Dirty Words - [11]

"That's a long play."

"You seem to be the only one playing here, Mr. Cobb. I'm not." Cowboy pushed the still staggering goon out the door.

*****

Rusty was a thief. A petty thief, at best. Stole petty items. Petty cash, for instance. Nothing worth the trouble that Cowboy seemed intent on causing him. No fine art. No heirlooms. Shit, more often than not, the jewelry that he pocketed fell into the categories of costume or out and out worthless.

Like a lot of serviceable but non-contender boxers, Rusty needed work not long into his thirties when it became obvious that his minor talents were heading south. He delivered packages for a messenger service. Sometimes, those packages were C.O.D. When the receptionist went into the little metal cash boxes, Rusty made mental notes. The next day, dressed in his only decent suit, Rusty would walk into the offices early while the cleaning crews were still working, stuff the box in his valise and walk right out. If he had to sign in at the security desk, he just wrote in S.R. Leonard. Rusty wondered if Sugar Ray had ever been questioned about the thefts.

His record low was $14.75 at a small dot-com. His record high was almost a grand out of some big entertainment manager. Fuck 'em, Rusty would think. He'd worked with a manager/agent for a few years. He even managed to get Rusty a cameo in a Chuck Norris flick. Granted, Rusty just got kicked in the head and played dead, but it was still pretty cool.

The sonofabitch dropped him faster than a handful of shit the second the ref counted to ten in Rusty's last fight. Rusty got a quiet enjoyment out of burglarizing those bloodsucking pricks.

If he came into an office that had expensive little laptop computers, Rusty would help himself to a few and pawn them for a couple extra hundred. It was that money that eventually enabled him to buy the old gym in Brooklyn. Nowadays, if he pulled a grab, it was more for shits and giggles than actual need. Some people liked blackjack for their gambling; Rusty enjoyed a little trespassing and B &E.

And it was all little. Little was the operative word. Worst came to worst, Rusty would only have to suffer minor legal consequences. Even when he hooked up with Dante, they made sure they took only cash and easily pawned items. For reasons he couldn't figure, Cowboy seemed to believe that he had something that belonged to him.

And he wanted it back.

Unfortunately, Rusty didn't have clue one what that item could be.

*****

"A cowboy?"

"A cowboy," Rusty sighed. Dante wasn't an idiot. He could sometimes be slow, or dull or…ah hell, who was he fooling? Dante was an idiot. But he was an idiot that could open safes faster than the people who knew the combinations. He was like Rain Man, if Rain Man had criminal intentions.

"Like Cowboys and Indians?" Dante asked.

"No, like Cowboys and Spaghetti-O's," Rusty yelled into the phone.

"Cowboys and Spaghetti-O's? I don't get you, Rusty."

Rusty shook the phone violently in his fingers, imagining Dante's thick idiot neck between said fingers. "Just listen to me, will you, dipshit? Has anyone been into the shop lately? Maybe wearing a cowboy hat? Walking his pet gorilla? Carrying a six-shooter and a lot of questions?"

"A gorilla?"

Rusty slammed the phone down. Dante was obviously off of Cowboy's radar. Dante had accompanied him on his last five jobs, going back three years. One morning, Rusty walked into an office and found Dante under the desk, looting a floor safe. He was dressed in a jumpsuit and looked as scared as Rusty felt. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Dante offered Rusty the glittering contents in his left hand.

"Halfsies?" he offered hopefully.

From that point on, they worked as a team. Rusty would scout the offices, determine which ones were worth hitting and bring in Dante for the safes. Dante brought his skills and Rusty brought his brains and helpful advice. Such as the suggestion that the retard didn't wear his A-1 Computer Service jumpsuit when he was going to rob a fricking office-the one with his goddamn name embroidered on the chest.

So Dante was out. Stupid, maybe, but Rusty doubted that he would just forget encountering the cowboy.

*****

Next step; information.

Information meant Jameel and the Candy Boys. The Candy Boys were a scam that ran its fingers through most of the city. A small army of kids roamed the streets, selling candy bars for their sports team at a buck a pop.

There was no sports team.

Jameel was the local sergeant for the Brooklyn troops. The kids got five dollars for each box they sold. Each box had forty candy bars in it. Buying gross, the boxes cost five dollars each. Thirty dollars profit on every box sold. There were more than a hundred kids selling box after box, 365 days a year. Nobody knew who was at the top of the heap, but whoever he was, he was one rich bastard.

Now the underbosses, like Jameel, ran a little side business. That business was information. Hundreds of eyes and ears across the city was an amazing resource. For the price.