Читать книгу Days of the Trap - Johnny Mitchell - Страница 3

I fucked it up. Someone’s been snitching alright, but a real boss never blames a snitch. He expects it, in fact, for man is weak and his loyalty flimsier than the paper on which he gives his sworn statement. Just hope it’s not who I think it is — if that’s the case, my whole empire is in jeopardy.

The pounding on the door is so loud it shakes the apartment, and in the distance, I hear the faint chop of the helicopter approaching. I take a deep breath and step off the edge of the balcony, aiming for the tall, unkept grass in the corner of the neighbor’s lawn. I could surrender, but I’d rather make them earn it. That’s what we pay taxes for — at least that’s what I’ve been told by those who pay them.

Bullseye. I land squarely in the tall grass, my legs giving out from under me. I grab the duffel bag full of cash and begin sprinting through backyards, hurdling fences, and dodging clothes lines —ghetto track and field, as it were. I slow down, poking my head out from behind a garage. They’ve got the extraction team with the battering ram entering my apartment building now. I see my getaway car — the one I keep stationed on the block for occasions like these — parked just yards away. Feet fail me not — in less than a minute I’m throwing her into reverse.

“There he goes!” I hear one of the pigs shout.

Flooring her now, I’m speeding down the street in reverse like I’m reenacting Ronan. Stupid fucking cops forgot to block off the intersection. I look forward — the flashing red-and-blue is gaining fast. I plow through the stoplight at MLK and pull a three-pointer, chucking it into drive and punching the gas.

Flying down the Boulevard now, in my rearview I see one of the pigs spin out of control and crash into a parked car. I begin laughing like a madman, tears of joy and horror running down my cheeks. No wonder I don’t see it coming. The suburban rams my bumper and now I’m the one spinning out of control — luckily that telephone pole is there to stop me. Now would be a good time to give up. The unmarked comes to a halt and the squad jumps out. They’re drawn down, inching slowly toward me now, ready to make Swiss cheese.

“Lemme see your hands!” a copper yells.

Well done, boys. Well done.

And everything was so perfect just yesterday. Today, I’m cuffed in the back of this squad car as it glides gently through traffic on the way to the Multnomah County Jail. Going to miss my flight, Maria. It’s Friday — won’t be able to see the Judge and post bail until next week. I need to warn the connects in Jersey but I can’t do it over the jail phone, and I’ve got at least $400,000 in exposed cash that has to be moved before the law finds it. My mind is spinning like a hamster wheel. Who’s talking? Do they know about Colombia? I need to hurry up and solve this riddle before the whole house burns to the ground.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Working on borrowed time, Johnny Boy. You’ll make a nice display on the front page of the metro section tomorrow morning, no doubt. Then the neighborhood who raised you will finally get to witness the product of their environment. How did things ever get so far? Where did I go wrong? Hard to believe it all started with fourteen grams.