Lent Day 24: Raymond the Fat Assassin's Next Gig

I love Target - the store, not the human target. In my long and illustrious career, I have discovered that department stores are great places for scouting and planning hits. Malls are good, too. But there is just something about Target. I've actually memorized fifteen of the most popular Target layouts, so I am equally comfortable in a SuperTarget in Orlando or a two story target in LA. I also always carry red polos and khakis in my bag when I travel. (I also have navy blue polos in case I need to go to Walmart - something I try to avoid if possible.)  I can walk into the store decked out in my big untucked red shirt and rumpled khaki chinos and no one gives me a second look. If customers ask me a question, I probably know the answer. If an employee gets nosy, I just claim to be a new trainee. Or, even better, “from corporate.” 

I don’t always walk around in the faux uniform, though. That’s too risky, since I often have to make several trips. However, it certainly comes in handy when I have to make a quick exit through the loading dock or hide out in the warehouse. Most of the time I just walk through the aisles, keeping up my image. Sometimes I will take advantage of this one cool thing I purchased a few years ago - just to further confuse anyone who might have any “eyewitnessinformation.”  It is a tight long sleeved shirt that has what appears to be tattoos all over it.  When I slip that on and pair it with a t-shirt or jersey, people think I’m a tatted up biker or ne’er do well.  Keep playing into the fat guy stereotypes, Raymond!  I’ll stop and examine the soda, candy, and ice cream aisles. There is the required visit to the nerd trinity: movies, video games, collectibles. Occasionally I’ll flip through the T-shirts or pants, acting frustrated when I can’t find my size. (Big and Tall is only available online for Target.) And I will watch, catalogue, plot. 

Today I’m watching the little weasel currently comparing padlocks. Shea Snyder. A real piece of work. Snyder has pretty much pissed off everyone who has any racket going the city of West Flagler, Florida. He has a real head for numbers, as long as the numbers end up in his favor. So for several years now, he has been keeping accounts for different dealers, chop shops, thugs, pimps - but he was skimming off the top of every single one of them. The money is flying around so quickly that it has become impossible for anyone to really know what is going on. A problem finally surfaced when the arrangement between boat captain Bing Watson and drug dealer Kendrick Bryant almost eroded into a gun battle in a warehouse by the docks. Both men swore that the numbers weren’t adding up in their dealings, which led to accusations of theft, which led to screaming, which led to a bunch of tough guys pulling guns on each other like they were recreating a Tarantino movie.  Finally Bing said the magic phrase that unlocked the mystery, and derailed the bloodbath. “I will drag <curse jar> Shea down here and he will <curse jar> show you my <curse jar> books and you’ll see I didn’t do a <curse jar> <curse jar> thing. <curse jar>” Bryant’s ears perked up as he lowered his gun. “Wait. You use that <curse jar> Shea too?” The two began to compare notes on Snyder’s tickling of the numerical ivories and didn’t like the tune that played. They called several of their fellow “businessmen” and realized Weasel Snyder was working for most of them, and working most of them. So a general detente was issued and the major players agreed they should solve the problem permanently. But, there was a caveat: Shea’s financial records had to be secured as well. 

I hate caveats.  I always try to just accept easy elimination jobs, but that isn’t always possible. Sometimes there is some other component - like finding a ledger or a laptop - that has to go hand in hand. The good thing is that those jobs pay more; the bad thing is that those jobs take longer, involve trying to get something from the person I am ultimately going to kill, and increase the risk of me myself and I being arrested or killed. Ok. So three bad things. Three BIG bad things.  This particular job also brings an extra scoop to the usual caveat poop sundae. Once the financial records are secured, who is going to get the information?  Shea was working with people all over the Panhandle of Florida, as well as down into the Gulf Coast and the I-10 Corridor.  And ALL of those people will have their financial records suddenly exposed to … whom exactly? Bryant and Watson were paying for most of the job, so they probably will want to split the information.  But they won’t want their partner/competitor seeing everything.  Plus, there are some other very dangerous individuals with data in Shea’s hands.  How far will they go to protect that data from falling into the wrong hands - meaning other underworld participants OR the authorities.  If I am to execute Shea and this caveat the way I am supposed to, it could lead to a massive war among the various groups.  That may mean more business for me, but it also could mean I will get dragged into the crossfire.  I’m the one who has to turn over the information, after all.

Shea must be aware something is up, but he obviously doesn’t know the extent of the danger. If he did, he would already be making his escape. Instead he is feeling up padlocks. So he is in “lock it up” mode but not in “run away screaming” mode. That is why I am in “close the deal quickly” mode. I leave the clothing rack and lumbered towards - and then run into - Shea. The smaller man stumbles and looks up accusingly. I mumble an apology and some comment about narrow aisles and head over to electronics. 
The blinking light on the phone display slows down about three miles away from where I am finishing up my burger and fries in my rental car. I know that Shea is getting close to running and I have a pretty good idea that one of his last stops will be some kind of storage facility - especially after seeing the padlock evaluation process. So I carefully dropped a GPS tracker into Shea’s pocket when I “accidentally” made contact at Target. The dot stopped for about a minute before slowly conducting a series of turns. This must be the place. 

I am taking a risk and banking on the erstwhile money man having everything the clients want at the storage facility. So I merrily follow the path to Shea’s now unmoving dot. Just as I suspected - the location was indeed a storage facility. Getting into these places isn’t the hardest thing in the world, but it certainly can go sideways quickly. An over attentive guard or desk clerk will cause complications I don’t want to face.  I scan the facility. There are several entrances scattered around the complex. The ones to the indoor units are monitored pretty tightly with cameras. One of them even requires walking past the desk jockey. The outside gates need a code that usually is a combination of some of the renter’s phone digits and a “random” code. What most people don’t know, though, is that if the facility management is lazy, that random code would just be the franchise’s corporate location number: 1328. Between knowing that AND having Shea’s phone number it should be pretty easy for me to get in. Yes, I know that Shea is already IN the gate. Two entry codes entered before an exit isn’t unheard of - friends helping each other move often use the same code in succession. However, the running computer log of codes will flag any of those entries. So when everything goes down, there will be a giant flashing Looney Tunes style arrow pointing right at my entrance. “Bad guy came in here!”  This is where the experience of having this job for a long time pays off. There are actually several other options.  I can do the “chaos breaks out in the lobby while truck driver yells at the clerk over the gate microphone” routine. That would require someone causing chaos in the lobby (hence the name), easy enough to locate with a well placed twenty dollar bill. I could use the “punch in a bunch of number combinations until one opens the gate” plan. Success would be dependent on the lazy manager code and guessing a combination before the clerk notices somebody punching in twenty codes. The decision is made for me when I see a U-Haul turning into the parking lot. A big tattooed arm reaches out of the window and punches in an entry code, causing the gate to slowly slide open. I simply pull out from my spot and slide in behind the truck. Both of our vehicles bounce through the gate, looking like two friends off to work together on a move. 

Instead, I turn and follow Shea’s convoluted path through the units. A red VW Jetta sits outside of an opened square unit with a roll up door. I don’t want to spook the weasel, so I drive past the desired row and continue down three more aisles. I swing the rental car into a clear space up against a row of units and park. Then I walk calmly back towards the Jetta and the open door. Thn end result is that I have circled around and approached the unit from behind the car. I quickly peek around the entrance. Shea is hurriedly moving banker boxes and computer units from the right side of the unit to the left, stopping every so often to open a box and flip through the contents inside. He pulls a folder out now and then and places it in a new plastic storage box closer to the door. Gauging by the piles, he is nearly finished. 

I duck back away from the doorway and lean against the wall. I don’t see a weapon on Shea, but I certainly am not going to assume. You know what happens when you assume? You get shot. There also is the question of what information is actually the most important for me to secure. I’m going to take a wild guess that the folders Shea is retrieving are the most important - either containing financial data or incriminating evidence. A quick glance through the Jetta’s rear window reveals several large duffel bags and a computer bag. That could be the laptop where Shea performed his financial magic. But there are too many undefined variables to this equation for my taste. This is why I friggin hate caveats! I can deal with that little turd burglar in about thirty seconds, but digging through the files and computers could take all night. And I have a feeling that Shea wouldn’t just be all helpful and point out the important items, either. 

While Snyder finishes going through the boxes and relocating the computers, I lean back against the wall, occasionally looking around the corner to see how things are progressing.  Shea finally closes up the plastic container. He unlocks his car and pops his trunk with his key fob and starts to drag the now-full box to the vehicle. As Shea reaches the asphalt outside the unit, I pretend to walk up. “Whoa! That’s a heavy box. Do you need help getting it into the trunk?”

Startled, Shea looks up at the looming figure in front of him. I can tell he wants to refuse the help, but chances are good he is wondering how exactly to get the box into the car by himself. “Uh, yeah, sure. It is pretty heavy and my brother ditched me. Jerk.”

Knowingly, I nod and grin.  “Family, am I right? Can’t rely on them for nuthin.”  So I lean over and grab one end of the container with my right and lift. Shea grabs the other side with both hands. We wrangle the container into the trunk. I breathe deeply and say, “There you go man. Anything else I can do?”  You know, being all helpful and stuff.

Shea shook his head. “No. That’s about it. Thanks.” He turns and looks back into the storage space to make sure he has everything. Dumbass.  In that moment, I pull out Mr Smacky the police baton out with my left hand and whip it open with a crack. Snyder spins around with a start and finds the end of the metal pole jammed into his abdomen. I walk forward and force the smaller man backwards into the storage unit. 
“You made a loooot of people angry, Snyder.  Lots of bad people.  With bad tempers. Who know other bad people. That wasn’t smart.”

Shea looks desperately behind and around him, hoping to find something to defend himself. “I’ve got money! I can make you rich .”

I shake my head. “Not gonna work, Shea. I don’t plan on spending my life looking behind my back.” We reach the pile of computers and boxes and I point. “Sit!”

As quickly as possible, Shea complies and fearfully looks up at my imposing figure.  My looming bulk frequently strikes fear into the hearts of evildoers. “You don’t understand. These are criminals. They deserved what happened.”

“No, YOU don’t understand. These are indeed criminals.  VERY BAD CRIMINALS. And you deserve what is going to happen. Don’t get involved with these people if you don’t like their life choices. But once you do, don’t go ripping them off.” I keep the metal rod jammed into Shea’s stomach and glance back at the car. “I’m guessing all of the important info is in there?” I ask, jerking my head towards the Jetta. 

That got his attention.  He probably thinks he found a potential means of escape, so he nods hastily. “Yes! There is all kinds of stuff in there. Ledgers, laptops...” He lowers his voice and adds conspiratorially, “Blackmail.”  He glances up, hoping the bait would land him a partner. “We could nail every one of these guys.”

I pretend to think for a moment and look at all of the remaining materials in the unit. “Well what’s all of that stuff then?”

Snyder looks around at the piles surrounding him. With a dismissive wave, he answers, “Oh this is nothing. Backups. Monthly statements. Older tax records.” He fishes the padlocks out of his pocket and holds them up. “They are security for me. I’ll keep paying on this until I know I’m in the clear. Then I’ll find someone to burn it.”

Nodding slowly, I glance around the room. “I could burn it for you.”

Oh goodness.  The weasel can’t believe his good fortune! He thinks he somehow talked this big gorilla into helping him escape AND gained a fall guy when it came time to burn this garbage. “Sounds great!” Shea smiles and starts to stand up. 

The baton whips up from below my waist and connects cleanly with Shea’s  chin. His head snaps back as he loses his balance and falls into the pile of boxes and CPUs. Most people can’t handle even one smack with the baton, which is why it is so effective. Snyder is no different. He lays in a heap, unmoving. I quickly move over to the prone body and grab the padlocks, and I fish out the keys to the Jetta and the GPS tracker I had inserted into the jacket pocket at Target. I do want to burn the contents, including the unfortunate Mr. Snyder. But I’m not a monster.  I don’t want the man to suffer.  Plus, we can’t have the fire start too quickly. 

The average storage unit contains a wealth of flammable substances. While Shea’s isn’t as generous in its supply, it still has a buttload of paper. (Ream, case, buttload) And its occupant has also installed some outlets, which will help with the situation. I kick the boxes of paper all over the unit, freeing the papers inside to flail about into a floor-covering pattern. I notice two propane tanks in one corner. I pick them up, but they feel really light. Probably empty. On the other side, there are a few old school desk lamps, complete with old school lightbulbs.  Perfect. I continue rearranging the unit to maximize flammability. I look over my handiwork and think for a minute. I don’t want to tote around this huge plastic box of papers that I recently helped Shea to place in the trunk. With a heave, the box flies through the air and crashes against a pile of computers. The folders inside loose themselves and scatter. The duffel bags are next to re-enter the unit. They bust open and their contents spill out: clothes, toiletries, big stacks of money. I stop for a second. It would be a shame if all of that money was to just fuel the flame.  And I just called an audible on this job, so I don’t know if I will actually get paid.  So I help myself to several of the stacks of hundreds that are laying in the unit. Soon the only thing remaining in the Jetta is the computer bag. 
Now that the storage unit is primed, I check on the status of Shea Snyder, financial weasel for the biggest and worst of West Flagler. There is a weak pulse. Being a compassionate cold blooded murderer, I mercifully end the thief’s life using my baton and Shea’s neck.  Then I plug in and turn on one of the desk lamps.  The bulb glows hot, unlike modern LED bulbs.  I take the lamp and place it on its side near the body.  I then cover the bulb with paper.  Within twenty minutes, there should be a nice crackling fire burning. 

Sliding into the Jetta, I glance over at the padlocked storage unit. There will probably be one of three outcomes with this careful rigging of the unit. First, the light bulb will scorch the paper, start a chain reaction of flames, and burn everything. Best case scenario. Second, the fire won’t start, but recently departed Shea Snyder will start to stink, causing people to bust into the unit at some time in the future, allowing the police to examine all of that laid out evidence and go arrest a bunch of punks. Pretty dang good scenario. Third, the storage unit keeps everything all closed up nice and tight with no stink and no fire.  Eventually the owner of the facility gets tired of not getting his money, cuts open the locks, and surveys the scene.  He calls the police (or not) and they come out and do scenario two (or not).  Another good scenario.  

This is actually a nice car and it seems to be kept up pretty well.  The gas tank is full, which presents numerous possibilities. But first I need to make myself scarce from the scene. Once I put some distance between me and the late Mr Snyder, I can plot the next steps. 

Late night diners are great places to debrief after a job. They are comfortable with haggard people hanging out all hours of the night, blearily looking at a laptop screen. They often have WiFi. And they usually have pie. One advantage of intentionally developing my mesomorphic profile is that I get to eat crap. I love pie. Cherry or blueberry tonight? Maybe both! I pull into the parking lot of a sticky looking place and mosey inside with the laptop bag over my shoulder. 

Five minutes later, I have the computer open at a table in the back. When absconding a laptop, things aren’t as simple as they used to be. Nowadays there are so many more security options. There could be fingerprint authorization or facial recognition or a key or a really wacky password. Usually the best way to make sure the computer can be accessed is to drag the owner along with the machine - or at least a part of the owner. Unfortunately, I don’t have the little turd with me. And I didn’t think to snag a finger before I left him. Opening up the laptop, I realize my concerns are well-founded. The computer needs a fingerprint … or a passcode … to open up. So I won’t be able to see anything in there. The fine gentlemen who contracted me to eliminate Shea will be able to get in; they have all sorts of nerds at their disposal to hack into stuff like this. I don’t have that luxury. 

The thing is I don’t really want to hand this laptop over to any of the monsters who tasked me to grab it. The best case scenario would be a gang war. I don’t even want to think of the worst case. Just about any case will end with me on the wrong end of a weapon. I need to get this laptop out of the area while also keeping my nose clean. I’m not going to dump the car anywhere near here. The best thing I can do is to put some distance between me and Shea - and the jackals who will be circling the situation.  I’ll get right on that … after I finish my pie. 

I pull out of the diner and head to the interstate. Then I make my way across the panhandle of Florida, through Alabama and Mississippi, and into Louisiana. I hate Louisiana. It is one of the worst places on Earth. I’ve done my share of driving over the years; that’s kind of a job requirement. I detest having to go to Louisiana. My opinion is that Louisiana can Geaux Screu Itself. See what I did there? Louisiana like to make words look French when they aren’t. Idiots. But the state is a necessary evil at times, like tonight. I finally reach the Louis Armstrong New Orleans Airport. I pull the car into a long term parking spot square in the middle of the third level.  At this late hour, few travelers are wandering about.  I don’t have any luggage with me and I leave the only piece I have - the computer bag - on the back seat.  Intermittently through the drive, I would pull off the interstate and deposit a large chunk of my dispersal from the Shea Snyder Scholarship Fund into a series of ATMs.  The rest fits much easier in my pockets.  The haul from Shea’s luggage was many many times more than the fee for this job, so I really don’t care if the clients got angry and stiff me.  But I don’t want my hard-earned reputation damaged, so I need to at least check in.  I have pondered the conundrum of how to share the financial data with my employers for much of the trip.  I think I finally have come up with an answer.  It isn’t a great answer, but it was one that would keep the dogs at bay and keep me out of a rifle scope.  I secure a circuitous route of flights back home, then open a new prepaid phone package and dial the messaging service for Broker.  “Listen carefully and make sure this gets passed along.  The situation has been dealt with.  The crew will need a new accountant.  The information everyone wanted retrieved is in the back seat of a red car in the worst place on earth.  That’s all the details I’m giving.  Whoever gets there first, gets the books.  I don’t care who wins because everyone will lose once those amounts and accounts become general knowledge. In thirty days, I will let the parking company know that the car is not going to be claimed and they will probably tow it off.  So make haste.  Send my payment through Broker.”  I disconnect and toss the phone in the trash along with the keys to the car and the parking slip.  Then I head to the food court to doze until Burger King opens.