Hawke

“Cool. So I can’t mess up. Then what?”

“What time you got?”

Gomez looked up at the big kitchen clock, then at his watch.

“Exactly ten o’clock P.M.”

“Okay. Once you’re programmed, you don’t do anything, anything, until midnight. At the stroke of twelve, you push the left and right buttons at exactly the same time. You got that? Exactly the same time.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, seсor.”

“What does that do, pushing both buttons?”

“Starts the countdown to checkout time at the old cucaracha motel. Thirty hours. The numbers will start rolling backwards.”

“Holy shit, then what?”

“Then you are a very rich man, Elvis. At ten or fifteen seconds after midnight, your cell phone will ring. You make sure you’ve got it on you, charged up, and turned on. Got it?”

“Yeah. What do I say?”

“You answer, ‘Roach Motel.’ A voice will ask you if there are any vacancies. If you have successfully initiated the countdown, you say, ‘No vacancies for thirty hours.’ Then you hang up.”

“No vacancies for thirty hours. I got it. Then what?”

“One more little thing, amigo, one more thing and then you are a very, very wealthy individual.”

“What?” Gomez asked, feeling a little chill.

“You have to deliver the RC to one of the guards at the Cuban checkpoint. That’s the only way we can confirm that you have fulfilled your mission. And the only way you get the password to your Swiss bank account.”

“What? The Cuban side? How the fuck do I do that?”

“You told us you had a good friend at one of the American towers.”

“Sparky Rollins?”

“Exactly. He’ll let you through, no questions, right? You said he was your amigo, the one you did all that time in the brig with?”

“Yeah. I guess. What if he doesn’t just happen to be on duty tonight?”

Christ, he was starting to shimmy and shake like a goddamn Mexican jumping bean.

“You ever hear of wire cutters, amigo?”

“Aw, shit, Julio,” Gomez said. He felt like he was going to start bawling. “There’s a goddamn minefield out there! You guys know that. How the hell do I walk across that?”

“Very, very carefully, amigo. You got a million dollars at stake. You got to think positive. You got to watch your step, man, you’ll make it. Vaya con Dios.”

“But what about—hello?” The line had gone dead. Shit. He stared at the phone in his hand. It was shaking so bad, he didn’t trust himself to put it in his pocket. He set the phone on the counter and took a big swig of the Bud. He wiped his eyes with the bottom of his T-shirt.

Stay cool, he told himself. You can pull this off. This is the big one. But you got to stay cool. Stay focused. Focused on what? The Big Plan, of course! He’d been so nookie crazy lately that, until Julio’s call, he’d almost forgotten the Big Plan. The money, dickhead. The million dollars over there in goddamn Switzerland, that’s what he had to focus on.

And the box. Had to focus on his little pal RC. Good thing he’d been smart enough to write it all down. He looked at the pencil scribbles on the grocery pad. They were kinda blurry because of his sweaty hand, but he could make them out. He folded the paper and stuck it in his jeans pocket.

Then he grabbed another Bud and headed for the garage. The phone! He’d need the cell phone! He grabbed it off the counter and stuck it back down into his underpants. Safer that way. He ducked out the screen door that led to the little backyard.

It was raining. Hard. He hadn’t even noticed. Thunder, lightning, the whole weather thing. Christ. His backyard was underwater. He splashed the few short steps to the garage and stood under the eaves, breathing hard. Why? What was the problem? The minefield? Yeah, that was a problem. A bona fide bitch. Would he try it for one million big ones? Bet your ass.

So, what then? There was something missing in the plan, that’s what. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he would. He just needed a little Vitamin V to calm his nerves.

He stepped into the dark garage and reached up to the shelf where he hid the bottle of Stoli inside an old coffee can. Can was there but it felt too light. He peered inside. Nothing but a few rusty nails. Goddamn kids. Or maybe Rita. She was always sneaking around, looking for his bottles. Now he’d have to drive over to the PX and buy a fifth of the Stolmeister. No biggie.

A thought. He better program the little RC Cola thing before he dipped into the sauce. Smarts. Total concentration. That’s what it took in this modern world of high-tech espionage.

He opened the trunk and lifted the spare. The little bundle was right where it was supposed to be. The RC wrapped in one of his old T-shirts. He lifted it out, carefully, carefully, and moved from the car to his work bench and pulled the cord on the hanging work light.

He unwrapped the bundle. He smiled when he saw the little red letters saying ARMED. He stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out the directions he’d written in the kitchen. Took a deep pull on the old brewski. Smoothed the scrap of paper out on his worktable and went to work.

Unbelievable. How good he was. He had it programmed in thirty goddamn seconds. Just seeing the 3000 flashing made him smile.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

Rafael Gomez, that’s who. Yeah, baby.

Then he leaned in through the driver’s window and put the little box on the front seat. He got in and started the piece of crap Yugo. He looked at his watch glowing in the dark. He had an hour and forty-five minutes to relax and enjoy himself. Couple of drinks, calm down, and think.

Because there was still a part of the plan he hadn’t wanted to deal with, but now he had to face it head on.

The problem he had to figure out, now that he’d programmed the goddamn thing was, once he’d pushed the two buttons, what the fuck did he do then?

He got behind the wheel and started the car, thinking hard as he could about the one thing he’d been trying so hard not to think about.

Namely, how did he make sure his family got the hell out of Dodge before the fit hit the shan when all them damn roaches checked out? That was the one-million-dollar question, all right. Had to work on that one.

Good news was he had thirty whole hours to figure that beauty out. Give a man with his kind of brainpower that much time, he’d be more than likely to come up with the goddamn secret of life!

He put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage. He’d start to figure something out, once he sloshed a couple of cold vodkas down the pipe. Another family emergency in Miami? Would that work again so soon? Probably not.

He backed into the street and put the car in first, splashing through puddles, tearing up his street at a pretty good clip. He could afford to speed. Weren’t too many MPs cruising around in their Humvees this time of night. And after all, he was on a pretty tight deadline.

As he drove with his left hand, he unwrapped the bundle. The RC felt cool to his touch on the seat beside him. He looked down at the red window that was flashing ARMED and then 3000, back and forth. So, he was ready. Focused.

He pulled into the PX parking lot. Something was wrong. All the windows were black. Goddamn. Sunday night. He’d totally forgotten. PX was closed on Sunday night. He pounded on the steering wheel. • Now what? Here’s what. Go around the back, break a window in the door, and let himself in! Hello? Duh!

Steal a Stoli for Jesus!

The hootch would be locked up behind the metal gate back of the bar. Nothing serious. He had a tool kit in the trunk. Wirecutters, everything. He could jimmy anything. Hell, probably jimmy the back door at the White House no problema if he had to. He’d always been good with tools. Good with anything. He saw the little box winking at him. Bad if somebody took his little friend RC while he was on a mission. Real bad. He decided to take it with him along with the tool kit. Swig of Bud, toss the empty in the backseat, and it’s party time, pretty mama!