough. So, what if the investigators found something?

Lance’s name was on the lease to the house, and on the contract with Faith Security Services to install and monitor surveillance cameras and alarms. Eventually, investigators could link the lease and contract to Lance and, if he confessed, link the lab to Jeff. Lance could incriminate him—if he confessed. Would he?

Lance had said he would slit his wrists or drown himself before returning to prison. A shorty, he had probably suffered harassment, beatings, rape, and threats to his life at Soledad. The suicide talk was bullshit. Lance would do what Jeff would in the same tough spot. Only one way to prevent it. He rolled the Ducati inside his apartment for safekeeping, loaded up his Camaro, and was soon on his way south down Highway 101 along the sparsely populated coastline, bluffs rising to cliffs on his left, the Pacific Ocean, blue and sparkling with morning sun, on his right. Ventura and its suburbs engulfed him, cliffs and coastline lost in a mishmash of billboards, service stations, mini malls, fast food restaurants, and closely-packed houses and condos. He took the Ventura Freeway to the Foothill Highway to I-15 past Barstow and, once beyond the busy urban traffic, was on arrow-straight desert highway, blazing sun in pale blue sky. He turned on his radar detector, police scanner, and CB radio, stepped on the pedal, and watched the speedo rise to 80, 90, 100, 110, 120, letting the Camaro fly. He tried to slip into his different place, got about halfway there, but it was not the same as with the Ducati whining beneath him on a great, straight highway. Once, the radar detector sounded and twice, trucker’s voices with southeastern drawls warned of Blue Light Special—three times he slowed to seventy and beat the devil. Approaching Nevada two hours later, the big, flashy billboards told all: gambling, hotels, strip clubs, sporting houses. Crossing the border, entering Nevada, he slowed to sixty-five, watched the signs, took the off ramp to I-515, and stopped at a service station big enough to handle fifty cars and a dozen sixteen wheelers. The temperature was ninety-five degrees and he was sweating by the time he finished gassing the car. He pulled the travel bag from behind his seat, went to the restroom, and locked the door. He slipped out of his T-shirt and shorts, splashed water on his face and chest, and dried himself off on his discarded clothes. He put on a white button-down shirt, beige slacks, brown sports coat, and yellow porkpie hat. He stood before the mirror and smiled at himself. Bruce Willis smiled back. “Hello, Bruce,” he said to the man in the mirror. Bruce Willis added shades and grinned. “You ready?”

“I’m ready, man.”

&&&

Lance’s Hotel was located on Las Vegas Boulevard well north of the skyscrapers, architectural oddities, flashing lights, traffic, and turmoil of the big hotels and casinos. It resembled an outsized Holiday Inn. When Jeff once asked Lance why he didn’t pick a classier place to stay, he said what made it special was its clientele. Spending an hour in the bar with Lance helped Jeff understand what he meant, for it was a drug lover’s paradise, packed with narcotics kingpins, dealers, users, and hookers.

He stopped outside the hotel entrance and reluctantly handed his car keys to a parking attendant. The Camaro was old and worn, but able. He grabbed his bag and walked through the entrance and across the lobby to the reception desk. Behind it to the left was a cocktail lounge and to the right a restaurant. The left side wall contained shops and the right wall an elevator landing with two elevator doors. Scattered along the walls were slot machines. He walked over to the nearest house phone and took a note card from his pocket. He put the receiver to his ear and punched in the three digits written on the card: 734.

The phone buzzed a few times. “Hello,” a young woman answered in a soft, sexy voice.

“Is Lance there?” Jeff said.

“Who’s this?” Her voice was now businesslike.

“A friend of Lance.”

After a pause, “Do you have a name, Mr. Friend?”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Okay, you want to be mysterious,” she said sarcastically. A long silence, and then she yelled, “Hey, Lance!” so loud it hurt Jeff’s ear.

Another long silence, and then, in a normal voice, “There’s some guy on the phone, wants to talk to you, says he’s your friend, won’t give his name.”

A loud and painful bang came through the receiver, and then the sound of feet shuffling and distant voices. After a long delay, he heard another bang as someone picked up the receiver.

“Who’s this?” Lance said with anger in his voice.

“It’s me,” Jeff said.

“Jeff?”

“Who’s that bitch, answered your phone?”

“Local talent, man, professional. What’s up? I’m on vacation.”

“Some bad shit happened. I got to talk to you right now.”

“What’re you talking about? Where are you, man?”

“Downstairs in the lobby, by a house phone. Come down right now, I’ll wait for you by the elevators.”

“Now? I paid my escort a thousand bucks for some serious action.”

“It’s important, man. I’m talking life and death here.”

Jeff heard the sound of muffled voices, and then Lance’s voice clearly, “I’ll be down, soon as I get dressed. This better be important, else you’re gonna owe me a grand.”

Jeff crossed the lobby and waited by the elevator landing. Doors opened, people left elevators, others got on, doors closed. Eventually, doors opened and Lance stepped out of an elevator onto the landing. He was short, emaciated, in a tie-dyed T-shirt, shorts, and loafers, his beard and shoulder-length hair matted.

“Hey, Lance,” Jeff said, embracing him, feeling the wetness on his back.

Lance drew back. “What’s up, man?”

“Can’t talk here. Let’s go into the bar.”

They entered the dimly lit cocktail lounge and sat in a booth in back. A few men and a pair of hookers were sitting at the bar watching a golf game on TVs mounted above.

The cocktail waitress came over and took their order. When she left, Jeff leaned close to Lance. “DEA raided the lab this morning.”

Lance looked stunned. “You sure of this?”

“I saw it all on surveillance cameras. Must’ve been twenty men stormed in, knocked the front door clean off its hinges with a battering ram.”

“They make any arrests?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about your biker pals?”

“I don’t think so. Why them? They don’t know shit about the lab. That’s top secret, man. Only me and you know.”

“Did they find anything inside?”

“How would I know? I didn’t go near the place. What do you think?”

“It should be clean.”

“Clean enough?”

Lance recoiled.

The waitress set two beers on the table and left.

Lance lifted his glass and stared at it. “All my work.” He raised his glass and drained it.

“How did they know?” Jeff said.

“I got no idea, man. But to tell you the truth, this comes as some kind of a relief to me.”

“Relief! I don’t know how you can say that. I don’t even know what you mean by that. To me it’s the end—the end of my life. I don’t have enough green yet. I need like six more months. Fuck, I’d settle for three. We had a real fine business going—first-rate product, reliable distribution, satisfied customers. Everything was running like clockwork. Now it’s all down the shithole.”

“Speak for yourself, man. The money’s nice, real nice, but the last year’s been one continuous fucking nightmare for me. I’m always worrying about getting busted and prison. Can’t talk to my friends because they’ll ask me about my weekends. And what’ve I been doing? Going up to that little house, sealing it all up airtight, turning on the fans, putting on the mask, and mixing toxic chemicals for hours on end, hoping I don’t mess up and set myself on fire or breathe in something that’ll turn me into a zombie. That’s what I mean when I say relief.”

“So, partner. You think it’s over now?”

“For me it is, man.”

“No it ain’t. You seem to forget. Your name’s on the lease to that house.”

Lance’s face darkened.

“Law will be looking for you,” Jeff said. “You’re hot.”

“How about you?”

“I’m not—not yet. The only one who can connect me to the lab is you. I trust you, partner. You wouldn’t rat me out.”

“No, of course not. We’re friends.”

“Yes, sir. We’re friends. More than that.” He laughed, slapping Lance on the shoulder.

“So, friend, what now?”

Jeff looked past Lance at the people sitting at the bar. One of the hookers was now alone. Her companion had moved a few stools down and was sharing drinks and laughs with a fiftyish fat man in a loud sport jacket.

Jeff turned back to Lance. “I think you should get out of the country for a while, man.”

Lance’s face turned pale. He shook his head. “Get out of the country? How exactly am I gonna do that, man? Flap my arms and fly?”

“No, man. Your share of this week’s proceeds is in my car. More than twelve thousand. That’s good for traveling. Here’s how I figure it. First, we’ll get you a fake passport. I know a guy right here in Vegas, he can do it for you. Next we’ll put you on a plane for Toronto.”

“Toronto—are you kidding?”

“Somewhere else you’d rather go, someplace where the cops are clueless and you can get lost in the locals?”

“I hear the Bahamas are cool.”

“You’d stand out there, Lance, but it’s up to you.”

“What am I gonna do after I burn through the cash?”

“You got money. You made a bundle since we started.”

“It’s locked up tight in long-term investments. Anyway, you suckered me into this fucked up deal. You should cover my vacation costs.”

Jeff leaned close to Lance. “Settle down, old buddy. You’re right. I’ll take care of you. I got you into this game, and now I’m like your brother. I’m with you, man. I’m really sorry how things worked out. Say, after we get you set up, wherever you go, you and me, we’ll keep in touch. If you need money, all you gotta do is ask and I’ll send it to you American Express. So, what do you think? Where do you want to go?”

“I guess Canada’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s why I suggested it to you. It’s cold there, but they speak American. You’ll fit in fine and feel right at home.”

Lance’s eyes wandered. “How long do you think I’ll have to stay out of sight?”

“I don’t know yet. Problem is, we don’t know what the DEA guys found at the house. If they come away with nothing, they can’t make a case against you and you can come right back . . . though it might be wise to wait a few weeks, until the dust settles, I mean. If they find some solid evidence, it’ll take longer. Figure six months at the outside. Either way, you can come home and resume your normal life, you know, teaching at the college and doing your doctor’s degree at the university. Look at it that way, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Ten minutes ago you were saying this bust was the end of your life.”

“Yeah, I guess I was. Well, I changed my mind about that. Sitting here talking to you, I see things clearer. Maybe it’ll all work out for both of us somehow.”

“So, what now?”

“My car’s outside. Let’s leave right now, get you that passport, send you on your way up north.”

“I got my clothes and stuff up in my room. Can’t leave it all there.”

“Forget your stuff. The feds might have a bulletin out on you right now, maybe tapped your cell phone. You need to move quick.”

Lance looked Jeff straight in the eyes and shook his head. “No—don’t push me, man. I want to collect my belongings first.”

“Buy what you need later.”

“Fuck you, man!”

“You’re freaked by it. I can see how it’s affecting your mind.”

“I gotta call in to work, leave a message with my graduate advisor. I can’t just, like, run away without leaving an explanation.”

“You call anyone, you risk the law, they’ll listen in.”

“You’re playing mind games with my head.”

Jeff tried not to smile as he leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, okay, if that’s the way you want to do it. Let’s go up to your room. You make your calls and grab your stuff.”

Lance moved quickly, almost running to the entrance, with Jeff close behind. The cocktail waitress hopped aside to let them barge past. “Hey,” she yelled angrily, “somebody’s gotta pay for those drinks.”

They both ignored her as they went to the elevator landing and got into an elevator with two middle-aged women and a teenage boy.

The doors slid shut, and the elevator jerked upward into motion.

Jeff moved back against the rear wall, behind the other passengers. For the second time that day, he felt a sense of panic as his heart raced, his mind went numb, and he smelled the stench of his sweat.

What now?

He had to act, but what should he do? If he went up to the room with Lance, the bitch might still be there. He did not want her to see him or be there when it happened.

The elevator stopped.

The doors opened and one of the women got off.

The doors closed, and the elevator jerked back into upward motion.

Maybe the bitch had left. He could chance it and go on up there. It was risky.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The middle-aged woman and teenager—they must be mother and son—stepped off the elevator.

The doors closed. Two more floors to go.

Without even thinking, Jeff found the Glock in his right hand. Following through, he raised it, pulled the trigger, and fired into the back of Lance’s head, splattering blood and brain fragments onto the steel doors and peppering his own face with wet blood as Lance bolted forward then down onto the vibrating floor. He looked down at Lance’s bloody head and hair, pointed the pistol down, and fired a second shot into the back of the head. He stepped back and waited.

The elevator stopped.

The doors slowly opened.

Standing there were a young couple and a small boy. They looked in, taking a moment to process and comprehend the scene. The eyes of the man and woman grew wide.

The woman screamed. Man and boy did not react.

Jeff ran out the door and fled left down the hallway, passing an approaching old man who observed him with indifference. Reaching the hallway end, he opened the exit door and ran down the stairs two at a time. He stopped on a landing four floors down, caught his breath, and continued to the ground floor. He exited the stairway at the lobby, walked to the parking lot, and handed his parking chit to a valet.

&&&

Interstate I-15 stretched straight to the flat horizon. After two hours, with the ruddy sun low, the dashboard clock read 5:46 p.m. He had a splitting headache and felt exhausted. So far today, he had driven almost 500 miles, but it was what happened during thirty minutes at the hotel that drained him. If he kept going, he would get to Santa Barbara in three more hours, but he needed to stop for gas and a beer or, on second thought, enough beers to get hammered. He drove on through the vast, empty Mohave, looking for lights and civilization. Eventually he sighted a strip mall of gas stations, fast food restaurants, a convenience store, roadhouse, and shabby motel. Tractor-trailers lined the highway’s edges and Detroit iron owned the parking lots. He pulled into a gas station, filled up, and then drove across a parking lot to a roadhouse with a red neon “DESERT RATS” sign. Three outlaw Harleys suggested kindred spirits inside an open entrance blaring honky-tonk music, loud voices, and drunken laughter. He went through a pair of saloon doors and took a bar stool near three bikers sporting colors and arguing with a feisty young chick in a tank top and shorts. He ordered a Miller’s with Jack Daniels chaser. The barman quickly brought a sweating bottle and shot glass.

Jeff put a ten on the bar.

The barman leaned across it. “You can clean up in back,” he said.

“What?” Jeff said.

“Look in the mirror, partner.”

Jeff looked.

He saw a haggard face spattered with dark spots. He downed the shot, went to the back, entered a door with a picture of a cowboy, locked it, and checked the mirror. His face, neck, and hair were peppered with red.

Two hours and countless beers later, he was sitting with the three bikers and feisty young chick trading tall stories and feeling much better.

He woke up the next morning in a motel with a hangover and remembered little of what had happened the night before. He was still dressed, with all his possessions, but his wallet was empty of folding green. His credit cards were still there. He had a terrible feeling of loss. How long, he wondered, would it last?

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Henry Simpson 2023

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