Tillamook Run

By Will Dixon

If Carl Hiaasen and Janet Evanovich were to write a book about the Oregon Coast, this could be the story.
The armored car’s regular collection route was key to their cunning scheme. Charlie and Ray were going to hijack the Tillamook run. They carefully plan and cleverly execute this ingenious casino heist right under the nose of Steve Crenshaw, a dedicated Portland cop driven by an obsession for justice. The crooks are briefly sidetracked by the bumbling capers of two goofy local hoodlums, but Charlie and Ray soon recover their loot and stash it safely in Portland.
James Jenkins, Steve’s mentor and Sheriff of Tillamook County, assists him in pursuing the casino thieves. Steve also has the loyal support of Brenda, his quirky and alarmingly skillful Precinct Dispatcher who harbors a secret passion for him. Steve works relentlessly to find the criminals. His inability to resolve the case leaves him feeling frustrated, discouraged and defeated. In a tragic incident, he mistakenly shoots a local ghetto youth. Unable to forgive himself, he descends into a deep depression. On administrative leave, he withdraws from everyone, sadly ending a blossoming romance with an attractive neighbor. Finally, after a period of morbid penitence, Brenda’s unconventional amorous approach enables Steve to find absolution and a path to recovery. He resumes his police duties and pursues his fanatical quest with renewed zeal.
Ultimately, a prim little waitress with an awkward flatulence problem, a cranky steelhead trout, a box of Voodoo donuts and a bright but kooky Precinct Dispatcher with exotic lusts, each play a unique role in this perfect crime. Steve’s perseverance is finally rewarded when he suddenly recognizes a clue that enables him discover the identity of the casino robbers. He
frantically races to arrest the thieves before they leave the country, but his desperate effort is thwarted by a stampeding herd of squealing pigs, and the criminals slip through his grasp.
Defeated, dejected and wounded, he returns to the Precinct office where he is astonished to discover that Brenda's deft but illicit tactics have brought this caper to a surprising conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Dixon
• Release date: Sep 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310161414

Book preview

Chapter 1

Charlie’s plan was ingenious. His flawless scheme had its beginning nearly five years ago, when Ray Gibbs was stretched out on a skateboard beneath a new black Escalade, stealthily removing its transmission under the cover of darkness. His buddy, George Pollock, was standing behind the luxury SUV keeping watch. Supposedly. Instead, Georgie was totally absorbed in a game on his iPhone when Officer Kevin Barkley approached him.

You’re out pretty late, son, the officer observed.

Yes, sir.

Shouldn’t you be home by now, doing your homework?

Ray froze beneath the car. He immediately surmised what was happening. Slowly and quietly he scooted himself forward on the skateboard and slid from beneath the front of the car. In the darkness, he was able to roll around the corner of the building without the officer noticing him.

Well, my friend’s dad was supposed to pick me up, Georgie fibbed, stepping away from the Escalade. I guess I’d better take the bus home.

Yes, you do that, urged the officer, as Georgie turned to leave.

Behind the building, Ray stood up, grabbed his skateboard and quietly jogged to the next block. There he swiftly wheeled his way down Yamhill Street to the MAX station, climbed aboard a waiting train, and safely disappeared into the night unnoticed. And that should have been the end of the whole unfortunate ordeal.

However, at that very moment, Miriam Roehling, owner of the Escalade, left her office next door, boldly striking her stilettos in swift staccato steps across the damp pavement toward her car. Elegant woman—handsome face, well-coiffed hair, petite figure. She wore a black silk Sue Wong cocktail dress flaring just below the knees and carried a Versace purse that matched her shoes. She unlocked the Escalade with a remote beep, beep, and proffered a cursory smile at Barkley.

Anything wrong, officer? A slight trace of Jean Patou’s Joy scented the air with its enchanting jasmine mystery.

Not at all, ma’am. The lad and I were just having a chat.

Well, okay then. Have a nice night. She tucked firm, Nautilus-toned buns behind the wheel, settled into the cushy heated leather seat, and fired up the ignition. What happened next sounded like an alien space ship crashing into a prune juice cannery at warp speed. Red warning lights on her dashboard flashed like a 747 out of fuel over the Pacific, descending rapidly.

Jesus! she screeched, pounding the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!!!"

Easy, ma’am. Everything’s going to be okay. Officer Barkley tried to convey calm reassurance as he peered beneath her car on one knee. Looks like you dropped your transmission.

It is NOT going to be okay, goddammit! she shrieked. This CAN’T be happening to me. I’ve got to be at a fundraiser five minutes ago. WEYERHAEUSER is going to be there, for chrissake. Ms. Roehling was the generously paid executive director of Wilderness For Everyone, a not-for-profit organization funded primarily by the forest products industry to dispense their thinly veiled propaganda.

Observing the tools scattered beneath Ms. Roehling’s car, Officer Barkley quickly realized what must have happened. He sprang to his feet and chased after Georgie. Grabbing the kid by the shoulder, he dragged him back to the scene and began piecing together the evidence. When Ms. Roehling vociferously disclosed her marital relationship to the senior United States Senator from Oregon, Officer Barkley decided to call for assistance. As soon as the other officers arrived, Barkley ushered the furious woman to his patrol car and briskly chauffeured her to her party. Blue lights flashed as they sped down Interstate 5 all the way to Lake Oswego, the siren’s wail barely covering Miriam’s enraged bellowing.

That should have been the end to the sorry incident. Georgie Pollock should have taken the rap. Probably would have gotten probation. Decent kid. Cooperative parents. No drugs involved. No previous. No big deal. There were too many rapes, murders, and drug busts to bother prosecuting petty stuff like this. But Miriam screamed relentlessly, making her husband swear he’d have the bad guys put behind bars. She’d been terribly inconvenienced and totally embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Poor dear. So the cops squeezed Georgie Pollock hard, even though everything they had on him was circumstantial. He could have denied everything—claimed he was just standing there. His prints were not found on anything. But Georgie was scared, and the cops offered him a deal. So he squealed and fingered Ray Gibbs. The Escalade’s transmission was to have gone to Swensen’s Auto Body Shop, where Charlie, the owner, was in the process of repairing a similar Escalade. Fortunately, Georgie had not been informed of that part of the plan.

To make things worse, Ms. Roehling’s Escalade was actually listed as a Local Travel Resource, a line item in her husband’s Senate Office budget. Technically that made the car federal property. Add to that the fact that Ray Gibbs had been involved in similar nefarious activities a couple of years prior to this arrest. At that time, the police had discovered a storehouse of auto parts in Ray’s parents’ garage. Ray had opted for a year in Afghanistan over doing jail time. The army was desperate for recruits. So, with a previous conviction, the car being federal property, and an ambitious judge hungry for appointment favors from the Senator, Gibbs got dealt the maximum sentence. It was a bum deal all around.

But all this was behind him. Ray had served his time and now he was going home. Charlie should be there to pick him up any minute now.

Chapter 2

Sergeant Steve Crenshaw was exhausted as he returned to the Precinct Office on Northeast Emerson. Brenda, the Precinct Dispatcher, greeted him with a sympathetic frown. She smelled like licorice. Brenda always smelled like licorice.

I watched morning’s news about that horrible accident down at the Rose Quarter last night. That was you down there, right? Steve nodded. Sorry, Steve, that must have been tough.

All in the line of duty. Steve brushed it off, finding himself a cup of coffee, but Brenda could tell he was hurting.

Sorry, anyway, Steve. Brenda had huge, dark eyes. Like charcoal, ready to throw on the grill. She wasn’t attractive in a knockout sort of way. But kind of cute and sort of perky. Pixie hair. Quirky Tina Fey smile. Little ski slope nose. Decent figure. Nice legs. Pretty smart, easy going. She had a reputation for being nuts about uniforms, and some of the guys had hinted to Steve that she had her eyes on him. Steve wasn’t interested. He wasn’t that hard up. Not that he was all that great of a catch himself, but…. Well, okay, maybe he was interested. A little. But not ready. Not just yet.

Licorice? Geeze!

Steve walked back to his cubicle and cleared off a place on his desk for his coffee just as the telephone rang.

Yo, Steve. It’s me, Brenda. I’ve got some weirdo on the phone asking for Sergeant Crenshaw.

Oh, great. Thanks, Brenda. Go ahead and put him through.

Crenshaw, he rasped, clearing his throat as he reached for his coffee.

Yes, Sergeant. I’d like to file a report. The caller was obviously trying to disguise his voice, and quickly awakened Sergeant Crenshaw’s suspicion.

Okay, go ahead, sir. He readied a pencil in his hand.

Yes, Officer. I’m quite upset. There are two dozen naked females here parading across the grass right in front of me. It’s indecent, I tell you. Disgusting! Crenshaw broke into a wide grin as he deciphered the voice. He leaned back in his chair and raised his polished black shoes to the surface of a tired desk laden with stacks of files and disorderly piles of paper.

Yes, sir. And might those lovely ladies just happen to be Holsteins?

Why you sly and perceptive officer. You’re on to my game.

James, you worthless reprobate. How are things down at the coast? James Jenkins, his long time friend and mentor was now Sheriff of Tillamook County, eighty miles west of Portland, on the Oregon coast. James had been a Captain on the Portland force when Steve first joined the department after dropping out of law school ten years ago. James had taken Steve under his wing and mentored his career development from the start, before becoming Sheriff of Tillamook County. He’d been a very good friend.

James said, It’s pretty quiet down here in the land of ‘Seas, Cheese, and Ocean Breeze.’ How goes it up there in the beautiful Rose City?

So-so, Steve muttered. Late night last night.

You’re in nice and early this morning.

Places to go and things to do. Jenkins’ silences had a way of inviting him to say more, if he wished. Steve’s shirt smelled of stale sweat and fatigue. Actually I haven’t been home yet.

You sound weary. Too much B&G?

What?

Blood and gore, quipped Jenkins. That’s one thing I don’t miss about the big city. Gangs, homicide, rape, drive-by shootings, all that jazz.

Well, there wasn’t much B&G by the time I arrived on the scene last night. Steve soothed his throat with a bitter gulp of tepid coffee. Mostly toast. He could sense Jenkins’ sympathetic ear. Big wreck over by the coliseum last night. A guy was coming home from a Blazers game last night with his two kids, and got nailed by a gasoline truck. I was first on the scene. Pretty big mess. And I had to notify his wife. Always hate that job.

James gave a sympathetic grunt. Whose fault?

Looks like it was the truck driver’s. He wasn’t hurt, of course, but probably DUII and no license.

Damn!

"He tried to make a turn from the wrong lane and boom, chicherones! Happened just after midnight last night."

Oh, geeze.

Steve wiped a salty dampness from the corners of his eyes. Those kids didn’t have a chance, dammit, James. The dad got his door open, but the flames hit him so quick he didn’t even have time to unfasten his seatbelt. It was… pretty gruesome. Tough to see. Could have been me in there, I guess. And I can’t get away from that awful smell. Crenshaw fought back a wave of nausea.

Can be a bummer, some days. James sympathized with Steve’s anguish. He had frequently dealt with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder among his fellow officers over the years. Look, we should get together for coffee. Soon.

Great. I’d like that. As a matter of fact, I’ll be down your way next week.

Steve was planning to go down to the coast on his day off to spend some time with Matt Cameron, an old law school classmate and the Native American brains behind the Winds of Fortune Casino. He’d go down Wednesday night after work, meet Matt at the casino and then spend the night at his place. They’d walk the beach the next morning because there was a very low tide that day. Then Steve could meet James for lunch that afternoon before returning to Portland.

James said, Sounds good to me. Why don’t we meet at Dottie’s Donut Dinette?

Steve asked, Where’s that?

Right downtown. On Third just off Highway 101 before you get to Dellman’s IGA. Can’t miss it.

Okay. Steve quickly jotted down the directions.

I’ll introduce you to Missy. I think you’ll like her.

Coffee and a sandwich is all I need, James. And some quality time with you.

You don’t use it, you’ll lose it, Steve.

I can always find it with my right hand.

Okay, Steve. Gotta go. Keep your eyes open. And take care of yourself, okay? See you Thursday.

Steve’s face stretched a reluctant smile in anticipation of being with his old friend again. James Jenkins was as close to a father as he had. Steve felt better now. He decided he’d go to the gym and work out. Then, after a shower, he’d head home for a quick bite to eat and a change of clothes. And, who knows, maybe even a power nap.

Chapter 3

A dark silhouette huddled near the gates of the Sheridan Federal Correction Facility as Charlie drove up the gravel entrance. Ray opened the door and wedged himself into the seat as Charlie pulled back onto the highway.

Been waiting long?

Four years, seven months and twenty-six days, Ray growled.

You okay, Ray?

Wonderful. Fucking, goddammed wonderful. Ray’s sarcasm could have curdled fresh goats’ milk before it hit the pail. Charlie drove several miles before deciding to try it again. How was it for you in there?

I managed.

Pretty bad?

Not really. Ray lied. Did nothing but pump iron and fix the guards’ cars. Maybe watch some TV.

You repaired cars in the pen?

Ran a regular full service garage in there. Tune-ups, oil change, lube, filters, rotated tires. The occasional fender bender. Hell, I even did the warden’s machine. I managed.

They pay you for that?

Kept me in Snickers bars and away from the ‘trash compactors.’ That was good enough for me. Charlie knew that prison wasn’t a place he’d ever want to be, no matter what the circumstances. He was more than grateful that Ray had refused to rat on him.

I rented you a small place in North Portland near my shop. Nothing fancy, but it comes with cable. I found a decent TV that works great. There’s milk, beer, juice, eggs, and some sandwich stuff in the refrigerator. And we’ll get you a car too, okay? Check the papers, we’ll find something. No Maserati or anything, but we’ll get you wheels. Maybe buy a beater and fix it up at the shop, okay? Charlie nervously pondered Ray’s prolonged silence.

And you can start to work at the shop whenever you’re ready. But take your time. I promised you a job when you got out, and it’s yours.

Cut the shit, Charlie. You told me you had something big up your sleeve. Let’s quit dancing around and get to it. Charlie stiffened at Ray’s directness.

Uh, yeah. Sure.

But if it involves anything that might get me back into the Big House, forget it.

No. No, it’s nothin’ like that, Charlie reassured. This is a sure bet. I’ve thought it all through.

Ray leaned back in his seat, his long legs barely fitting under the dashboard. Okay, so how are you going to strike it rich?

Not me, Ray. Us. We’re gonna be rollin’ in it, honest. And this time I take all the risks.

You’re buying lottery tickets?

Nah, this is a sure thing. Charlie leaned forward and whispered, The Winds of Fortune Casino.

What? You’ve figured a system to win at blackjack?

Nope.

You’re gonna rig the roulettes somehow. A magnet under the table or something? Charlie, they’ve got cameras everywhere. They’d be all over you like gulls on a whale carcass.

Swensen shook his head, smiling.

Start off small with a slot and a roll of quarters, work up to Susan B. Anthonys and hit the jackpot? There’s no odds, Chucko.

Charlie was now beaming. He was enjoying this guessing game.

Oh, shit, Swensen, you’re not thinking about a heist, are you? Their security system is tighter than a Mormon girl on prom night. You can’t rob a damn casino for chrissake!

You’re absolutely right, Ray. We’re not going to rob them. But what we’re going to do is borrow an armored car—

Borrow?

Well, let’s just say that one comes into the shop to get a dinged fender repaired or something. That night we borrow the truck, drive right up to the casino when they’re expecting their usual pick-up, and they’ll just load the cash into the back, no questions asked, we’ll drive away rich. We’re going to take the Tillamook run, Ray. It’s as easy as that.

Gibbs brought his hands to his knees. He remained unconvinced, but he was intrigued. Their pickup crossed the Fremont Bridge and slowed as they entered the North Portland neighborhood.

I’ll tell you what, Ray, Charlie said. I’ll show you your apartment and you can get settled in. Tomorrow you come by the shop and I’ll fill you in on all the details.

* * *

A light rain dampened Ray Gibb’s face as he made long, confident strides down the sidewalk. Swensen’s Auto Body Shop was less than ten minutes’ walk from his North Portland apartment. Towards the east, a faint blister of sunshine tried to push its way through the drab clouds of a moody October sky. Ray pulled the watch cap over his ears. Damn, it felt good to be out.

Charlie was studying the mangled left front fender of a blue Ford Explorer he had just hauled into the shop. The engine was dripping oil like a Tijuana taco. He scooted a pan beneath the car and made a note to himself to fix the leak right away. When he looked up from his work, he saw Ray standing in front of the open garage doors, hands shoved into jacket pockets. Ray was six-four, broad shoulders, thick, muscular arms, narrow waist, almost no hips, and long, rangy legs. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Charlie’s mouth as he carefully returned his tools to their box and wiped his hands on a small gray rag. He leapt to his feet and motioned toward his office with a tilt of his head. Ray followed him inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

The space was small, but well lit and carefully ordered. Oily residues perfumed the air with souvenirs of paints, lubricants, and sundry solvents. Automobile repair manuals neatly filled shelves on two walls. Olive drab file cabinets with paint-chipped corners stood sentry on either side of the single window with glass the color of an ancient glacier. A computer claimed most of the desk’s surface, begrudgingly ceding a back corner to a darkened Mr. Coffee machine that was busy scorching what was left of this morning’s brew. The only decoration in the office was a wall calendar that featured a robust, smiling, but barely clad blonde lass who was apparently quite enamored with Atlas Oil Filters. The nagging whine of a disk sander ground its way through the office door.

You’ve done pretty well for yourself here, Charlie.

Gettin’ by, Ray. Gettin’ by. Charlie was a short, chubby guy in his early thirties. He had a strangely appealing visage that gave him the appearance of being pleasantly plump. His brown hair was already beginning to recede at the temples. A straight nose sported slightly flaring nostrils. Deep dimples running up into his cheeks gave a parenthetical expression to his broad smile. His blue eyes, dark lashes, and a deep, resonant voice afforded him a façade of genuineness and sincerity that he used to his advantage.

The place looks pretty nice to me, said Ray. All this your stuff?

Just the tools. They were Harold’s. I rent the building and the place next door. Charlie studied Ray’s gaunt face. Deep-set hazel eyes lurked cautiously beneath heavy brows, ill-trimmed as ravens’ nests. Deeply carved cheeks exaggerated a sharp, raptor nose, his pallid features tapering to a pointed chin. Stringy hair the color of oatmeal sprang from beneath his cap like Cotswold thatch and was abruptly scythed shoulder length.

You gonna let me in on the details of your great plan?

Tell you what, Ray, I’ll show you around the shop first and then we’ll go have a bite to eat.

Swensen’s Auto body was a modest operation that seemed to operate smoothly without close supervision. Charlie had a couple of young guys working for him who were diligently engaged in their individual tasks.

"How’s it goin’ Mike?

Got it under control, Boss.

Figured you did, said Charlie. Keep up the good work. By the way, nice job on that Prius. That lady was really pleased. Her husband didn’t notice a thing. Never knew she had a little hoohah with a fire plug.

Mike smiled. Supervision by schmoozing. Charlie had learned a great deal about managing men from watching his father at the shipyard. He took Ray next door to a large, vacant garage.

Wow, this is huge, Charlie. Is it yours too?

I lease it.

You could park a half a dozen semis in here. What do you use it for?

Not much, yet. I’m planning to set up a work station for you out here. It came on the market a few months ago. Pretty cheap. I didn’t want somebody else moving in and giving me trouble, stirring up dust while I was spray painting and stuff. So I leased it just in case I might need it.

Just lease an airplane hangar in case you might need it. Planning on hosting a volleyball tournament or something?

Something like that. In this part of town, rents are pretty reasonable. It comes in handy for storage and stuff. I call it the ‘Annex.’ We usually put the cars over here after they’ve been painted. Let the final coat set. Parking lot isn’t all that safe in spite of the razor wire.

Ray shuttered as he noticed how much the parking lot resembled the play pen at Sheridan where he’d exercised for nearly five years.

Charlie locked the doors of the Annex. The two walked around the corner and got into his black Ford pickup. They drove east on Wygant and turned north on MLK. Stark modern corrugated steel and glass structures were replacing the vacant lots, decaying commercial buildings, and crack houses that once dominated this area until its recent revival. Gentrification was reigning in many formerly decrepit parts of Portland as the population grew and the authorities kept firm reins on the urban growth boundaries. There was nowhere else to build. Ray pulled off his watch cap and ran his long fingers through his thatched hair.

So, what are these big plans you have for us, Charlie?

I’m planning on us living the good life, Ray.

Like what?

I figure, maybe we’d go to Mexico, get ourselves some hot Latina babes, screw ourselves senseless, and party our butts off till our suntan lotion runs out. Then maybe someday when we get tired of all that, we’ll each find ourselves a nice girl and settle down. I owe it to you, Ray.

You don’t owe me nothin’, Charlie!

You took the rap for me, Ray. And I’ll never forget it.

Gimme a break. You had nothing to do with my last bust.

Remember where that transmission was going? I asked you to get that part for me. I was part of the whole deal, don’t forget that. You could have ratted me out, but you never did. I’ve been thinking about that since the day you left. Charlie pulled off into an isolated parking lot beside a convenience store and turned off the engine.

It’s nice to be remembered. Ray rolled down the window to let in some fresh air.

I’m not shittin’ you, bro’, Charlie said. Give me some credit here.

Okay, so now you plan to get rich by knocking off some casinos.

One particular casino, the Winds of Fortune, on the coast.

Well, at least you narrowed it down.

Okay, here’s the deal. We’re gonna take the Tillamook run.

Is that some 10K or something?

"Just listen. Every week, usually on Saturday night, two guards show up at PATS—Pacific Armored Transport Service—over on Swan Island, near the shipyard where we used to work. They check in with the office and then pick up their armored truck. Usually it’s the same two guys who work a route. Our guys are Eldon Prichard and Lyle Shaw. Eldon’s sixty-seven and looking forward to retiring in a year or so. Lyle is fifty-six. Used to be with the Multnomah County Sheriff’s office. Retired early to take advantage of changes in the pension system. Signed on at PATS because he was bored and looking for something to do—his wife was driving him nuts at home. Both of these guys are honest, reliable guys who are totally straight arrows.

Lyle usually drives. Has a late model Saab. Dark blue. Sometimes they swap around, but…, Eldon has a bit of a heart problem. A little angina occasionally, but it’s not supposed to be anything serious. Besides, Lyle likes to drive. He usually picks up Eldon at home about two in the morning. This is a night route, so they’re wearing their uniforms. Day route guys use the dressing room there at the operations center. They can store their weapons there, work out in the gym, let the company take care of cleaning their uniforms, and whatnot. But at night, that part of the center is pretty well shut down and locked up, so the night guys find it more convenient to dress at home. They each carry their little lunch boxes for coffee and snacks.

They don’t ever stop for a break along the way? asked Ray.

What, and leave all that pretty green stuff in the truck unattended while they’re noshing at Starbucks?

Well…?

"Nice try, Ray. No cigarro."

Just checkin’.

Charlie continued: They drop off Lyle’s car at the PATS center and pick up their armored truck, all gassed up and ready to go. They leave the center about 2:30 in the morning for the Tillamook run. They take the Sunset Highway west, then turn southwest on Route 6 near Banks, and follow the Wilson River Road all the way to Tillamook. No stops along the way.

You making up all of this shit? asked Ray.

No. It’s one hundred percent fact.

How did you find out all this stuff?

Some of it’s on the Internet, said Charlie. Also, I’ve followed the guys on their route several times now. It’s the same every time. That’s how I found out where Eldon lives. His address is unlisted. I’ve driven down to Tillamook and hung around at the casino a number of times. Checked out the transfer and all. I also became a regular at a little coffee shop a couple of doors down from the PATS office over on Swan Island. PATS guys hang out there for coffee, after they’ve made their runs, mostly. I ask a few questions, make a couple of friends. Stuff comes out.

You’ve been a busy boy, said Ray.

You’ve been gone a long time.

Tell me about it.

Anyway, when you get into the Coastal Range about half way down the Wilson River Highway, just past the Tillamook County line, you lose your cell phone coverage. It’s gone until you get out of the mountains, almost down to Tillamook. I know. I checked it out.

Is that important?

It’s not a crucial factor. Let’s just say it could turn out to be helpful.

Ray smiled.

Charlie continued: "When the truck gets to Tillamook, they service three banks in town. That takes care of all the businesses and ATM’s in the area. Then they head north on 101, past the cheese factory, to the Winds of Fortune Casino in Bay City.

The truck gets to the casino somewhere around five a.m., give or take fifteen minutes, depending on the weather and whatnot. The casino guys open these huge gates and let the PATS truck into the delivery area. They close the gates, the truck backs in to a loading bay, and Eldon gets out. The casino has most of its security guys there to help with the transfer. They could call in the local fuzz if the take is particularly high some night. Lots of weapons drawn, plenty of heat to keep things warm and to scare off the bad guys.

Bad guys?

That would be us, Charlie winked.

Just checking.

"Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah. Some of the security guys there at the casino usually help Eldon with loading the truck if it’s a big night. Lyle stays at the wheel with his gun drawn and his cell phone ready, just in case. When they finish, they close and secure the door, Eldon goes to the front of the truck and climbs in. The security guys open the gates and off they go. Guns are holstered, everybody sits back, and it’s coffee time. It’s all pretty straight forward.

From there, the truck heads north for stops in Manzanita, then Cannon Beach, and then back to Portland on Route 26.

What about Seaside?

That’s on the Astoria run. Someone else handles them. Seaside, Gearhart, Astoria, Scappoose, and St. Helens are all on a different route. Our truck usually gets back to Portland before ten o’clock on Sunday morning. They make their drop at Bank of America on Southwest Morrison, then head back to the garage. They pick up Lyle’s car and maybe stop off for a cuppa Joe. Lyle drops Eldon off at home and they call it a day. Most days they finish up in plenty of time for Sunday dinner and the NFL.

That’s it?

That’s how it happens. Every week; just like clockwork.

Sounds pretty airtight to me, said Ray. Did I miss the part where they all close their eyes and hand over the loot to you?

Charlie smiled. Okay, this is where the fun part begins. Charlie looked around outside the pickup as if to be certain no one was listening. He spoke in a soft voice. So, what we need first is someone on the inside.

At the casino?

At PATS.

You think one of those driver guys can be bought?

"Nah. Besides,