Deacons Blues

Chapter One

Jack Donahue waved the Belgium-made nine-millimeter toward the loading dock. “Neal, would you please get the duffel bags from the van?”

Neal didn’t move. “You don’t want to do this…” his baritone voice rich with paternal concern. “You won’t get away with it; you’ll be an old man when you get out of jail, Jack. I’m not going to help you. I know we talked about it…. but I got kids, man. I can’t be doin’ no hard time.”

Jack lowered the gun and held it steady. “The bags”.

The three men stood in the repository vault, a caged steel room that was packed floor- to- ceiling with bundles of banded currency.

The other man, slight and blonde, edged next to Neal and added his plea for a return to sanity. “They’ll get ya sure as shit, Jack. C’mon…you’re kiddin’ right? Let’s get back to pinochle, you can deal.”

“Get the bags from the van, Neal.”

They knew that he wasn’t playing around. They knew each other well after working together for four years, wearing uniforms of ersatz military braid. The Sam Browns with the semi-automatics were the outward vestments of a brotherhood of three; guards that held nickel card-playing services every night in the warehouse of the Grimes Armored Car Company.

Neal and Stover gently called on their straying friend to rejoin the fold.

“You don’t want to do this.” Said the thick, black Neal.

“Oh, but I do. What I don’t want to do is to keep working for seven dollars and thirty-two cents an hour while the sands run out of my hourglass.”

“Hey, I know we talked about it, everyone does…but it’s just daydreamin’, Jack, makes the shift go faster.” ministered Stover

“I haven’t talked about it.” Jack retorted.

“Well, no, but you’re the quiet type.” Said Neal, grateful that he was chatty now. Get him talking and maybe his dark night of the soul would pass. “Put the gun down, Jackie.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “I’m falling behind schedule, guys. You don’t have to help me, but you wouldn’t want to be responsible for me getting busted, would you?”

Neal and Stover glanced at each other and shifted with the sounds of creaking leather belts.

“The bags, Neal.” Jack repeated, matter-of-factly.

Neal sighed and headed toward the loading dock.

“O.K., Stove, unlock the cage and wheel in the platform scale.”

“You can’t…”

Donahue looked at his watch again as Richard Stover wrestled with the cart and its obstinate ball-bearing wheels. “Jack, I’ve been with Grimes for twelve years. I was tempted at first, but.” he grunted and rolled the scale over the threshold.

“But it stops being money, and …its just stuff, Jack. It might as well be stacks of phone books.”

“After twelve years, how many ‘phone books’ do you make an hour.”

Stove shoved the cart into the cage and turned. “Nine ten”.

Neal returned with empty canvas sacks across his shoulders, the brass grommets scratching his neck.

“Put one hundred pounds of bills in each sack. Start at the top shelf and work down so the denominations are equally distributed.”

“Jesus, Jack, how much are you taking?” asked Neal.

“All of it.” Jack Donahue holstered his weapon, picked up a bag and began to fill it with the circulated money from the businesses of Chinatown, North Beach and Potrero districts. He loaded sack after sack with the receipts of that afternoon’s baseball game at Candlestick Park, the proceeds of two dozen Italian restaurants and illicit Mah-jongg games on Grant Avenue. Into the heavy bags went circulated currency from Macys, the Trattoria, City Lights Bookshop, the trans-bay ferries, movie houses, expresso stands, female impersonator nightclubs and dellicatesans.

Friday was the day that Grimes Armored Car harvested the bounty from neon fields. The men labored in silence for almost an hour, their blue uniforms became stained with exertion. Jack hadn’t bothered to take away their guns. It never occurred to him.

The shelves were almost empty when Stover bolted up from the floor. “Shit, what about the cameras, this is gonna look awful bad.”

Jack nodded up to the ceiling. The graphite lens housing sported magenta spray paint. Stover cinched a cord through the grommets and sat on top of the surplus navy shore bag.

“Thanks, fellas.” Jack said, checking his watch. “You did fine. What do we got?”

Neal pointed and counted silently. “Sixteen. Christ, that’s…three quarters of a ton. What the hell are you doing?”

Jacks angular face gave up a barely perceptible smile. “C’mon, we’re almost done.” He dragged a sack to the loading dock and tossed it into the van. Neal shrugged and began heaving deceased presidents into the econoline. It was silent in the warehouse except for the swish of canvas against floor. When the van was loaded, Jack closed the steel gates to the cage and turned on the radio. “A Whiter Shade of Pale’ blasted from the old Motorola on the desk.

“Neal, you drive us through the guard station. Tell Vernon that you’re leaving early…family emergency. Stove and I’ll be in back.”

“Then what? I can’t afford to lose this job.” Neal said with equal parts shame and sorrow.

“You’re at gunpoint.”

Stove pulled out his Browning and handed it to Jack, butt first. “You better take these, then.”

Neal nodded and handed over his weapon. Jack tossed them into the dumpster, handed Neal the keys, and climbed into the crawlspace behind the drivers seat.

Stove joined him. “You sure you wanna do this? We can still put everything back and forget about it.”

Jack patted Neals massive shoulder and motioned him forward.

Tires hissed on a hundred yards of fog blemished pavement until the van came to a stop in the glow of a black and white television; the only sign of life in the cubicle.

“Yo, Vern, wake the fuck up.” Neal yelled.

“Huh?” groaned the gaunt oakie. “Where the hell YOU goin’, O.J.?

Neal leaned out the window. “The ol’ lady called. Shantika is running a hundred and three temperature, so I borrowed Jacks van. Gotta run ‘em over to the emergency. Probably nothin’, but you know Vera. They’ll ice the kid down and give her antibiotics.”

Vern rubbed his eyes and yawned.

Neal continued the ruse. “Jack and the Stoveman are going to cover for me. Back in a couple of hours.”

Vern cinched up his belt, gave a lazy mock salute and stepped back into the cubicle.

The stick shift resisted Neal efforts with a hellish metallic howl as he searched for first gear, so after a few tries, he started out in second and lurched into the quiet mists of the Sansome Street industrial district.

“Pull over.” Said Jack as soon as they were out of the guard’s sight.

Jack climbed out from his burrow and directed Neal to the passenger seat. He pulled magnetic signs that read ‘San Francisco Chronicle’ from in back of the seat and slapped them on the sides of the van.

Sodium lights reflected off the wet pavement and at this hour only an occasional delivery truck disturbed the luminous patterns. In a few hours the streets would be packed with commuters even on Saturday, but now traffic was light. This was the riskiest time of the schedule. A curious police car could land Jack in jail - if not for life - then for all practical purposes, what was left of it. He got on the ramp and headed south along highway 101.

Chapter Two

If Lester K. Deacon wore bow ties, he would have looked exactly like his name. He couldn’t do anything about his slight build, balding scalp or vermin-sharp facial features, but he could avoid bow ties. The call came into the field office on Saturday morning; a nearly hysterical voice said that he was an executive vice-president of Grimes Armored Transport and was reporting a major theft. Lester was the field agent in charge and so drove over to the Sansome street address. He flashed his badge to get through the phalanx of squad cars, and elbowed his way into the conference room.

He hooked the arm of a florid policeman in captains uniform. “Deacon, FBI.

Clear everyone out of here except for the ranking SFPD, and the Grimes guys.

There were two men that obviously had just been pulled off the golf course; their shoes left traces of grass on the plush carpet. One of them stepped forward and offered his hand “Roger Layton, vice-president.”

“Deacon, FBI. What gives?”

“Well, when the morning shift change came on, there was no one around, and the cage had been emptied.”

“How many men where on night shift?”

“Three, as is standard.”

“No one saw them leave?”

“The gate guard logged a man out about 1:30 am.”

Deacon pulled a worn notepad from his pocket. “Isn’t that unusual?”

Layton leaned against the desk. “Yes, it is. The fellow who left told the gateman that he had a sick kid and had to get to the hospital. The guard didn’t think anything of it…it happens. He’s in the other room if you want to talk to him.”

“I will indeed. How much is missing?”

“A shitload. The accountant has been tabulating the receipts, but we won’t have the final figure for a while.”

“Albright. Get me the personnel files on the three men…and bring that gate guard in here.”

Layton motioned to his subordinate, an overweight pale-faced man who looked ridiculous in pink and white golf togs. The doughboy hurried out of the room.

Vernon looked like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep on his shift. He slouched in the chair and stared up at Deacon with heavy lidded sheepishness.

“How long you been with Grimes, Vernon?”

“Seventeen years, sir.”

“Mmm. What was the vehicle that left last night?”

“Jack Donahue’s van. White. Ford Econoline. Kinda beat up. He just got it a couple of weeks ago. Neal Rogers was drivin’.”

Deacon turned to Layton. “Do you have a plate for it?”

Layton hurried over to his desk. “Yes. All employee vehicles have to register. Here it is. DUT 458.”

Deacon nodded to the captain. “Get an APB out on it.”

“What did this, uhh, Donahue drive to work before he got this van?

Vernon shifted in his chair. “Nothin’. He took the bus for as long as I can remember.”

“Did you check inside the van?”

“No.”

Layton lit a cigarette. “It is company policy for every vehicle to be checked leaving and entering.”

Deacon stared at Vernon. “Why didn’t you check the van, Vernon?”

The guard shrunk into the chair. “Well, it was kinda an emergency, Neal’s daughter and all. I’ve known Neal for better than ten years…”

A secretary entered and handed several manila folders to Deacon.

He flipped through them for several minutes before turning his attention back to Vernon. “Was there anything unusual about Neal’s behavior? Did he seem under stress, or nervous?”

Vernon furrowed his brow.”Nooo, in fact he didn’t seem that concerned about his daughter, like he was just going to put his wife’s mind at ease, ya know?”

Deacon nodded. “What direction did they take once they were outside the gates?”

“They went south, down Sansome.”

That was no help, thought Deacon. The freeway interchange was in that direction and they could have taken the Bayshore freeway south, or gone over the Golden Gate north,…or the Bay Bridge to the east. He looked at his watch. Eleven eighteen. A good ten hours head start.

“OK, Vernon, that’s all for now. You wouldn’t have any objection to a polygraph test, would you?”

“A lie detector? Hell, no. I’ll take one.”

Chapter Three

The fog was still thick when Jack pulled off the highway and onto the dirt road. The sudden bumps woke the two men sleeping in the back of the van. Stover climbed into the passenger seat and peered through the windshield. “Where you taking us.”

“We’re almost there, guys. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry, he says. Let me out.” Said Neal with a plaintiff rumble.

“Another mile and two-tenths.”

He pulled off the dirt road onto a fire access trail that was barely passable; manzanita and lupine scraped the sides of the van as it rolled to a stop.

Jack opened the passenger door, pulled out his gun and waved it toward the wilderness. “Out.”

Neal and Stover looked at each other. “Hey, you ain’t gonna do nothin’ rash, are ya?”

Jack looked insulted. “Like what? Shoot you two?”

Neal was almost apologetic. “Well, we don’t know. Who woulda thought that you’d actually do this…” he said, nodding at the van.

“C’mon. Everything is going to be fine. Have a little faith.”

Stover chimed in. “Yeh, I’ll have faith that if I don’t get locked up, I’ll be able to get another job.”

“Walk on up that trail, I’m right behind you.” Jack said, as he pulled a small rucksack from behind the passenger seat.

“What damn trail?” said Neal.

It was still dark and the coastal fog loitered among the redwoods, dampening light, sound and motives. To Neal and Stover, the scene was foreboding; to Jack the landscape was embryonic.

He pulled a battery lantern from the knapsack and guided the men a quarter of a mile into the grove. “Stop here, guys.”

They turned and waited. Jack reached into the sack and pulled out a four-foot length of chain and two pairs of handcuffs. Neal’s eyes widened. “Aww shit, what now?”

“Take it easy” said Jack as he looped the chain around a thousand year old tree and fastened Stover and Neal to the links with the cuffs. “Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Don’t worry,… you won’t be here long.”

He held a penlight in his mouth and pulled a box the size of a pack of cigarettes from the recesses of the rucksack. After taking the heading from the hikers GPS, he jotted down the latitude and longitude on a small notepad. Jack rechecked the figures for accuracy. He turned the LCD display to the men. “Damn gadget cost a weeks salary.”

Neal and Stover were sullen and not curious. He shrugged.”Hey, I’m going to make this as easy on you guys as possible, and if everything works out, well…”

Jack resisted the temptation to reveal any more. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

He turned to head back down the trail, the lantern barely making inroads into the California coastal eddy.

“Jack.” Neal called.

Donahue stopped. “Yeh?”

“Look, whatever happens…you always seemed like an OK guy to me. I don’t know what armadillo climbed up your ass, but…. I wish you luck.”

It was too dark for Neal and Stove to see his face and the forest inhaled any sound of his departure.

Chapter Four

Layton accompanied Lester Deacon to the security warehouse. The building was a vast institutional cavern turned festive by groups of law enforcement personnel and bright yellow crime scene tape. Deacon recognized an SFPD detective from a previous case. The Schiff girl kidnapping two years ago. That one ended badly… the girl suffocated and the perp’s cerebral cortex splattered on her parochial school blouse courtesy of a self-inflicted.45 caliber hollow point. The nearest thing to a silver lining was the fact that the ransom was recovered to fund Valium and extensive therapy for the parents.

“Hey, Les.”

“What do we got, Lieutenant?” Deacon could not recall the mans name, but he didn’t try very hard.

“Two guns in the dumpster, company issue. Registered to Neal Rogers and Richard Stover.”

“So that leaves…”

“Jack Donahue.”

“There are units at the last known addresses of the three men. Warrants should be here in twenty minutes.”

“Until Stover and Rogers turn up, we can’t rule them out as conspirators. Either Rogers is a helluva actor or he wasn’t under too much stress when he talked to the gatekeeper.”

“I don’t know how much stock you can put in that guy,…wassisname?”

“Vernon”

“Yeh, Vernon” speculated the nameless detective. “He’s probably been sleep walking through his shift for years.”

Deacon bent under the tape. “Well, I’m going to look around. Give me a holler when the warrants get here, will you?”

“Sure thing, Les.”

Deacon ambled through the cage, marveling at how the cleaning was so complete; the fleecing so close to the skin. He looked up at the desecrated camera lens. “Now why bother disabling the security cam?”

He headed over to his car in the executive lot when he was intercepted by Layton. “I have that figure, now Mr. Deacon.”

Lester stopped and raised his chin in inquiry.

“Twenty-two million, four hundred thousand, eight hundred dollars.”

Deacon nodded. “But how much in cash?

“Twenty-two mil…”
”ALL of it?” No bonds, certificates, checks, Marlboro coupons?

“Circulated big bills, tens to Benjamin Franklins with no sequential serial numbers”

Layton looked to be in shock. Deacon leaned against the Ford “I gotta scoot.”

“Are you going to be in your office.”?

“I really don’t know. Where are you headed?”
Deacon was already backing out. “Donahue’s apartment.”

Chapter

The sun was rising, rousting the fog from the rolling hills. He turned into the Ventana wilderness, a Pacific uplift range that divided the dark humus of the central valley from the dramatic granite cliffs on the ocean. Fields of newly planted lettuce became scrub, then woodlands. He checked his watch. Twenty-seven minutes along the artery and the dirt fire road loomed on the left. Jacks previous two weekends were used to prepare the hiding places; the larger hole was below the scrub ridge. It was easier to get the bags down the road berm than to lug them up the wall on the right. In any case, win, lose or draw, he wouldn’t need to retrieve the money from this first drop. He checked the odometer and recognized the dramatic curve. Stopping the van, he verified the location on the GPS. His breath visible in the chill. The wash was a natural chute and it carried the tumbling sacks to their destination; an outcropping of boulders about a tenth of a mile below the road.

Canvas bounced down the scree kicking up dust in the cool morning air. He left two of the sacks in the van and bounded down the escarpment. The scrub on the west side of the gully parted, and behind a granite boulder about a hundred and fifty feet from the road was the spot Jack Donahue dug out last weekend. He pulled back the brush. A hole seven feet deep received the bags which he then covered with a layer of dirt, replacing the manzanita and wild grasses above the cache. After a scramble up the wash, he threw the van into gear and continued down the barely defined fire road.

He checked his watch and noted that he was only slightly behind schedule. Three and a half miles more brought him to a switchback. Here he lugged the two remaining sacks fifty yards into the dense brush. Before he secreted them at the base of a dead tree, he pulled out several bundles of bills and stuffed them in every pocket of his uniform.

When he finally pulled back onto the interstate, he felt relief, but fought the sensation. It was too soon for self-congratulations…entirely too soon.

CH.

The address was 458 and a half Howard St. There was no one on the premises that could be called a manager. The old wooden frame building was on the downside of the tenderloin; in fact, thought Deacon, it was under the belly of civilization. The small room that Jack Donahue called home was in the rear of the tenement; a house that was dilapidated even by the seedy standards of the neighborhood. Deacon stepped over yellowing newspapers and grocery store flyers that were strewn along a weed infested driveway to get to the door. There weren’t any vehicles around, let alone the van. The agent drew his gun and kicked open the door. .

The room was barely larger than a closet and the only appliance was a rusting hotplate. There were no personal effects around, unless two lonely wire hangers qualified. The bare, thin mattress was bedding that would be scoffed at in any jail. Deacon replaced the .357 into the shoulder holster and exhaled loudly. He looked through the drawers of a pea green dresser. Nothing. He inspected what passed for a bathroom. It was clean, but devoid of toiletries. Grimes Armored Transport routinely fingerprinted all employees, so Deacon didn’t see a need to call in forensics. He was about to leave when he spotted the business card on the table. It read,’ Milton Mossberg – Attorney-At-Law’. He tapped it against his fingernails and walked out into the street, accompanied by an unsettled feeling of dread.