A Job to Die For

By David Larcinese

What if you were just offered a new job that pays you a lot more money? An exciting job with travel, adventure, a new car and a great expense account. A chance to solve crimes committed against some of the leading business's in the country. A chance to join an elite team of special agents assigned to clandestinely catch white collar criminals. What if you fell in love with the girl of your dreams and a chance to live a life beyond your expectations. --- What if you were to then learn that you just accepted "A Job To Die For?"

Luke Carey agrees to join a secret retail investigation company called Retail Undercover Network (R.U.N.). A company devoted to investigating corporate retail crime. Little does he know that there are forces that want him dead. Along the way he falls in love with a woman he believes could be his wife. Luke suddenly finds himself having to make a choice between investigating the crime or the woman he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Larcinese
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301636839

David Larcinese

About the Author David LarcineseDavid Larcinese spent his early career as a Store Manager of a Garden Center Chain located in Detroit Michigan. After seven years he was promoted to Director of Employee Relations and Training. It was during this time that he started technical writing and devoted much of his career in developing and writing various policy and procedures.During the next fifteen years, he developed several; technical and employee handbooks and reference materials. From product knowledge to benefit programs as well as many specialized training materials. He also produced and directed both audio and video programs utilized by various Regions to train employees.David developed the very first Point of Sale System utilizing a cash register to a mini IBM/AT Computer. It was first unveiled in the early nineteen eighties and captured specific item movement for over thirty five thousand items at store level. All Operational programs policy and procedures were developed and written at this time. He was also instrumental in the full electronic media utilized by the nursery chain that had grown to over one hundred eighty stores in fifteen states.David had also become a member of Toastmaster International were he won The Midwest Speaking Contest for Humorous Speech. His wife Annette also spent her career in retail as a Category/Space Manager and worked for various retailers and suppliers.Currently they have both recently retired after spending all of their careers in upper Retail Management. David and his wife Annette live in a small rural community fifty miles North of Detroit on a ten acre site. Currently they own four houses and enjoy the almost constant repair and updating of their properties.David and Annette have six grown children and eight grandchildren most located in up and out of state locations

Book preview

A Job to Die for

David Larcinese

Copyright 2013 by David Larcinese

SmashWords Edition

Copyright 2013 by David Larcinese

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever..

Cover by Beth Reeck

Formatting by RikHall.com

Editors

Lisa Curtis a special thanks for the first rough draft.

Ginny The Letter writer first finish copy

Eric Brown real true edit

Pam Stone last review edit

Annette Larcinese true feelings editor.

Dedication

A very special dedication to my wife Annette.

For all the encouragement, help and input. She has continued to give me inspiration even when I doubted myself.

No words can express her devotion and love.

Prologue

Las Vegas, Nevada

Frankie Tommasso glanced at his watch; 11:55 P.M. he knew that it was almost time. He had positioned himself just outside the back door of the hotel kitchen deep in the bowels of the Las Vegas Rio Casino. He kept peering into the small window cut in the door, just watching and waiting.

A little after midnight he saw one of the kitchen staff pick up the phone. Frankie knew instinctively it was the call he had been anticipating. After a week on this stakeout he knew exactly what was about to happen. Night after night the same order at the same time would be called to room service, a fruit plate and a chilled bottle of DOM. He knew the ritual, those little dumb things humans do day after day, night after night.

He continued watching through the small window as the staff prepared the fresh fruit. One of them, the tall one he had slipped a hundred dollars to for information, quickly placed the covered plate on the rolling cart with two wine glasses. Another brought over the wine and ice bucket. The waiter placed a white towel over his arm and pushed the cart through the door heading for the service elevator. He paused momentarily when he noticed Frankie and acknowledged him, quickly nodding his head as he moved towards the elevator. The waiter pushed the up button and after the door quickly slid back, he slowly pushed the cart through the opening still facing the rear of the elevator. Before the waiter could turn around, Frankie had quickly slipped in behind him. He covered the waiter’s mouth with his left hand as he expertly shoved his switch blade stiletto between the third and fourth vertebrae instantly severing the waiter’s spinal cord. There was no resistance, just one or two violent twitches and a rush of air expelled from his lungs as Frankie slowly lowered the lifeless body to the floor. No emotions, no quilt, just business. He quickly surveyed the area and closed the elevator door. After removing the knife Frankie wiped the blade on the waiter’s towel and quickly pushed the button to the penthouse; this was the only access to the top two floors of the hotel without a security card. He then removed his sports coat and the waiters red jacket. His eyes were fixed on the indicator lights, as they recorded the floor numbers. Frankie immediately slipped into the red jacket feeling the material give as he pulled it over his massive arms and shoulders. He then pulled the Glock from the nape of his back and quickly removed the silencer from his rear pocket. He had no time to waste. He expertly started to screw it into the pistol. As the floors continued to tick by, he never removed his eyes from the indicator lights, a few seconds later he was ready.

Frankie a freelance hit man was once a young up and coming guard with the late John Gotti Juniors Mob. He was in a trance as his mind was already planning the next move. He was in his mid-thirties, tall, ruggedly handsome and extremely muscular. His years spent with the Gotti Organization taught him the inner workings of the New York Mafia and the key figures. His training and background told him that his mark would have two guards stationed outside the door of his penthouse suite. If Wanda, the two thousand a night hooker he hired, followed his instructions, the rest would be easy.

He had already sent his 40mm Glock with silencer to his UPS mailbox. This gun was one of his favorites; he could break it down and assemble it in the dark. He was quite accomplished with several handguns and rifles, however; he preferred to be upfront and personal with his victims. Frankie would often reach a sexual satisfaction with their body pressed close to him, struggling, thrashing, gasping, breathing into his face; no there was nothing quite like killing someone with your own two hands. After acquiring the Glock from a break-in of a gun shop in the Queens. It was carefully packed and shipped via UPS to his mailbox in Vegas.

The elevator reached the penthouse and slightly wobbled to a stop.

Frankie took several deep breaths never really sure if it would be his last. Just after the door opened fully, the two guards in the hallway glanced momentarily in Frankie’s direction. Seeing it was room service but a different person they started to walk briskly towards the elevator. Frankie picked up the stiletto from the cart and shoved the point hard into the lit ‘open door button’. As sparks began to shoot out, he knew he had made the elevator inoperable. The two guards quickened their pace as they both reached into their breast holsters. Frankie quickly raised the Glock; two loud thumps cracked the air, ‘God’ Frankie thought, ‘I just love that sound.’ The two guards dropped like a rock just as they were drawing their guns. They reached their demise from the head shots delivered by Frankie and his faithful Glock. They were easy targets; they hit the floor just several feet from the elevator. Frankie approached the two men and calmly fired another shot into each of their lifeless bodies. Like every good hit man he delivered the ‘coup de grace,’ somehow he couldn’t stand the thought of someone living after just shooting him. It would be so shall we say so unprofessional. He quickly patted down one of the guard’s looking for the mag stripe key. Frankie quickly located it in the second guard’s shirt pocket, thereby saving the trouble of using an electronic pick. He nonchalantly slipped out of the waiter jacket that had torn all the way up the rear seam. Now his thoughts were directed to his mark, the person he would be given a rather large sum of money to eliminate. The person that would soon become his victim was Marco Branti.

Branti, a Mafia Don that was still firmly in control of one of Manhattan’s several organized crime families. He had been planning a major takeover of the other Mafia families for several years. After this short vacation in Vegas, he would be ready. Branti knew that after his return to Manhattan it would be time to consolidate his power. The government of the city, state and country all had new administrations and many of these new leaders were bought and paid for with his money. After years of waiting Branti knew he was now ready to become the one and only Godfather on Manhattan, and then all of New York.

Frankie stood by the penthouse entry door and swiped the scan key retrieved from the guards pocket to open the electronic lock. Once the LED turned green Frankie pushed the lever down and slowly opened the door, holding the Glock at the ready. He just stood for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the darkened foyer. He cautiously crept forward and despite his huge frame, was able to move like a cat. Frankie set one foot down then the other, with the grace of a ballerina. All the while listening for any sound, any hint of noise. He made his way to the faint giggling sounds at the other end of the hall. Wanda the hooker Frankie hired to show Branti a real good time was doing her job. Heading to the persistent noise, he unscrewed the silencer and returned the pistol to its holster behind his back. Tonight Branti would die, but he would die in Frankie’s arms.

The noises became louder now; he could hear Wanda laughing and Branti talking softly. There was Dean Martin playing on the sound system, this brought a snicker to Frankie lips. All the Mafia listened to Sinatra or Martin, they were like cousins. Between Wanda giggling and Dean crooning, Frankie was sure that his little episode in the hall went unheard. The bedroom door was halfway open as Frankie continued to edge his way forward. He could never explain the feeling, the unexplainable high, a deep excitement that he felt just before he committed a murder. Hell he would almost do it at no charge.

Branti was seated on the edge of the bed clad only in a white hotel towel. Wanda was naked and lying on her back as Branti was moving bits of ice from the penthouse icemaker, slowly down her cleavage. Occasionally he would lean over and lick off the moisture. Frankie continued to creep slowly towards the bed. Wanda’s eyes grew wider just before Frankie struck. Branti started to turn his head towards Wanda’s gape just before his head was almost yanked off.

What the. Branti shouted just before Frankie had pounced on him. He had wrapped one huge arm around Branti’s neck. Branti struggled to free himself as he was being pulled to his feet. He tried to cry out moving his quivering lips, but no sound was audible. He pulled at Frankie’s giant muscular arm that was squeezing the life out of him. Wanda let out a gasp as she witnessed the events unfolding before her eyes. To startled to even hide her nakedness, she jumped off the bed and held her hands over her face to shield her eyes.

The struggle was all but over. Frankie sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling the struggling Branti back on his lap. Branti continued to jerk as the last of the oxygen was expelled from his lungs. His face was contorted, eyes bulging grotesquely; his face was bluish-red in color and it had death written all over it. Then suddenly it was over Branti’s body slumped totally limp. At that very moment, Frankie’s eyes rolled back in his head as he reached an orgasmic climax.

Wanda was just standing there, biting her lips as she continued to watch the sequence of events. Frankie stood up still holding Branti’s flaccid body; he then laid it in the bed on his side as if Branti was sleeping. Wanda continued frozen in her position as Frankie walked towards her. He had a large smile on his face as he brushed a tear from her face with his surgical gloved hand. He held her trembling chin in his hand as he kissed her tenderly on the lips. He brought his other hand around the back of her head and in one swift motion twisted it. There was a loud snap. Her eyes just stared at him as he carried her to the bed next to Branti.

After he spent a few minutes arranging the body in a sleeping position, he stepped back to almost admire his creation. On his way out Frankie hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob. He high stepped over the two guard’s bodies grabbed his sport coat from the service elevator and exited the penthouse using the stairway to a lower floor before hopping an elevator to the casino. Once at ground floor he removed and discarded the latex gloves he had been wearing. He grabbed a Scotch on the rocks and mingled with the crowd of hopeful gamblers still in the casino.

Chapter One

Scott Mason slowly pulled his black Lincoln to the curb. He could feel a twinge of unexplainable excitement as he carefully surveyed the surrounding street and sidewalk. Detroit’s old warehouse district was not quite the place to be when the sun went down. It was a strange and edgy neighborhood. A rather obnoxious mixture of rundown residential homes, commercial stores, and industrial buildings, it was as if no one ever heard of zoning.

His heart was beating faster as he took a deep breath, grabbed his gym bag and swiftly exited the car. He paused momentarily and turned his head from right to left as he continued to observe his surroundings. His mind seemed to be racing in a thousand directions all at once. For the first time Scott was beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps he should have revealed his plans and asked for back up, then again he always believed if you don’t want to be told ‘no,’ then don’t ask. He knew that he had to follow his instincts without intervention. On the other hand, standing there in the Inner City all alone does cause a certain amount of trepidation. He was fighting his emotions and fighting his feelings to just forget the whole thing. Scott shook his head as if trying to shake those thoughts out of his mind.

Scott walked with a moderate gait, trying to call as little attention to himself as possible. He reflected that choosing this particular time of night, 1:00 AM, was good: the working stiffs would be sleeping and the partygoers would not be on the street until the bars closed at 2:00 AM The troublemakers and police patrol cars would likely not be on the lookout for each other until even later. Scott figured his only possible threat would be from the boys sitting on their porches having a couple of beers, smoking a few joints, talking jive, ready to do shit to strangers who happened to stray into their ‘hood. For this reason, Scott continued to move his head right to left, trying to focus through the darkness that enveloped every porch, desperately hoping not to see the glow of a burning cigarette butt. His ears were pricked, trying to hear any sound that might reveal the presence of some neighborhood night owl who would view his stroll down the block with great curiosity and suspicion.

His mind wondered as he reflected how much this felt like he was out on patrol, walking the streets of Hamburg, Germany, searching for military personnel that were getting themselves into trouble. Most of the military had no use for the MPs, in fact they hated the MP’s guts. Those years had honed his skills and taught him that scum balls came in many colors and that there were many men who were truly evil.

He looked at each and every house; some were pitch dark; some had lights on; some with just the dim green glow of flickering television sets. He heard dogs barking and a distant hum of traffic. He could feel his heart beat a little faster as he got a glance of the warehouse in the distance. Occasionally a car would drive down the street, some slowing as they passed. Each time, Scott hunched his shoulders, stared down at the ground and tugged the hoodie down trying to conceal his white face and golden hair. Every passing car caused reactions: his heart would start racing and his face would become flushed with heat. After the car had passed, the feeling of being alone started creeping back and it started to remind him of his years spent as an MP.

When he graduated from Oakland University with his degree in law enforcement, Scott enlisted in the military, requesting to be assigned to the Military Police. He reasoned that this would give him the necessary practical experience he needed to be accepted into the Michigan State Police Department, his lifelong goal.

After his tour of duty, with the economy in ruins and cutbacks with law enforcement personnel the norm, Scott still wanted to catch crooks, but he never imagined, that after all his years of training, he would find himself in his current dilemma.

With the warehouse now in clear view, Scott concentrated his attention on the massive building and the surrounding area. The warehouse looked much more formidable than during the daytime when he had cased the place. He knew where the loading docks were located and had already determined that his best bet was to gain entrance by force. The docks were located towards the rear of the building, the access blocked by fencing with razor wire and a padlocked gate with security wires. He moved swiftly down the driveway, staying in the shadows as much as possible, keeping out of the ever-present light.

Reaching the entry gate, Scott already planned his next move. He knew he could not cut off the lock or chain with the alarm system activated. He could not climb the ten-foot high fence with razor wire stretched between its poles. He knew his only hope, the only way in, was to go under the fence. This could be done by cutting the wire tie downs around the bottom railing. Quickly he removed the bolt cutters from his bag and proceeded to snip off about ten feet of tie downs. Lifting the bottom of the chain link fence, he was able to push his bag under, then lift and roll himself under the fence to the other side. He quickly moved to the safety of the darkness.

When Scott had cased the warehouse earlier in the week, he had discovered that one of the rollup doors had been locked on the outside with a heavy duty padlock. He believed that although it was hardened steel, it could be cut. ‘Why was this locked on the outside?’ he wondered. The only possible explanation was that it was done to allow easy access afterhours. Scott theorized this would be his only way into the warehouse. Before he could pull his bolt cutter out of his bag, he thought he heard a distant sound.

Instinctively, he turned to see beams of headlamps piercing the darkness from the entrance gate. Crap, he mumbled, as he looked for someplace to hide. ‘No place!’ he cried out in his mind. Standing there in the middle of the dock area he was trapped. Scott’s eyes darted around frantically, searching, trying to locate an area that would provide a small measure of hope. Glancing once again towards the entrance, his heart skipped several beats as he saw the beams of the headlights bouncing, lapping at the darkness. ‘It’s coming.’ He knew the vehicle was moving toward him; within seconds he would be discovered. ‘Not good. Not good at all,’ he thought.

Quickly Scott moved toward the darkness of the corner of the cement entrance stairwell. Maybe … maybe … he whispered. If he were lucky, the darkness in the corner would provide a measure of hope. Besides, what other options did he have? Stooping down with his back towards the corner, Scott assumed a fetal position against the block wall. He was completely in the shade of the stairwell, crunching himself into its darkness, pulling his hood once again over his head. Folding his arms around his knees to hide the whiteness of his hands, he buried his face in his arms so that only his eyes peeked out.

Squatting there, Scott’s mind flashed back to being stationed in Germany. His one true friend in the service, a fellow MP, Jerry Evans, and he were out on patrol. Jerry was his senior officer, having been an MP for three years. Jerry had one more year of duty and was dying to return to his girl from Gary, Indiana. All he wanted was to get stateside, get hired by the local police department, get married, and then make babies.

Driving their Jeep up and down Hamburg’s underbelly, the area where sailors and the army came to relieve steam, Evans brought the jeep to a screeching stop, and shut down the engine. He motioned Scott to be quiet. Hearing screams and what appeared to be breaking glass, Evans motioned Scott to follow along the other side of the alley. Carrying their white nightsticks and side arms, they ventured side by side down the dark alley toward the noise. Slowly they made their way deeper and deeper and further from the jeep.

Suddenly they heard the Jeep’s tires squeal and then drive off. Evans ran over to Scott shouting, Trap! It’s a trap! Get the hell out of here! Hide if you can.

Scott remembered running as fast as he could, quickly passing Evans, as they sprinted down the alley. Scott lost Evans somewhere back there then found himself searching for a place to hide. It was then, almost out of desperation, that he saw the stairwell. He immediately crouched down against a brick wall in the corner of the stairwell, completely out of steam and totally out of breath. He quickly removed his MP helmet and sat on it. Then he tore off his white MP armband and squatted on his white spats. There in the shadows, he just listened, and waited, trying to concentrate on any sound over the deafening beating of his own heart.

Suddenly, footsteps, lots of them, caused him to swallow his own breath. In that instant he stopped breathing, stopped all movement, and then he saw the enemy. Four Army privates were acting out their basic training drills and flushing out the hiding foes. They were looking for Scott. Then, all at once, four more appeared, but these were carrying Evans like a tree above their heads. Without hesitation, the four tossed Evans onto the brick pavers. The other four became distracted from their search and joined their buddies. Evans was already bleeding from the head, nose, and mouth. He was in pretty bad shape. He grunted loudly as he hit the ground. Then, after a second, he stood up. Scott thought to himself, ‘Stay down, Jerry. Stay down, damn it!’

Evans stood up and then almost fell back down. The eight Army men surrounded him and Evans just stood there with wobbly knees. Scott sat with his back towards the wall, in the shadows of the stairwell, out of sight, pondering his next move. Then, one at a time, each man started to punch Evans, laughing, taunting him as they continued to pound on him. Cold sweat dripped down Scott's forehead; he could feel it stopping at his eyebrows. His pulse was racing and his breathing was deep and almost strained. He could almost hear his heart beating. He was a ball of nervous energy.

‘Damn!’ he thought. ‘I don’t want to be a dead hero. I don’t want to die in Germany, fighting Americans.’

He yelled, You assholes! and charged the group out of the shadows of the night. The eight men seemed to cower at the charging MP. Swinging his baton, Scott cracked one man over the back of the head and another across the jaw. These two were definitely out of action. MP training 101: Make sure your enemy stays down when you hit him.

Scott then found himself in the middle of the circle, facing six burly men. Evans was down and out. Scott hoped he had not waited too long to join in the melee. He began to fight on pure instinct, using his baton as only one with months of training could do. He rushed one man, faked a hit to his head, and drove the baton deep into the guy’s ribs, hearing the crunching of breaking bones. Another rushed to the aid of his fallen comrade. Scott caught him with a full swing across his knee. As he bent in pain, Scott brought the baton across the back of his head, hearing the sickening sound of bone against hardened plastic.

Four left, and Scott was completely out of control. Like a gladiator, he had become a killing machine, a man possessed. If he had had a sword instead of a plastic stick, four American soldiers would be dead. Scott looked into the eyes of each of his remaining foes and saw fear. His breathing came in large gulps. He yelled with each swing of the baton, pouring spent air out of his lungs.

Scott decided to attack and charged the four of them, scoring one or two positive hits. Then the lights went out, extreme pain searing through his back. Goodnight! he remembered hearing someone yell.

Hey ugly, can you hear me? Scott awoke in the hospital to find Evans’ face just inches from his, staring into his eyes. Scott … Scott, can you hear me?

Yeah, and you’re uglier than me, he remembered whispering.

Evans went on to fill in the details of that night. He told Scott that he had ended up taking out six of their assailants. Then apparently he was dropped by a wine bottle to the back of his neck, requiring twenty-six stitches. Another twenty-four stitches in his head, caused by a brick or rock. Plus he had sixteen stitches on his face, caused by the two soldiers that were left trying to play soccer with his head.

Why didn’t you pull your .45 and at least fire off a couple of warning shots?

I’m afraid I did something that no police officer should do: I lost my temper, Scott replied. After watching them beat you up, I just wanted to hurt someone, not scare them.

Well, Evans continued his face still close to Scott’s, you certainly did that.

He remembered staring at Evans. What? What’s the matter? asked Evans, as he caught something in Scott’s gaze. Jer, I’ve got to be honest with you. I froze up. I saw them kicking the hell out of you and I just froze up. I finally jumped in when I thought they would kill you. But honest to God, Jerry, I froze up big time.

Evans jumped up and pointed his finger right at Scott’s head. His face was beet red, when he blurted, Sweet Jesus, what you did was freaking spectacular! You took out six douche bags at one time. I remember hitting the pavement and within minutes you were there. Evans pulled back in his chair.

Do you really want to know the truth, Scott? If the roles were reversed, I probably would not have had the balls to save your sorry ass. Tears welled up in his eyes. Don’t you underestimate what you did that night?

When Scott returned to duty, he and Evans were like Siamese twins the balance of his tour. They did everything together. All of the eight bad guys were rounded up, faced a court-martial and mandatory sentencing. Scott was decorated for saving Evans’ life, after Evans glowing report of Scott’s heroics. For the remainder of his tour, Scott received a lot of recognition from the other MPs in his unit.

The following year Evans was honorably discharged of active duty and was leaving for home in Gary. Scott saw him off.

At the airport Evans was extremely quiet. Scott couldn’t quite sense what was wrong. Suddenly the big guy put his arms around Scott and all but lifted him off his feet, hugging him so hard that he squeezed his breath away. You know, Jer, in the right light you are a stunning example of a male, Scott lisped in his friend’s ear. If you got the time, the two of us could make love behind the counter over there.

Evans looked into his eyes, a large grin on his face. Do you think we’ll have the time? At this statement, they began to laugh uncontrollably. Grasping each other, they hugged. Thanks, Buddy, Evans mumbled. They looked at each other and promised to stay in touch. As Evans was walking down the jet way he turned and shouted, Scott! Scott, I want you to be my best man if Linda will still have me. Is it a deal?

Scott shouted back, Deal! Just let me know the time and the place, I’ll be there. But you’re so ugly; don’t count on her saying yes! Evans flashed his award-winning smile, gave a thumb up, and disappeared from view down the jet way.

Scott’s brief flashback was suddenly interrupted by the blaring beat of a sound system on too many steroids. Thump, thump, thump!

The pickup truck, with Security printed on the side door, drove by and then came to a screeching halt. The door swung open and a man in a gray security uniform bolted out from the driver’s side. Scott pushed further against the corner of the steps as the driver walked over to the padlock on the last bay door.

Thump, thump, thump, the music was blaring. He could make out the singing now: With Arms Wide Open.

Scott realized that if this guy were going to check every door, he would soon be discovered. He had not taken a breath for what seemed like minutes, like the security guard would hear him breathing over the blare of the music. ‘Who in the hell is singing?’ he wondered almost more as a diversion from the imminent danger. Scott gasped as he noticed his black gym bag sitting exposed alongside the stairwell. ‘Oh great! One more nail in my coffin,’ he thought.

Looking over at the security guard, Scott knew he could easily overpower this skinny kid and get out of there before being discovered.

The security guard ran back to the truck, slid into the driver’s seat, turned on the interior lights, and checked himself out in the rear view mirror. The music continued to blare out of the open window; Scott could now hear the song more clearly.

Scott’s mind whirled, With Arms Wide Open. ‘Wish my arms were wide open’ he thought. He stared at the truck, his eyes fixed on the slightest movement. The guard picked up a clipboard, scribbled some notes and, in one swift movement, shut off the interior lights, dropped it in gear and sped off. Scott inhaled deeply and continued to listen, as the thumping sounds faded into the distance.

Standing once again, Scott pondered his next move. He glanced at his watch: 1:20 A.M. Security made their rounds every hour. Apparently this particular security guard had distractions that kept him from being too punctual.

‘It’s time to break in. It’s time to do what you came to do.’

Scott stood up shaking from the pain in his knees and calves. He surveyed the area one more time. It was then that he spotted another door at the corner of the building. Apparently he had missed it until now. This area was used by the security guard to check inbound and outbound freight. He reached down, grabbed his black gym bag and, without hesitation, moved toward his new discovery. He was looking for any other way in besides blowing a bicep on the padlock. He reached out and slowly tried to turn the doorknob. It was locked securely.

He viewed the sliding glass window that was used by the daytime security guard to yell directions to the truck drivers. Scott reached out without hesitation and gently pushed the corner edge of the window frame. It moved just a little. He pushed the corner again, even harder. The window continued to open. ‘I’ll be damned.’ A deep smile creased his face as he pushed the sliding glass to the side. He threw in his bag and then hopped in with one very well executed jump. Scott just stood there for a second, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, and somewhat in disbelief of this stroke of good luck. He then picked up his bag and set it on the desk, looking out the window as he slowly closed it. He opened the bag and began to rummage around until he found his Mag-lite. He continued to fumble around until he located his nightstick, the only weapon he brought with him. He snapped the baton onto his belt and then lit the flashlight for just a second. After getting a general layout of the room, he moved cautiously to where he spotted another door. Gripping the knob, he found this door open. Walking through the door, he allowed it to close solidly behind him before turning on the flashlight. He noticed the time clock hanging on the wall. The illuminated screen read 1:26 A.M.

He made his way down the hallway, the Mag light beam casting a shadow of light on the neatly hung safety posters, Teamster memos, and OSHA bulletins. Stopping at the timecard rack, Scott held the flashlight so that he could read the names. One at a time, from the top, he continued to peruse the cards until he came across the name, Michael Davis, Emp. #D1435. Scott recognized the name as that of the driver who always made the Philly run. Scanning down he found that Davis punched out at 11:30 PM, just a couple of hours ago.

He turned the light down the hallway. Slowly Scott moved, searching every door marker, past the lunchroom, with its banks of vending machines and their lights glowing in a palette of colors. His light stopped on the marker, Christopher Mac Avee, Manager Transportation.

Using his pry bar and screwdriver, Scott made short order of gaining access to the locked desk and storage cabinet. He found what he was looking for: A bill of lading for a shipment of goods received that evening. The bill clearly showed a backhaul of goods received that very evening.

Gotcha, he mumbled to himself. Scott knew instinctively that he had a valuable piece of the puzzle. He put the paper into his bag, closed the cabinet doors, closed the desk drawers, the center one suffering from pry bar damage, and, in general, tried to return the room to its original condition as best he could.

Shutting off the lights as he left, Scott cautiously opened the door and peered down the hallway, seeing nothing but the glow of the lunchroom and time clock. He switched on his flashlight and started searching the nameplates on the wall: Mary Pierce, Inventory Control; Paul Thieson, Distribution Manager; Neil Olden, Receiving Manager.

Scott stopped outside this office last office. Olden was the one who furnished the reports. Scott quickly entered the office, switched on the lights, shut the door, and glanced at his watch: 1:45. Without hesitation, he proceeded to the desk and there, lying on top, was the incoming manifest. Scott scanned down to the last entry, Trailer #63, from Philadelphia: Back hauls, NONE; Vendor, NONE; Bill of Lading #, NONE. It was signed Michael Davis.

No back hauls. You lying sack of shit, Scott declared. He wanted to take it with him, but decided he would wait until Monday, when he would get the final approved copy. It’s show time, Scott whispered as he left. Scott continued down the hall until he reached the warehouse door. Holding his breath, Scott pushed the door open a crack. Peeking through the opening, all he could see was pitch black.

He entered the vastness of the shipping and receiving area. Turning on the flashlight, the beam of light almost got swallowed by the total darkness. Scott found himself disoriented as he tried to figure out his location. Which way should he head? ‘God damn it, think!’ He stood still for a second, recounting his movements. ‘You were headed north down the hall, the loading docks are west, which means you should turn left.’ He focused his beam to the left and found a grouping of neatly parked lift trucks, all having their batteries recharged. He continued past them into the dark abyss of the warehouse. The flashlight pierced the darkness as he made his way slowly in what he hoped was the right direction. After about 200 feet, he noticed several carts, hand jacks and dollies, arranged neatly along the one wall.

‘I’ve got to be close,’ he thought. Raising the beam of light as straight forward as possible, he could just make out the rollup door marked #1. He continued moving cautiously toward the receiving dock, scanning the floor back and forth so that he would not trip over any merchandise or pallets.

Once there, he scanned around and continued to shine his beam in a northerly direction. Can’t see shit, he mumbled. He continued moving toward the last bay, the one that had the outside padlock securing it. In what seemed like an eternity, Scott reached his goal. There, caught in his flashlight beam, were four pallets, with their shrink-wrapped, neatly stacked boxes. He approached the pallets somewhat apprehensively. He squinted to read the case marking through the shrink-wrap: Pickles, product of Spain.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Scott’s mind was racing. ‘Why have an unrecorded back haul of pickles? This makes no sense.’ Although he did not know what he might find, the last thing he expected as contraband was pickles.

He put the light under his arm, opened up his bag again and, reaching in, he felt along the bottom of the bag. ‘Where are you, you little son of a bitch? Gotcha!’ Scott pulled out his box cutter, figuring to take a closer look at the cases. Standing on his tiptoes, he carefully cut a small square in the top of the carton. He reached in and slowly extracted a bottle of pickles.

Thump, Thump, Thump, Scott’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at his watch 1:48. It was the security guard, only this time he was early. He cut off the flashlight and stood frozen, hoping that the light left no telltale sign around the cracks of the rollups. He just stood there in the pitch black, pickles in one hand, flashlight in the other.

Suddenly his pulse raced as he heard the rattling of the lock. He was cognizant of every sound. He realized it was the guard; dutifully making sure the padlock was closed. He also heard Born in the USA blaring from the guard’s truck.

Scott could not help but grin, thinking of his predicament. He was standing in the dark, in some god-forsaken warehouse in Detroit, holding a jar of pickles in his hand, listening to the Boss sing Born in The USA. Could life get much better than this?

He heard the truck drive off and Scott waited a full five minutes before turning on his flashlight again.

He held up the jar, trying to study the contents. ‘Looks like pickles to me,’ he thought. He realized that there was only one thing to do. He calmly twisted the lid off the jar.

As he pulled it opened, he stood dumbfounded by what he found. Attached to the lid was a green plastic vial. He determined it was one-half inch by four inches long. A strong smell of garlic, dill and vinegar permeated the air around him.

Scott examined the lid carefully. The vial appeared to be glued to the lid with silicone. Cautiously, he snapped off the vial and held it up to the light. He proceeded to slowly unscrew the top of the vial. He held his light into the green glass vial: it was filled with a brown paste.

He took a whiff of the lid and then sniffed the vial. He recognized the smell immediately from his days spent in the alleys of Munich. ‘Opium. No doubt about it,’ he thought. ‘Goddamn opium.’

His mind raced with the implications: where there’s opium, there’s smuggling and organized crime. ‘Christ this is big time.’

So this was what it was all about; this was the problem deep in this company. Scott sealed the green vial and placed it in his bag. He closed the pickle jar and placed it back into the case. Time to get the hell out of here, he murmured to himself.

Hurriedly, Scott began the long trip back through the unyielding darkness. On his way back, Scott‘s mind raced with the excitement of his new findings; then he began to think of his immediate plans. He would return to his apartment, write a short report of his discovery, and catch some Z’s. He would call his boss in early morning to report directly about the backhaul of dope. Once he filed all of the daily reports, he would drive to Gary, Indiana to visit Jer and Linda. Josh was having a birthday party and Uncle Scott was to be the guest of honor.

Suddenly Scott’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the bay door opening. Reflexively he snapped off the flashlight and stood in absolute silence as he strained to hear any noise. He realized he was only half way back to the guard shack and freedom. Maybe they were back to pick up a load of pickles. He deluded himself with these thoughts until he heard the barking of a dog. His heart jumped immediately into his throat. ‘They’re not after the pickles; they are after me! I’ll bet there is some type of silent alarm,’ Scott thought, trying to gain his composure. He knew that with opium lying around, when the alarm sounded the monitors of the system didn’t call the police; they called the owners of the dope.

Scott felt his way forward like a blind man, arms outstretched in front of him, shuffling his feet along the floor, trying not to trip or run into anything as he made his way across the pitch black nothingness in front of him. He reasoned that he needed to head toward the storage bays and get as high as he could, especially with a dog on his trail. His right hand brushed the shelving. He snapped on the flashlight for a millisecond to view his position. He then quickly climbed the warehouse pallet racking and squeezed between some pallets of stock.

Just then Scott gulped as he could see banks of lights being turned on, first on the other side of the warehouse, but slowly marching their way toward him. He realized his position was hopeless.

When the light above him pierced the darkness, Scott adjusted his entire body to provide better coverage and maneuverability.

More voices, he could feel his heart pounding in his throat. He was worried the noise from it would give away his position. His pulse was racing; beads of sweat trickled down the small of his back.

Then he heard it, the faint growl of a dog, and the ticking of its