ROAD RULES

The road trip to Hell starts with a stolen car....

Chapter 2

“Well, that's tough,” said Koradovich, the phone pressed to his ear. “We gave him a generous consumer loan at only twenty-one and a quarter percent interest.” He had his feet up on his desk, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “With his credit, he's lucky we even fronted him the money.”

He heard a knock. A short guy with greasy hair and a shabby leather jacket stood in the doorway. Koradovich waved him in. “No, Mrs. Hernandez, I'm afraid my hands are tied. If I let your son keep the car, I lose credit with my financial backers. Then no one's credit is good at Andre the Giant's. Know what I mean?”

The man shuffled into the room, his limp the result of a debt to Koradovich he'd let slide too long some time back. Koradovich didn't mean it personally, and the man didn't take it that way. It was business.

“Then I'll see you in court, ma'am. You have a nice day.” He hung up the phone. “Stan Yarazelski. Stan the Man. Come on in.”

“You wanted to see me, Andre?” Yarazelski dropped into the squeaking swivel chair opposite Andre.

“Yeah, I did. Got a job for you.” Koradovich turned to the coffee maker behind him. “You wanna cup?”

“Nah, thanks, man. Another cup and my bladder'll explode before I get anywhere today.”

Koradovich freshened his own cup and turned around. “I hear ya. Nice work on that Mercedes, by the way. Turned it around in two days”

Yarazelski spread his hands and grinned. “What can I say? Pit bulls are great guard dogs until someone uses a taser. So you'll be wanting me to repo that car again soon?”

“Soon as I sell it to another mark. Gotta love this business.” Koradovich reached into his desk and tossed out an envelope. “There ya go. Three hundred, and another fifty for getting the job done fast.”

Yarazelski tapped his forehead in salute. “We aim to please. Anything else we can do for you? Got a Lexus or two you want back?”

“As a matter of fact, there is something you can do. Got anything lined up this weekend?”

“Drink beer. Screw ugly chicks. Why?”

“I need a little favor. There's another two-fifty in it for you if you can do it this weekend.”

“That so? What's the job?”

Koradovich stood up and stretched. “I need you to deliver a car to Miami this weekend.”

Yarazelski eyes widened. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit. This customer's up my freakin' ass about it, too. Says he has to take delivery of the car no later than Sunday evening.”

Yarazelski leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and rubbed his eyes. “Gee, Andre, I don't know. Cleveland to Miami and back in two days...”

“Just to Miami. Guy's got another car he wants to trade me on.” Koradovich came around the desk and patted Yarazelski on the shoulder. “You take the car down, maybe get a buddy to shotgun with you, and come back mid-to-late next week. I'll pick up your hotel, give you a per diem, and you get a nice, easy vacation to boot.”

Yarazelski looked up at Koradovich. “Five hundred.”

“Five hundred? What are you? Stupid?”

“No, horny. Some of those ugly chicks give fantastic head.”

Koradovich moved back to his chair and sat down. “Only because you're so drunk you don't know they're just jacking you off.” He shuddered. “Which is a mental image I can do without. Three hundred then.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Three-fifty.”

“Four.”

“Three-fifty.”

“Fine. Get someone else.”

“Did I break your other knee that time you didn't pay me?”

Yarazelski turned pale.

“That's what I thought,” said Koradovich. “Three-fifty. Plus the two-fifty bonus if you get it there before nine Sunday morning.”

“Nine? Sunday? Are you insane?”

Koradovich folded his hands in front of him and quietly said, “I've used that defense in court.”

Yarazelski blew out his breath slowly. “What time do I pick up the car?”

“Now.”

“Paperwork?”

“By mail. You just hand the guy his keys. I'll give you the details before you leave.”

Yarazelski leaned across the desk and shook Koradovich's hand. “Deal.”

“Let's go out back then and have a look.”

Yarazelski got up and hobbled out of the room.

Koradovich heaved himself out of his chair to follow. “By the way, Stan, you ever notice a Volkswagen Jetta hanging around on any of your jobs?”

***

“Where the hell is Mason?”

Estevez looked up at the neatly dressed man striding in through the entry of the sanctuary. He had a big guy in tow who looked like an oversized accountant. They didn't dress like reporters, but they didn't dress like cops, either. Their suits cost too much.

“Who are you?” said Estevez, stepping down from the altar to meet the man. “And how'd you get through the police line?”

The neatly dressed man thrust a card at him like a badge. “Charles Aston III, Vice President of Reinsurance for Walden Insurance.”

Estevez made a mental note to be duly impressed as soon as he found time. Maybe after he retired. “So?”

“We arranged the transport of the Chest.” The accountant type looked pale as he handed Estevez his own card. “Myron Blake, Officer...”

“Lieutenant Estevez, Major Crimes.” To Aston, he said, “And you still haven't told me how you got past the police line.”

“Well, I expect my employees to vouch for me when I have to personally intervene in a claim. Ms. Hagemeyer spoke to your officers.”

Ah, ha, thought Estevez. So you two are here to save your jobs. “Well, I'd say this is a claim, Mr. Aston. As for Mason...”

“Yes. Where is he?” Aston's tone was sharp.

Estevez noticed a thin wisp of a woman, maybe twenty-four if she was a day, in the entrance to the sanctuary, almost hiding behind the door as she watched Aston and Blake. “Why don't you ask that lady back there?”

Aston turned. “Hagemeyer?”

Brandi Hagemeyer tentatively stepped into the sanctuary. “He said he wanted to check out the warehouse where the Chest was stored.”

“Oh, he did, did he? And what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in a cat modeling class?”

“Cat modeling?” asked Estevez.

“Catastrophe modeling,” said Blake. “Helps us determine risk before we insure something.”

“Maybe you should have done that for the Chest.”

“Hagemeyer?” said Aston, a little louder with a sideways glance at Blake.

“Mr. Mason called me and said he needed my help,” she said.

“And you came?”

“He is the claims manager, sir,” said Blake. “She's going to ask how high if he suggests jumping.”

Aston nodded. “And what have you been doing since you got here?”

“Talking with the police,” said Hagemeyer. “They've pretty much been handling everything. Mr. Mason told me to stay out of their way and let the police gather all the evidence.” Her eyes widened as she watched her boss. “Was I wrong?”

“Only because you followed orders. Don't worry about it.” Aston turned to Estevez. “Well?”

“Well, what?” said Estevez.

“Lieutenant, my company is out five million dollars and a lot of credibility if that Chest disappears. What do you know?”

Estevez turned several responses over in his head. Telling Aston to go fuck himself and wait at the Justice Center tempted him most. Instead, he said, “Right now, we are questioning everyone here at the Church. Everyone. We've already sent several squad cars to Allied Storage, where the Chest was stored until this morning. And the Brinks people are already here to verify they brought Chest to Allied when it arrived here in Cleveland. As for Jordan & Associates, they can vouch for every second they had the crate.”

“But you don't know anything yet?”

“These things take time, Mr. Aston.” When Aston opened his mouth, Estevez added, “Threatening us will not find the Chest any faster. But since you're here, you might as well tell us who signed off on that clusterfuck of a security plan.”

Blake put his hand up weakly. “That would be me, Lieutenant.”

***

“Here's the address,” said Koradovich as he stood in the dealership's garage. The air ratchets and lube racks had gone silent as he'd given his mechanics another hour off – with pay even – during Stan Yarazelski's visit. He handed Yarazelski a cheap cell phone. “Here you go. Untraceable and loaded with minutes. As soon as you reach Miami, you call the number there listed with the address. Got it?”

Yarazelski stuck the slip of paper in his shirt pocket and the phone in his pants. “Easy enough.”

“You'll be bringing back another car,” said Koradovich. “I don't know what yet.”

“You don't know what kind of car you're getting in return?”

“Relax, my man. I know he's good for it. That's good enough for you, too.”

Yarazelski spread his hands. “It's your money.”

“Yes. It is. Speaking of which...” Koradovich reached into his own pocket and came out with a roll of fifties. He peeled off five and gave them to Yarazelski. “A little walking around money. J's man will pay you when he comes for the car. All you have to do is make sure he can find you when he's ready to send a car back. Simple, eh?”

“If you say so. And where is this magnificent specimen of Detroit craftsmanship?”

Koradovich led him through the back exit out into the repo lot.

“That the car?” Yarazelski asked, walking toward the black Cadillac. “Looks clean.”

Koradovich laughed. “My buyer wanted it in near-mint condition. He asked for only one modification.” He tossed Yarazelski the keys. “Check it out.”

Yarazelski slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The big car roared to life, then settled into a contented purr as it idled. Yarazelski played with the controls until he...

Charlie Watts's drums and bongos began throbbing through the Bose speakers, soon joined by Mick Jagger's “Yeeoowww!” The Caddie began to vibrate to the pulsing beat of “Sympathy for the Devil.”

“Suh-weeeeet!” said Yarazelski. “MP3 compatible?”

“My buyer wants nothing but the best,” said Koradovich. “Nine on Sunday morning?”

“If I have to pop meth and drive all night by myself.” Yarazelski turned up the Stones a little more. The mirrors now visibly vibrated with the music. “I should be able to find someone solid,” he shouted. “I'll leave around eight tomorrow if I do.”

Koradovich motioned for Yarazelski to turn down the music. “That's fine. I only have one other favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

“Unless you get a flat or have some sort of emergency, stay out of the trunk. Don't even put your bags in there.”

Yarazelski turned off the stereo. “Okay, I'll bite. Why?”

“There's some stuff my buyer is taking along with the car, and he doesn't want anyone to see it.”

Yarazelski opened his door and got out of the car. “Are you smuggling drugs in this thing?”

“Relax, Stan. If you want, you can have police dogs sniff this thing out before you go. It's clean. No, what's back there is something else this buyer collects, and he's paranoid about letting people know he's made this purchase.” Well, that much was true.

Yarazelski got back behind the wheel. “Sounds easy enough. Hell, with this boat, I should be able to put all my camping gear in the backseat and still have room to party.”

“But you won't have time.”

“Not the time,” said Yarazelski. “Not until we get to Miami.” He put the car in drive, but held the brake.

“Call me if you need anything,” said Koradovich. “Just get back here by next Friday. I'll have other work for you when you're done.”

Yarazelski waved and let the car drift toward the gate to the outer lot. Koradovich held up an remote mounted on his key chain and opened the gate. As soon as Yarazelski disappeared up the street, Koradovich closed the gate and headed back inside.

“Stan,” he said under his breath, “you fuck this up, I will kill you.”

***

Sharon Harrow recognized the man driving the Cadillac. He was a repo man she'd come across several times while working for her uncle. She'd never seen him up close, but he wasn't hard to miss. She spotted him limping into Andre the Giant's as she sat across the street in the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot.

Now he was driving Havalcek's prized Cadillac. Maybe Havalcek deserved to lose the car. He was just as big a crook as Andre Koradovich. Havalcek was also her uncle's client, however, and extremely paranoid. Unlike Koradovich, Havalcek insisted on hiring Jordan & Associates to watch his car lots “for vandals,” he'd said.

Yeah. Right, thought Sharon. How much money do you owe Koradovich? And why isn't he breaking your kneecaps?

It didn't matter. They'd stolen the car while she sat in the john the other night. They'd also cost her a job she didn't want. Or did she?

Not for the first time that day, Sharon told herself as she started the Jetta's motor she only wanted to prove herself to her uncle. If Koradovich had hired that idiot to take the Cadillac somewhere, she'd have no trouble following him.

Save the Cadillac; save her job.

Simple.

So why didn't she believe that as she followed the Caddie onto the Medina Freeway?