Oldest Plan in
the Book
by
Mark D. West
“So you’re
telling me we got a plan.”
“Yes. That is what I am telling you. And I am telling you
to keep the lights out, as that is how the police know that
people is in buildings that they thought was abandoned.”
Two-Fingers Ianucci spread out the rolled-up blueprints.
“Light that lantern.”
Tupac struck a match, the sharp sulfur smell passing
through the little room. “I don’t see why we can’t use our
flashlights.”
“Hold up your flashlight to your ear and shake it, if you
please,” Two-Fingers said. “And tell me what did you hear.”
Oscar did so. “I heard some rattling.”
Two-Fingers picked up the lantern and shook it. “I hear an
hour and fifteen minutes of kerosene. And you haven’t no
idea how long those batteries will hold out. I, my young
friend, spent five years at Ossining for just such an
error.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Tupac looked at Oscar.
“It is like my lead-tipped sap,” Two-Fingers said. “It lays
your opponent out cold, but does not kill them. And it does
not run out of bullets, or get jammed, or anything like
that there.”
“I think he’s saying he’s old-school,” Oscar said,
shrugging. “But he’s the one with the plan.”
“So here is the ventilation system for the Criterion
Building, which we intends to rob,” Two-Fingers continued.
“This is the main ventilation shaft. You will thank the
rehabilitation people at Ossining for teaching me a trade,
which is heating and cooling systems, by which means I got
this blueprint.”
Two-Fingers waited.
“Uh, thanks.” Oscar said.
Tupac sneered.
“Now, we go in here, at the base of the heat exchange
tower, using the jam ladder as I have showed you.”
Two-Fingers traced the route across the blueprints with one
of his remaining fingers.
“You’re getting blood on the blueprints,” Oscar said,
folding the top bars of the flimsy jam ladder so it could
be jammed up into the ventilation shaft, holding itself in
place by the weight of the people climbing upwards .
“That is a little thing, which I do not mind,” Two-Fingers
said. “I cut my finger with the glass cutter when we came
in. Sometimes you have to break an egg to make a salad.”
“That’s not the saying,” Tupac said, but Oscar shook his
head.
“We go up to the fifth floor, where there is the medical
records firm. We drop down through the ventilation duct,
right here—” Two-Fingers pointed — “and Mister Tupac
relieves them of the data on their main data drives, using
the video and wiring skills of Mister Oscar to do so
without the noticing of the security personnel downstairs.
This personal-type data they will pay for the returning of,
handsomely, as it is their business to maintain privacy.”
“Did the map jump or something?” Oscar held out a hand, as
if to steady the map. “I could have sworn it moved or
something.”
“It is you, my friend, who is what we used to call jumpy.
Now let us proceed with the burglary, which I do not mind
to say should make us all rich.”
*
Oscar and Two-Fingers sat at the bottom of the secondary
ventilating shaft, chilly air drafting down around them.
“There is supposed to be a shaft right here, as it says on
the map,” Two-Fingers said.
“I don’t get it. We saw Tupac go out here. I went up
there—” Oscar motioned down the shaft— “and you let me down
with the rope. I spliced in the video feed, he got the
disks, and he was supposed to come out here.”
“Well, sometimes they change things. Go back to the other
shaft and...”
“Look.”
“I can not see that far, due to my astigmatism, what ...”
“Just fucking look, would you?” Oscar pointed down the
shaft with his flashlight. The bright blue light reflected
off the plain aluminum shaft for about fifty feet until the
shaft split. “No side shafts. Nothing.”
“That is not possible,” Two-Fingers said. “You went down
one side shaft, and Mister Tupac went down the other. There
are two side shafts.”
“Were
two. There
aren’t two now.”
“I am feeling dizzy, as I have a heart condition.”
“Shut up. So the building has changed somehow.”
“That is not possible, as it is a scientific
impossibility.”
“Impossible or not, the shafts are gone. I’m going to have
to call Big Papa. Let’s go.”
“I’m the boss of this crew.”
“Fine. You want to sit here?”
The two sat for a minute, hunched over in the ventilation
shaft.
“Let’s go. And you should call Big Papa.”
“Fine,” Oscar muttered. “Let’s just do that.”
*
Oscar pushed aside the bead curtain that obscured the way
into the back parlor. The room was done up in hideous red
velvet wallpaper, with dark walnut fittings and heavy dark
furniture. A plump woman sat at a table, a fat red candle
to either side of her on the table, a deck of big
pasteboard cards spread in front of her.
“I see trouble,” she said, her voice indistinct. “How may
Marie Laveau help?”
“Can it,” Oscar said. “Big Papa sent us.”
“Oh,” she said. “The light switch is to your left. Who’s
the little guy?”
“I am Two-Fingers Ianucci, the planner. I am pleased to...”
“Save it. Big Papa said you had lost a guy. ‘Lost’ as in
‘misplaced.’ If this is some scam you’re running, forget
it. I’m not for messing with Big Papa. He’s some mean
shit.”
“I know,” Oscar said. “I just wish somebody had told me
Tupac was his nephew.”
“Good climber, too,” Marie said. “Shame you lost him.”
“The building changed. No shit.”
Marie looked at Oscar, her expression quizzical. “While you
were in it.”
“Yeah.”
She gestured at the two men. “Either of you guys do any
fooling around with the occult? You know, spells and
stuff?”
“Hell, no,” Oscar said. “Waste of time.”
“I am a rationalistic person, myself,” Two-Fingers said,
nodding. “But I do not disparage the beliefs of another.”
“Well, that’s good, because you may learn some things
tonight. You brought the blueprints?”
“I have them.” Two-Fingers leaned over Marie’s table,
spreading them out.
“What a mess. This stain here?”
“Um, I guess that’s from the pizza. We had pizza when we
were going over the plan.”
Marie looked at Oscar. “Just regular pizza?”
“Sure.” Oscar looked at Two-Fingers. “Right?”
“From Patelli’s, down on 31st.”
“I’ve always liked that name. Their real name is Patel, you
know. Those guys are Pakis.”
“Pakis?” Two-Fingers grimaced. “You mean Pakistanianis.
Being an Italian, myself, I do not hold with racial
abbreviations and the like, as they may be construed to be
an offensive thing.”
“Yeah,” Marie said. “But who knows what they put in the
sauce, like as a secret ingredient? Cardamom, fenugreek?”
“It was a good pizza.” Oscar looked at Two-Fingers. “I’m no
Julia Child, so I don’t know from cardamom.”
“That’s not the point. And this is blood, here?” She
pointed at the blueprint.
Oscar nodded.
“And what about these lines?”
“I was tracing the sight lines, lest some busy-body type
see us as we perpetrate the crime.” Two-Fingers looked at
Marie. “You are perhaps coming to a conclusion here?”
“The one thing missing,” Marie said, looking up from the
blueprint, “is some fire. Not like a cigarette, though.
You’d have needed an open flame.”
“Talk to Mister Old-School about his lantern.” Oscar looked
at Two-Fingers, then back at Marie. “So we did what?”
“You did a thelemic pentagram offering,” Marie said,
rolling up the papers. “You drew a pentagram, did a minor
sacrifice of blood, food, and spices, and offered them with
fire. So your target vanished. Pretty good for amateurs.”
“Shit,” Two-Fingers said. “Pardon my French, but shit.”
“So where’s Tupac?”
Marie raised her hands. “Poof.”
“Poof?” Two-Fingers looked at Oscar. “Poof is not good, my
friend. Poof means that we end up in a bridge abutment,
courtesy of Big Papa.”
“I heard that.” Oscar looked at Marie Laveau. “And Tupac
was his favorite nephew. Please don’t tell Big Papa.”
Marie laughed. “Boys, he’s my boss. If I don’t tell him
that Tupac’s gone poof, I’ll end up in the abutment with
you. You’d better run while there’s time. He knows you’re
here, so he’ll expect me to call him. You’d better go poof,
too, and in a hurry.”
*
The light was just beginning to break over the dreary coast
of South Carolina when Oscar elbowed Two-Fingers, hard, as
the Greyhound bus ground to a stop in the parking lot of a
Short-Stop filling station. A couple of dispirited chickens
fluttered toward shelter as the bus wheeled toward a gravel
parking area.
“Wake up, you dumb-ass.”
“I am not sure I appreciate you calling me a dumb-ass.”
Two-Fingers sat up, stretching his neck to one side. “And
considering my powers with the magical, it might not be
smart to do so, either.”
“Shut up. We’ve been scammed.”
“What?” Two-Fingers’s eyes opened wide. “How do you think
that is so?”
“It was pretty easy, considering we’re both championship
morons. Tupac went into the data room, and I went to the
server side. I climbed back up and out, but Tupac came over
to the server room from below. You probably wouldn’t ever
have seen them, but they have mylar sheets that are
flexible plastic that, when you stretch them, are
reflective like aluminum. They use them in photo shoots.”
“So you think ...”
“Yeah. Tupac got up and taped one up over the ventilation
shaft entry where I’d crawled out. Or he’d made a frame or
something. He did the same on the shaft he’d climbed out,
while you and I were setting up the drop ladder down at the
exhaust shaft. By the time we came back to see where he
was, it looked as if the two side shafts were gone. Poof.”
“But what about Marie Laveau?” Two-Fingers frowned. “It was
she who educated us about the magic aspect.”
“Yeah.” The bus passengers were filing back onto the bus.
“And it was Big Papa who sent us to her. And Big Papa has
enough friends in Sing Sing that he knows all about both of
us. Like the fact that you always use a lantern.”
“Hell, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. So Big Papa,
Tupac, and Marie were all in on it. And they currently have
all the money from the robbery, some share of which is
rightfully ours.” Two-Fingers looked out the window. “I
liked thinking I could do magic. I was going to suggest we
go to Vegas and go legit.”
“I think the next bus stop is Myrtle Beach,” Oscar said.
“They have an airport, and I bet there’s a non-stop to
LaGuardia. That means we have about six hours to come up
with a really good plan.”
“Do you have an idea?” Two-Fingers asked, turning to Oscar.
“Nope.” Oscar looked out the window as the Short Stop Super
Saver retreated in the distance, with endless fields of
cotton and corn replacing it in the big window of the bus.
“I believe that I, myself, do,” Two-Fingers said. “Perhaps
I may explain it to you as we make our way back to the Big
Apple.”
*
“That’s a terrible plan,” Oscar said as he flagged down a
cab. “The worst. The oldest plan in the book.”
“I do not see it as such. I say, ‘Big Papa, the police have
been in on this all along,’ and you say, ‘look behind you,’
and when Big Papa turns around to look, you over-power
him.” Two-Fingers loaded his bag into the cab.
“That’s the oldest one in the book. And it would get us
killed. What I’m wondering is whether we have any
advantages over Big Papa and his crew.”
“Advantages? No, my friend.” Two-Fingers eased himself into
the cab, which smelled of stale sweat and fast food. “We
are, as they say, dealt out.”
“Well, maybe not,” Oscar said, looking at the skyline of
the big city in the distance. “They think we’re really
stupid. Really, we’re only somewhat stupid.”
“I fail to see how that advantages us.”
“But our main advantage is that Marie probably believes
this hoo-doo crap.” Oscar tapped his fingers on the
armrest.
“You have maybe a plan?”
“Sort of. I think, if she does palm readings all day, she
probably thinks, somewhere deep down, that this
spiritualism crap is for real. And maybe we can use that.”
“I do not follow your train of thought.” Two-Fingers shook
his head as the cab picked up speed onto Ditmars Boulevard.
“Maybe they won’t, either,” Oscar muttered. “Not until it’s
too late. So what we’re going to need is some of that
flexible drainage pipe. The black, accordion stuff. And
some rubber cement. And a big-ass wrench.”
“Now I am really lost,” Two-Fingers said, shaking his head.
“I will never understand you younger generation. First your
Vin Halen, now this.”
*
“You’re ready?” Oscar pulled down his sleeves, the darkness
of the early morning almost obscuring the mess the two had
made in front of Marie’s basement apartment in the 119th
street brownstone.
“Does that itch?” Two-Fingers nodded at Oscar’s arms. “You
may get poisoning of the blood, or some such.”
“I’d rather get my money. Anyway, it’s 4:55. At five, you
know what to do.”
“That’s right.” Two-Fingers nodded. “This reminds me of a
long con we pulled in 1962 on ...”
“Not now.” Oscar turned and went down the steps to Marie
Laveau’s apartment and knocked.
“I’m not open. Come back later,” a voice yelled.
“Marie! This is Oscar Rivas!”
“Oscar? Like the kid who lost the building?” The door
opened a crack, multiple chains festooned between door and
frame.
“Yeah. I got some bad news for you. For me. We’ve been
hexed.”
“What the hell do you mean, hexed?”
“Look at my arms.” Oscar rolled up his sleeves. The skin,
where he’d painted it with the rubber cement, looked
ghastly—wrinkled and pustular, as if he had leprosy. He’d
dotted it with splotches of red food coloring under the
cement, and, as he pulled, the goo oozed out, looking
positively pestilential.
“You got the ick,” Marie hissed.
“It ain’t half what he’s going to do to you,” Oscar
whispered. “He sent me here to tell you. You better let me
in, or you’re as dead as I am.”
The door closed, and there was the sound of fumbling, then
chains rattling. Then, the door swung open. “Come in. But
don’t ooze on the upholstery.”
“Doubt I’ll live that long.” Oscar stepped in, and was
gratified to see a couple of candles in front of a figure
of the Virgin Mary, her robes painted pink. “Reason you
fooled us is that Two-Fingers is a real-live voodoo man.”
“That stuff is fake.” Marie pulled her bathrobe close
around her ample figure.
“You and me, we know better. They call him ‘Two-Fingers’
because he sacrificed two fingers to—to Louisie. That’s
what he said. Louisie. Like on the Jeffersons.”
“He must have meant Erzulie. Oh, sweet Jesus. He is a real
voodoo man, for sure.” She looked closely at Oscar’s arm.
“He sacrificed half his hand for voodoo powers. That is
some powerful ju-ju.”
“He said he had sent plague to me, and he was sending water
to you. And he was going to fix Big Papa, too. But he said
you was a woman, and there was favor in Erzulie’s eyes for
women-folk. So he would give you a chance.”
“A chance?”
“He’d take his money. And he wouldn’t kill you.”
“He can’t kill a priestess. That would take more ju-ju than
he or any man has.”
“You think?” Oscar said, pointing to the window. “You are
as dead as I am, and I tried to warn you.”
The below-street window was flooded to about six inches
deep in water, which was rising at an alarming rate. Water
was pouring in, seeping through on every side, shooting
through in a sheet the width of a hand between the two
sliding panes of glass.
“At least now I will die quick,” Oscar said, trying to keep
his voice somber. “They say drowning is peaceful, not like
having your flesh rot from the plague.”
“That voodoo man is going to kill me!” Marie shrieked as
the smaller pane gave way, letting a torrent of water into
the apartment. “No amount of money ain’t worth dying for!”
There was a pounding on the door. “It’s him,” Oscar
intoned. “He has come for you.”
“What do I do?” The water was to Marie’s ankles.
“Drown, I suppose.” Oscar shrugged. “Or open the door.”
Marie opened the door. The water from the fire hydrant on
the street above shot in every direction around
Two-Fingers, spraying theatrically in a corona, the effect
heightened by the all-weather shop lamp they’d duct-taped
to the back of the hydrant.
“Give me the money,” Two-Fingers said, sounding to Oscar
like Bela Lugosi in Bride of
the Monster. “Give me the
money, or drown.”
Marie sloshed into the bedroom, returning with a suitcase.
“It’s all here. I can’t believe Big Papa didn’t wake up
through all this. You put a hex on him, too?”
Two-Fingers looked at Oscar, who turned to Marie. “The
curse of the night.” Oscar turned back to face Two-Fingers,
moving back a little so she couldn’t see, then motioned
toward the door.
“Oh, yeah. The curse of the night. Anyways, since you have
done right by me, I will reward you the same. The waters
will stop soon. Close the door behind me, and pray
fervently for forgiveness. An hour should do. And as for
you—” Two-Fingers motioned dramatically at Oscar—“you must
come and assist me, for the little time you have left.” He
turned, with a flourish Lugosi would have envied, and
headed out the door.
“Thank you, Mister Two-Fingers,” Marie said, then nudged
Oscar, shoving him towards the door.
“Yes. Thanks.”
Marie closed the door behind the two, and they both
staggered up the stairs, finally emerging from the gouts of
water from the hydrant.
“I thought I would bust my guts from the temptation to
laugh, it was so comical,” Two-Fingers said, slicking his
hair back.
“Me, too,” a voice said from the darkness.
“Tupac.” Oscar turned, to see the little man come out of
the darkness.
“You know, you guys are the kings of over-planning. You
stage these dramatic-ass events. Me, I just walk up with a
gun to people.” Tupac held out his right hand, in which he
held a massive and quite lethal-looking automatic. “It
helps them take a little white kid like me serious, you
know? I point this gun at them, and I take their shit.
Then, maybe I shoot them. The only question in the whole
thing is the shooting them.”
“I think I see where this is going.” Oscar looked at
Two-Fingers. “You figured out we’d come back.”
“Hell, I knew
that. I knew
you’d come up with some crazy shit that wouldn’t fool a
blind wino with a meth habit. Some big-ass dramatic deal,
like you old-timers like. But I guess it fooled Marie.”
“So it was you who took care of Big Papa.” Oscar nodded.
“You got that,” Tupac said, smiling. “Roofies are, like, my
dating tool of choice. And it put him to bed just like the
little sweeties downtown. I hope Marie got her some. But,
now it’s time for our
business
transaction.”
“But, we must mention our last plan, which you has
forgotten about,” Two-Fingers said, setting down the
suitcase. “As you has said, we tend to over-plan. As such,
we estimated that you would not fall so readily for our
little theatrical effort, being street-wise and such.”
“You’re right about that, old man,” Tupac said. “So now
give me the suitcase.”
Oscar tried to shake his head at Two-Fingers.
“But what you did not estimate is that our planning would
include confederates. Accomplices. Such as those who are
now approaching you, from the backside.”
“What the hell is he saying?” Tupac turned to Oscar, his
face registering annoyance.
“You work alone. But we have a posse.” Oscar pointed.
“Right behind you.”
Tupac turned. “Shit.”
With a fluid motion, Two-Fingers pulled the sap out of his
jacket pocket and hit Tupac in the back of his head. Tupac
stood for a second, then collapsed.
“We should run,” Oscar said.
“While we are running, you should mention how that plan
worked like a dream,” Two-Fingers said, picking up the
suitcase.
“I’m just glad one of our plans finally did,” Oscar said.
“Even if it was
the
oldest one in the book.”
Copyright
2009 by Mark D. West