"Hustmyre, Charles - One Big Score" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hustmyre Charles)

ONE BIG SCORE
By
Charles Hustmyre

Even he had to be careful, the French Quarter was rough at night. An easy place to get taken. He walked down Bourbon Street, looking around, looking for a score, looking for anyone who might mistake him for a score.

Thousands of people were out on the street, most of them looking to get drunk and have a good time. They walked around in a fog, not seeing the danger signs. The Quarter was a bad place.

Everybody had to watch out. Kind of like being a small shark in the ocean. He'd never actually seen the ocean but he'd seen a shark once at the Aquarium of the Americas, down at the foot of Canal Street. Way he had it figured, the little sharks had to look out for big sharks, even while they were hunting for their supper.

He was glad he decided to go with short sleeves. Even in October the Quarter was hot and muggy. This city never really had a fall or winter. Just a couple of cold fronts, any other time was like summer.

He passed a couple of shoeshine boys on the sidewalk. Young hustlers--they spent more time trying to trick tourists out of a couple bucks than they did shining shoes. "I bet you two bucks I can tell you where you got your shoes," they'd say. Dumb out-of-towners would take them up on the bet. "You got 'em on Bourbon Street," the kid would say. Either the tourist would laugh at the joke and pay up or the kid would start making a scene. Intimidate the guy. In that case, the tourist would pay just to shut him up.

He passed a boy and a girl sucking face in a darkened doorway, tongues halfway down each other's throat, hands groping. The guy was all sloppy, probably drunk enough, but looked in shape. Strong guy with a load on might put up a fight. He had to find the weak ones. Find 'em alone, in the dark.

Too bad he didn't have a piece. It would make things a lot easier. He used to have a piece, a nice .38, the kind with the short barrel. Cops took that, though. D.A. let him plead to simple robbery; he did forty-eight months in Angola. Never, ever, would he go back there. They'd have to kill him first.

He hadn't had enough money to get a decent piece since he came home. The paper bag trick was all right. You put your hand in the bag and pointed it at them. If you said you had a gun and if you picked your targets right, they'd fall for it and give it up.

That was the real trick, picking your targets. The Quarter was full of people, he just had to narrow it down to one. One score a night was all he ever did. He knew guys who kept going back for seconds, even thirds. Some guys just did it all night. Not him. That was just asking for trouble. In and out, that's the way he did it.

Bourbon Street was a good place to find a score but not the place to make your move. Too many citizens and way too many cops. Had to find a lone drunk. Maybe a guy with a girl. Sometimes that was dangerous. The guy might not want to look like a wimp in front of his girl. Better to pick someone who was alone.

Follow him around a little, see if he turns off Bourbon and heads toward the river. Most of the tourists parked down by the river. The best street to make your move was either Conti or Saint Louis. You let the mark get about a block off Bourbon, where it was good and dark, then BAM! Take what they got, then run down Royal or Chartres toward Canal Street. Get lost in all the foot traffic.

The dude on the corner looked good. Standing a block away, at Bourbon and Saint Peter. Dressed casual, but expensive. Mid-forties, carrying a leather briefcase. With the big "to-go" cup in his other hand, he had to have just come out of Pat O's.

A tourist, businessman variety. Those were good. Usually had cash and lots of credit cards. He didn't use the cards himself, but he could sell them to an A-rab he knew who ran a store on Canal Street. The A-rab paid twenty bucks a card, then sent his runners out to buy a bunch of stuff before the guy even had a chance to report the card stolen. The runners bought mostly small TV's, VCR's, and cameras, then the A-rab would sell the stuff in his store.

The guy with the briefcase wasn't tough looking at all, kind of soft and pudgy--an easy score. The guy took a long sip of his drink through a straw then started strolling down Bourbon towards Orleans Avenue. He was headed the wrong way, toward the gay section, away from Canal Street. Maybe he was a fruit? It didn't matter much.
Twice before he'd snagged a briefcase. Both times the guy had a big wallet inside, the kind with lots of little pockets for credit cards. If the guy had four or five cards, he could be sitting with a hundred bucks in his pocket in a half hour.

Picking up his pace a little, he closed the gap between him and the guy to about half a block. The guy seemed to know where he was going; he had to be a fruit. If he got down as far as Dumaine or Saint Philip it wouldn't matter if he turned off Bourbon or not. The street was dark down there. Nothing but fruits and dykes. They wouldn't interfere.

The guy crossed Orleans Avenue and would be at Saint Ann in just a minute, it was a short block. He'd make his move just past Dumaine. As he passed a big chunk of broken brick lying on the sidewalk, he got an idea. He scooped up the brick and threw down his paper bag.

The guy crossed Saint Ann so he picked up his pace, closing in. Within a quarter block he passed a couple of boys sitting on a stoop smoking weed. They didn't even look up at him. The dummy he was following still hadn't looked behind him. With hardly anyone out on the street, things were looking good.

At Dumaine the guy looked over his shoulder. Damn! Now he knew he was being followed. He must be getting nervous, thinking he's gonna get robbed. Probably cussing himself for walking down a dark street. All the lights and tourists were behind.

The guy made a right on Dumaine and was out of sight, heading toward the river. Bad move, it was even more lonely down there. He jogged to the corner, stopped and peeked around. The guy was there, walking fast, trying to get back to civilization. No one else in sight.

He hefted the half brick in his hand. This wasn't how he usually did it but this guy had asked for it. What else could he do? He stepped around the corner and started running. The guy must have heard him; he looked over his shoulder again and started running.

Legs pumping, trying to chase the guy down, he started worrying the guy was going to get away. His lungs were beginning to burn; he coughed, then spit out a ball of phlegm. Two packs a day for the last twelve years, he wasn't used to running.

Just past Royal Street, he was only ten feet behind the guy but couldn't close the gap. "Stop running!" he gasped. "Stop right now and I won't hurt you." The man didn't say anything, just kept going, briefcase tucked tightly under his arm.

At Chartres Street he was three feet behind the guy and knew he was about out of gas. He was desperate. He raised the brick and lunged forward, smashing it against the back of the guy's head. The guy screamed and dropped.