My cell phone hummed with a text from Badger: “IN POSITION.” I replied that I was in position as well, but a third confirmation never came from Hector. Not that I expected one, but it would be better if we communicated at a high level during this. I regretted not giving my “over-communication” lecture before we disbanded from the bakery parking lot. It was ingrained in the corporate world that there is no such thing as too much communication. This pervasive “feedback loop” resulted in inboxes filling up with “FYI” emails at a five-per-minute clip. But in a scenario like the one we were in, knowing everything was vital.
It was still five minutes from the appointed time when Hector was to deliver the duffel bag of money, but that didn’t keep me from checking my watch every thirty seconds. Of all the people in the bus shelter, I was the most impatient. They had the resigned looks of people waiting for a ride that was perpetually late.
That’s when I spotted Hector.
He was a solitary figure in a white shirt that flared up as he passed under each pool of lamplight. He moved with purpose despite the heavy load slung over his shoulder. I scanned the park but saw no other activity. He was close to the drop point, a garbage can near the center of the park.
“LOCKED ON TARGET” came the text from Badger.
Hector approached the garbage can and let the heavy duffel slip from his shoulder into his hand. He placed the bag on the ground right on the edge of the cone of light from a nearby lamp. I could barely make out the dark lump from this distance. Hector turned and headed back towards Spring Street.
Around me came the rustling of bags and shuffling feet. Barreling down on us was the 762 bus to Boyle Heights, a brightly-lit number with a few ghost-like passengers and a driver cast in shadow. As my shelter-mates formed a makeshift line, I turned back to the park and looked for any activity. There was none. I strained my eyes on the spot where Hector left the bag but couldn’t quite make out if it was still there. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the oncoming headlights but still struggled to see anything in the darkness. The whine of bus brakes squelched behind me and the doors exhaled to let on the passengers. After a moment came a voice.
“You coming?” asked the driver. I waved him off without turning around. “There ain’t no other bus than this one,” he came again.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I said.
The driver brought the doors in and pulled back into the street, leaving a plume of exhaust that got caught up in the shelter.
“TARGET IS IN PLAY” came another text from Badger.
Again I scanned the area but didn’t see anything. I replied, asking for clarification.
“HAS THE BAG MOVED?”
“TARGET IS IN PLAY” repeated the text.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE HAS THE BAG MOVED?” I rattled back.
Badger replied with one word: “AFFIRMATIVE”
I saw nothing, just the same dark landscape with the white polka-dots. But then something moved in and out of one of those dots. I quickly trained my eye on the next one and after a moment the figure appeared again under its harsh light and then slipped back into the black. It looked like a man pushing something. My eyes jumped ahead and waited. He came into view again and this time I got a better look at him. He wore a long, dark coat and pushed a shopping cart filled with something a good foot above its sides. He moved back into the darkness.
It gave me time to type my question: “THE HOMELESS GUY?”
“AFFIRMATIVE”, came the response.
This time, Hector chimed in: “DON’T LOSE HIM”
That’s when I got nervous because I didn’t know if the man was part of the plan to pick up the money or if he was just that, a homeless guy who found a bag full of money left in a park and decided to add it to his collection of street detritus. The thought of Valenti hearing about the latter scenario sent shivers down my spine for what he would do to Hector who in turn would do to me.
I caught sight of the man and his cart in one of the pools of light. He was following the path towards its north-side exit. I calculated how far the park entrance was from me and what I was going to do when he walked through it. Three more times he passed under the light and now he was no more than two hundred feet from leaving the park. I watched the final pool of light for the man, but he never appeared. I waited and still nothing.
“LOST THE TARGET”, Badger texted.
And I fell into full panic mode. My instinct was to run down there but I didn’t want to alarm the man or whoever might be watching him that wasn’t on our three-way text. I instead walked purposefully in his direction, trying not to call too much attention to myself.
My phone buzzed with the incessant texts from Hector wanting to know what was happening. Each one grew shorter than the last. I envisioned him hammering away with each text and getting angrier with each send. I resisted the inevitable as long as possible, which was to reply with the truth that I lost the man.
I pulled up the phone to answer his question and typed three dreadful words: “I DON’T KNOW.”
The phone then fell out of my hand. I looked around, disoriented, and realized I had run headlong into the homeless man’s shopping cart. We looked into each other’s eyes. My gaze was rooted in fear. His look was rooted in schizophrenia.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered and pushed the cart like I was not standing there. I jumped out of the way but the front wheel caught my foot and left a track on my polished loafers. The man continued on down the street in the direction where I had just come. Rather than tail him directly, I grabbed my phone and crossed the street to the sidewalk on the opposite side, giving him a little distance.
I wanted to text the boys that I was on his tail but couldn’t risk being distracted or being spotted doing suspicious activities. I crossed in front of a small Catholic church with a well-lit Virgin Mary and then the Italian social club next door. The homeless man was maybe forty feet in front of me. I kept him in my peripheral vision. We continued on for a few more buildings and then he stopped in front of one of the cars parked on the side of the road. I stopped also, thought better of it, and continued on at my original pace.
I came up even with the man and casually glanced across the road just in time to see him hand the duffel bag over to someone inside the car. In return, he was handed something which looked like money.
I kept moving but I heard the car roar to life. It swung out from the curb and into the middle of the road to head in the opposite direction. I made myself as small as possible but kept my eyes on the driver of the silver compact, the same shitty car that Nelson used to try to run me over.
The Filipina nurse — both her pudgy hands gripping the steering wheel and her eyes trained straight ahead — roared past me.
I took off down the road towards my car. Fumbling with the key, I got the engine started and sped after her. But the road was just an empty stretch of asphalt with no red taillights to follow. The twinkling lights of Chinatown ahead were a false siren.
As I passed Bishop Street, I caught a pair of taillights out of the corner of my eye. They turned right and out of sight. I put both feet onto the brake and came to an angled stop. I reversed without checking and luckily found open road. I pulled onto Bishop and hoped I hadn’t made a mistake.
Zooming up the road, I ran one stop sign and then another and finally caught up to the taillights. As I followed it onto the onramp to the 110 freeway, relief and excitement washed over me like a cold shower — the silver compact was idling at the entrance and waiting for an opening to pull onto the freeway. I slowed so as not to get too close but managed to pull out my phone and send a very simple, reassuring text: “I’M ON IT”