The Convertible - Thief of Hearts

Author's note: This is the sixth Convertible story. The first two, "The Convertible" and its sequel "The Convertible - Another Road" are closely connected and should be read together, but after those two, the Convertible stories are standalones, the charmed 1955 TR2 being the sole thread tying them together.

•All sexual activity in this story is between people 18 years and older.

•All people and organizations mentioned are fiction, except for the FBI.

•I had an idea for this third bullet, but someone stole it. Probably Kevin the Rat.

Thanks as always to my Muse RiverMaya, for her inspiration and help in bringing out the best in my stories. Thanks also to my editor/advisor, ol' Mr. Laser-focus himself, Verbalinians.

Because I keep writing and revising up until the last minute, any errors are entirely mine.

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Fucking Jimmy Bonatello. I told Tommy we shouldn't use him, but Jimmy was Joey Bonatello's cousin, so Tommy said he could be trusted. We needed a driver for this job with a Class A commercial license and Jimmy had been driving interstate trucks for 6 years. He was a competent driver, but my gut was screaming he wasn't cut out to be a criminal, he was just too damned nice.

The auction house guy who bird-dogged for the organization identified a covered auto transport scheduled from an auction in Monterey to the Redhawk Auto Museum in Danville, California. There were 4 cars on this transport, but only one was of interest to the bosses; a fire-engine red 1934 Alfa Romeo 8C 2300 Cabriolet Décapotable that had been purchased for $7 million.

The transport had left Monterey at 2am, the timing specifically chosen to avoid people like my team members; Kevin the Rat, Joey Bonatello, Wheels Murphy, and me - Paul Cahill. Oh, and Joey's cousin, Jimmy Bonatello. Except for Jimmy, who grew up in Toledo, we all had similar backgrounds; street kids from the south side of Chicago whose parents usually gave us a smack upside the head to go with the plate of beans and franks they served us for dinner.

We'd all been taken in at some point by Tommy DeLucca, a Chicago crime family guy. Tommy liked bringing in hungry kids with nothing to lose; we were motivated. He taught us early on how to hustle and steal. When Kevin, Joey, Wheels, and I showed an aptitude for car theft, he sent us to a guy in Los Angeles to refine our skills because if you want cars, LA has the most.

Our crew had been working up and down California now for around 8 years, and we'd moved up. At first, we stole common stuff like Honda Accords and Chevy pickups with American plates; these were mostly for buyers in Tijuana to dodge checkpoints coming into the US; then we graduated to luxury cars for shipping offshore Africa and Asia; then finally we hit the top tier, stealing classic cars for resale on the global collectors' black market.

Boosting local cars was no big deal, and a local crime; looting collections and transporting the goods across state lines or overseas was what got the FBI interested in you. I'd been lucky; I'd done time in Juvi as a kid but as an adult I'd never even come close to getting caught. It looked like my good luck streak was now broken, and it was all because fucking Jimmy shared a fucking peanut butter sandwich.

The transport was headed up 101 when the black SUV with Kevin, Joey and Jimmy in it and another with me and Wheels blew past the guy and parked them crossways, blocking both northbound lanes. The transport driver, knowing what was up, pulled to a stop and jumped out of the semi's cab, his hands in the air. He didn't know our team never carried guns; we were car thieves, not enforcers.

None of us knew, or even wanted to know, how to handle a piece; we were all aware all aware using a gun during a theft could turn a 10 year sentence into life without parole in an instant if something went sideways. If the driver assumed we were armed, though, we weren't going to tell him he was wrong.

The plan was for Jimmy to hop in the cab, disable the semi tractor's onboard tracking device, and drive the transport to a rural sideroad near Modesto. Once there, another transport would meet us and take the Alfa Romeo to its new home. The original transport and the other four cars were to be left there so some county cop could recover them and be a damned hero on the local news.

Before he got in the cab of the transport, I saw Jimmy talking to the driver. When we reached the rendezvous spot, Kevin, Joey, Wheels, and I unloaded the first car, a green Triumph of some kind. I liked the look of it and rolled it to a safe place, away from the transport. Then out came the jewel in the crown, the red Alfa. How it got to be worth $7 million was a mystery to me, it wasn't some streamlined beauty like a Bugatti Type 57SC, but when it came to collector cars there was no accounting for rich people's tastes, I guess.

We loaded it on the new transport, and off it went into the darkness. I turned to Jimmy and asked, "Hey, Jimmy, what was up with that driver? Were you robbing him or something, because he's just a working stiff; we don't do that shit."

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Jimmy said, "I gave him my peanut butter sandwich so he wouldn't get hungry while he was waiting to be picked up. And I felt bad because he might get in trouble with his bosses, so I gave him a $10 bill to buy him a coffee."

A sense of foreboding rolled over me. "Jimmy, tell me you were wearing gloves when you did that."

"Oh, no, my hands weren't cold, I was fine." The dumb bastard was clueless about what he'd just done.

"So, just to clarify, you gave him a sandwich in a plastic bag and a $10 bill, both with your fingerprints all over them?" I could see Jimmy still thinking through what that meant, but I'd already figured it out and was on my way to being gone. First rule of stealing was always do it quickly. The second rule was, once it was done, always leave quickly. And the third rule was if things get screwed up, leave quickly even faster. There was a term for guys who didn't follow the rules: 'The Defendant'.

Hopping in the Triumph, I turned the key. The fuel gauge showed three quarters of a tank, which was good enough for now. Throwing it into gear, I took the quickest road back to Route 99 and headed south towards Bakersfield. Once Jimmy's prints were identified, it was only a matter of time until the Feds would hunt the rest of us down; I needed as much of a head start as possible.

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I had about $200 in cash on me; I bought a pre-paid burner phone and called my boss. "Tommy, it's Paul! I'm calling you from a burner."

"Smart move, Pauly, where are you?" Odd. He never called me Pauly, he knew I really hated being called that. This meant something.

"I'm on the move - I took one of the other cars from the transport. That dumbshit Jimmy screwed up so I got the hell out, just like you taught me. I just wanted you to know because of Jimmy, the Feds will be climbing all our asses in a day or two. Can you warn Kevin, Joey, and Wheels?"

"That's real good, Pauly. Keeping a cool head is important." Something in Tommy's voice sounded funny.

I asked him, "Are you alone, Tommy?" If somebody was with him, this was bad.

"What do you need, Pauly? Let me know, I'll send somebody to bring it." Uh oh. He definitely was not alone.

"Are you telling me because I took off, they think I had a hand in it?"

"Clean clothes and five grand? No problem. Just tell me where you'll be. I'll send someone." Aw, shit. The odds were now good that somebody in Chicago wanted me dead. I hung up, pulled the SIM card out of the phone, and crushed it under my heel.

++++++++++

In the eight years I'd been working with Kevin, Joey, and Wheels in California, I'd put together a series of cash drops throughout the state to hide money. The closest one was in Bakersfield, in a crawlspace under a double-wide mobile home. I'd driven through the mobile home park until I found one where an old woman lived, then waited until after dark to slip the box with $10,000 in it in the crawlspace. I figured unless a family of raccoons took up residence there, nobody would disturb my cash.

It was around 10:00am when I reached Bakersfield; I figured I'd retrieve the cash after dark. I found a cheap motel and rented a room. I hadn't slept for 26 hours, so I pulled the curtains, flopped on the bed, and I was out.

I awoke with a start - deep in my dreams, it had come to me that I hadn't swapped the plates. There were not that many old Triumphs on the road to begin with; I'm sure by now the plates on my stolen car would be on the screen of every law enforcement vehicle from Chula Vista all the way up to Yreka. It was the third rule of stealing again; I needed to move - fast!

It was around 3:30pm; since time was of the essence, dark was no longer in the cards. I just needed to snatch my cash and go. The sun was high overhead as I drove into the mobile home park. Pulling up in front of the double-wide, I set the parking brake and left the engine running. Getting on my hands and knees I tore away the crawlspace access panel, reached in, grabbed the box, and then sprinted out of there.

I'm sure multiple people were dialing Bakersfield PD as I left, so I wasted no time getting back on Route 99. I headed south for about 20 minutes, then turned left on a rural road, 'Mariposa Road' according to the sign. Mariposa means 'butterfly' in Spanish, so I took that as I good sign. I mean, only assholes hate butterflies, right?

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I kept my eyes peeled as I drove along the road; I was looking for a barn or something to hide the car in. My improvised plan was to find a barn and pay a storage fee to keep the car out of sight. Looking back, it was a stupid plan, but I was sleep-deprived, and it was all I could come up with.

On the road ahead, parked off to the shoulder on the right I saw a mid-80's Chevy Caprice Wagon. I always loved those cars because they could carry a family of four and their luggage without breathing hard. It was the ultimate highway cruiser, except this one was going nowhere. The hood was up, a distress signal to be sure. I pulled over and parked in front of it. In my rearview mirror, I got nice a view of wide hips and a shapely rear, dressed in a pair of blue overalls and belonging to the woman bent over the engine compartment. She turned towards me as I got out of the Triumph.

She looked to be a little under 6', same as me. With a pair of work boots on her feet and no makeup except for a few dirt smudges, it was clear this was a woman used to manual labor. She had shiny black hair tied up in a bun, and mocha-colored skin. She was a beauty, all right. My day had definitely taken an upturn.

"Do you need some help?"

"This damned old Chevy has been giving me fits lately. We're about three miles from our farm. Could I borrow your car to take my son home? Then I can come back for you." A boy stepped out of the Caprice and stood next to his mother. He was a little guy, about 4 feet tall and maybe 60 pounds soaking wet.

"Sure, before you go let me see if I have a toolkit in my trunk, then I'll have a look at your Chevy and see if I can solve the problem." I opened the trunk and found a small toolkit. There were a variety of metric tools as well as some American standard in it, so the chances were good I could get the Chevy running.

Looking things over, it seemed the problem stemmed from the distributor. The vacuum hose had come off of it, plus the distributor hold-down bolt had worked itself loose. It only took me a few minutes to get them straightened out enough to start the engine and keep it running until I could get my hands on a timing light and set it up properly.

A thought flashed in my head that I could just take this car and leave the farmgirl stuck with the stolen Triumph. There had to be a million mid-80s Chevy Caprices cruising on California's highways and byways, so I'd become invisible.

On the other hand, just leaving made no sense. I was exhausted and needed to rest. Plus, there was the $10,000 cash in the Triumph's trunk I'd have to retrieve. It would be better if I gave myself some time to recuperate before grabbing the cash and stealing the Caprice.

Just then the woman pulled up in the Triumph. She got out, and I found myself admiring the way overalls clung to her natural curves. Her face lit up when she heard the motor running. "Hey, this is great! Today you're my hero! How can I repay you?" Since I hadn't thought up a credible cover story, it was time for full transparency.

"This is going to sound a little crazy, but I'll be honest with you, I'm in kind of a jam right now. The FBI is looking for me, as well as some other people. I need a place to hole up for a week or so and stay out of sight. Do you have a barn I can sleep in? I don't want to be any trouble; I just need to crash." I was expecting her to freak out but got quite the opposite reaction. She laughed as if she didn't believe me.

"What, you're like a bank robber? You look pretty harmless to me."

"No, I don't rob banks and I don't use guns. I'm just a car thief. I'm not talking about stealing some working stiff's Honda Civic, though. I only steal expensive cars from rich collectors; then my bosses pick them up and get rid of them. A job I was just on went bad, so I'm trying to lay low."

"Well, that's a pity. I've got a bank I wish you'd rob. They bastards are threatening to foreclose on my farm in a month unless I can get caught up on my back payments." I could tell by the look on her face this was as much wishful thinking as it was joking around.

I smiled and shook my head, "Sorry, no can do. Cars are fairly easy to steal and are pretty low risk; on the other hand, with all the security measures in place, bank robberies are difficult and dangerous. Besides, I'm allergic to armed guards. Put a bullet in me, my hands start to swell up."

She laughed at that. "We can park your car in the barn; I have a spare bedroom, so you don't need to sleep in the barn."

"Will your husband mind?"

"My husband died a little over a year ago. If he were alive, though, he wouldn't mind. He didn't trust banks, the police, or the Federal government. He and I definitely saw eye-to-eye on that."

I chuckled, "Sounds like my kind of guy. Are you sure you're OK with a perfect stranger in your house?"

"The fact you even asked that question tells me you're probably safe. You're not going to steal anything of mine, are you?" Whoops, there went my plan to steal the Caprice.

"No, like I said, I only steal from rich collectors. You don't strike me as one of those."

It was her turn to chuckle, "That's for sure. I got a shitty old station wagon, a tractor that won't start and a hay baler that needs some repair. Think you can help me fix them?" She held out her hand, and I took it; she had a nice firm grip. "I'm Elena Pollard."

"Paul Cahill. I don't know the first thing about farm work, but I know how to work on motors, so I'll give your tractor and hay baler a shot. Your Caprice is just old, so I don't know how much I can do about that, but I'll see if I can get a little more life out of it."

We drove back to the farm, Elena in her Caprice, and me in the TR2. When I got out of the car, two huge geese ran up to me, wings spread wide. Honking and hissing, they began biting at my pant legs, so I jumped back in and closed the door. Elena shooed them away, then opened the door for me.

"Sorry about that. Those two are Duke and Earl, my guard geese. Effective, aren't they?"

Nervously looking around to make sure the geese were not coming back, I replied, "Pretty damned terrifying. We sure as hell didn't have those on 63rd Street in Chicago where I grew up. You know you can get guard dogs, right?"

She laughed, "On a farm, geese are much more effective. Their distance vision is remarkably good; they see movement long before a guard dog can. Also, unlike dogs which can be distracted by, say, poisoned beef, they can't be bribed. They have super strong territorial instincts; if they perceive a threat, they become 22 pounds of feathered attack missile, as you saw."

"Yeah, I saw, and I damn near needed a change of underwear! Aren't you afraid they'll fly away or something?"

"Duke and Earl won't fly away. Partly it's because the farm is their home, but also because they were domestically bred, they've been bred too fat to fly. Plus, there's always food here. Even if they could fly, they've got no motivation to leave. Life is good if you're Duke and Earl. The only thing that would make it better is if I brought in couple of female geese, but I have no interest in a bunch of goslings running around just because the boys are horny."

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The next week went well. I got plenty of sleep, usually getting up mid-morning. I seldom saw Elena because she was up early tending to the chickens and the crops; I did manage to get the tractor running and the hay baler sorted out; I didn't have the tools to give a proper tune up to the Caprice.

One day when Teddy overslept and missed his bus, Elena asked if I wouldn't mind driving him to school and I saw an opportunity. A County Agricultural Agent was coming by that morning to go over some ideas on how she could get the farm profitable. As Teddy got his school stuff together, she gave me the rundown.

"Don't speed, the tires are a little bald and I haven't had the money to replace them yet," she warned, and the brakes are soft, so take it easy." It's been my experience that on old cars like this one, it was never just one thing that was wrong, so I went to my cashbox in the trunk of the TR2 and pulled out two thousand dollars just to be on the safe side. What I had in mind would not be cheap.

Teddy and I got into the Caprice; I drove him the 18 miles to his grade school over in the town of Lebec. I was about to pull away when I saw a bigger kid walk up to Teddy in what looked to me like a threatening manner. I threw the Chevy in park and was about to get out when the kid walked away from Teddy. I made a mental note to ask Teddy about that boy when I saw him again.

I looked around town for a breakfast place; and found a diner in a strip mall. Across the street was an old-fashioned gas station/garage. I pulled in, and an older guy came out. His nametag said his name was Ray. I told him what I wanted: new tires, a brake job, and a tune up. He checked the inventory, and he had the tires in stock. They were $436 including balance and installation.

I asked about a brake job, full tune-up, and oil change, he told me the full brake job would cost $350, the tune up and oil change would cost $338. So, everything I wanted would total $1124. I counted out 12 $100 bills and told him if it was done by 2:30pm I'd give him $500 more.

His eyes lit up, and he agreed. I guessed I was probably the most profitable customer he'd had in a while. I handed him the keys to the Caprice, then walked over to the diner to have myself a late breakfast.

Inside the diner, the TV on the wall was showing a late-breaking local news story about the three stolen cars found in Modesto. They showed images of the suspects; Jimmy, Kevin, Joey, Wheels, and me. Apparently, Joey, Jimmy and Wheels had been apprehended, but the search was on for Kevin and me.

It was thought by the FBI that Kevin was making his way to Canada, while I had been sighted in Bakersfield and was in hiding somewhere in the area. A manhunt was in progress for both of us. I put $10 on the counter to pay for my lunch and was about to leave when an FBI agent appeared on-screen, with an 800 number.

The graphics said her name was Special Agent Marie Workman, and she was the agent in charge of the investigation; anyone with information should call the number. I memorized the 800 number; if I got tired of running, it might come in handy.