hundred bucks on any game.
“Yep.” Another long pull on the bottle. He was feeling lucky. If Spicer had the guts to lay $5,000 on the game, Trevor would double it. He’d just earned 33,000 tax-free dollars. So what if he lost ten? That much belonged to the IRS anyway.
“I’ll have to make a call,” Prep said, pulling out a cell phone.
“Hurry. The game starts in thirty minutes.”
The bartender was a local who’d never left the state of Florida but had somehow developed an intense passion for Australian Rules Football. A game was on from Down Under, and it took a $20 bribe from Trevor to get the channel changed to ACC basketball.
With $15,000 riding on Georgia Tech, there was no way Duke could miss a shot, at least not in the first half. Trevor ate french fries, drank one bottle after another, and tried to ignore Prep, who was standing near a pool table in a dark corner, watching.
In the second half, Trevor almost bribed the bartender to switch back to the Aussie game. He was getting drunker, and with ten minutes to go was openly cursing Joe Roy Spicer to anyone who would listen. What did that redneck know about ACC basketball? Duke led by twenty with nine minutes to go, when Tech’s point guard got hot and nailed four straight three’s. Trevor had Tech and eleven.
The game was tied with a minute to go. Trevor didn’t care who won. He’d beat the spread. He paid his tab, tipped the bartender another $100, then flashed a smart-ass salute to Prep as he walked out the door. Prep flipped him the bird.
In the cool darkness, Trevor skipped along Atlantic Boulevard, away from the lights, past the cheap summer rentals packed tightly together, past the neat little retirement homes with their fresh paint and perfect lawns, down the old wooden steps to the sand, where he took off his shoes and strolled along the edge of the water. The temperature was in the forties, not unusual for Jacksonville in February, and before long his feet were cold and wet.
Not that he felt much—$43,000 in one day, tax-free, all hidden from the government. Last year after expenses he’d cleared $28,000, and that was working practically full time—haggling with clients too poor or too cheap to pay, avoiding courtrooms, dealing with penny-ante real estate agents and bankers, bickering with his secretary, cutting corners on taxes.
Ah, the joy of quick cash. He’d been suspicious of the Brethren’s little scam, but now it seemed sobrilliant. Extort from those who can’t complain. How thoroughly clever.
And since it was working so well, he knew Spicer would turn up the heat. The mail would get heavier, the visits to Trumble more frequent. Hell, he’d be there every day if necessary, hauling letters in and out, bribing guards.
He splashed his feet in the water as the wind picked up and the waves roared in.
Even more clever would be to steal from the extortionists, court-certified crooks who certainly couldn’t complain. It was a nasty thought, one he was almost ashamed of, but a valid one nonetheless. All options would be kept open. Since when were thieves known for their loyalty?
He needed a million dollars, nothing more or less. He’d done the math many times, driving to Trumble, drinking at Pete’s, sitting at his desk with the door locked. A lousy million bucks, and he could close his sad little office, surrender his law license, buy a sailboat, and spend eternity drifting with the winds around the Caribbean.
He was closer than he would ever be.
Justice Spicer rolled over again on the bottom bunk. Sleep was a rare gift in his tiny room, on his tiny bed with a small, smelly roommate named Alvin snoring above him. Alvin had roamed North America as a hobo for decades, but late in life had grown weary and hungry. His crime had been the robbery of a rural mail carrier in Oklahoma. His apprehension had been aided mightily when Alvin walked into the FBI officein Tulsa and declared, “I did it.” The FBI scrambled for six hours
“Yep.” Another long pull on the bottle. He was feeling lucky. If Spicer had the guts to lay $5,000 on the game, Trevor would double it. He’d just earned 33,000 tax-free dollars. So what if he lost ten? That much belonged to the IRS anyway.
“I’ll have to make a call,” Prep said, pulling out a cell phone.
“Hurry. The game starts in thirty minutes.”
The bartender was a local who’d never left the state of Florida but had somehow developed an intense passion for Australian Rules Football. A game was on from Down Under, and it took a $20 bribe from Trevor to get the channel changed to ACC basketball.
With $15,000 riding on Georgia Tech, there was no way Duke could miss a shot, at least not in the first half. Trevor ate french fries, drank one bottle after another, and tried to ignore Prep, who was standing near a pool table in a dark corner, watching.
In the second half, Trevor almost bribed the bartender to switch back to the Aussie game. He was getting drunker, and with ten minutes to go was openly cursing Joe Roy Spicer to anyone who would listen. What did that redneck know about ACC basketball? Duke led by twenty with nine minutes to go, when Tech’s point guard got hot and nailed four straight three’s. Trevor had Tech and eleven.
The game was tied with a minute to go. Trevor didn’t care who won. He’d beat the spread. He paid his tab, tipped the bartender another $100, then flashed a smart-ass salute to Prep as he walked out the door. Prep flipped him the bird.
In the cool darkness, Trevor skipped along Atlantic Boulevard, away from the lights, past the cheap summer rentals packed tightly together, past the neat little retirement homes with their fresh paint and perfect lawns, down the old wooden steps to the sand, where he took off his shoes and strolled along the edge of the water. The temperature was in the forties, not unusual for Jacksonville in February, and before long his feet were cold and wet.
Not that he felt much—$43,000 in one day, tax-free, all hidden from the government. Last year after expenses he’d cleared $28,000, and that was working practically full time—haggling with clients too poor or too cheap to pay, avoiding courtrooms, dealing with penny-ante real estate agents and bankers, bickering with his secretary, cutting corners on taxes.
Ah, the joy of quick cash. He’d been suspicious of the Brethren’s little scam, but now it seemed sobrilliant. Extort from those who can’t complain. How thoroughly clever.
And since it was working so well, he knew Spicer would turn up the heat. The mail would get heavier, the visits to Trumble more frequent. Hell, he’d be there every day if necessary, hauling letters in and out, bribing guards.
He splashed his feet in the water as the wind picked up and the waves roared in.
Even more clever would be to steal from the extortionists, court-certified crooks who certainly couldn’t complain. It was a nasty thought, one he was almost ashamed of, but a valid one nonetheless. All options would be kept open. Since when were thieves known for their loyalty?
He needed a million dollars, nothing more or less. He’d done the math many times, driving to Trumble, drinking at Pete’s, sitting at his desk with the door locked. A lousy million bucks, and he could close his sad little office, surrender his law license, buy a sailboat, and spend eternity drifting with the winds around the Caribbean.
He was closer than he would ever be.
Justice Spicer rolled over again on the bottom bunk. Sleep was a rare gift in his tiny room, on his tiny bed with a small, smelly roommate named Alvin snoring above him. Alvin had roamed North America as a hobo for decades, but late in life had grown weary and hungry. His crime had been the robbery of a rural mail carrier in Oklahoma. His apprehension had been aided mightily when Alvin walked into the FBI officein Tulsa and declared, “I did it.” The FBI scrambled for six hours
Similar Books
