This wasn’t just smash-and-grab jobs done in the streets of Schoolport.
No. Stick, at the young age of twenty-one, had put together an informational network that would rival that of the CIA.
He had the valets, of course. But what thief worth his salt didn’t?
The valets at the swanky places in town, and neighboring towns, would call Stick when a desired car was dropped with them. Stick would swing by, or at one time I would, and get all the information available from spending ten minutes inside the car.
Think about how much you could learn about somebody from spending ten minutes in their car.
Name and address are easy, from the insurance forms in the glove box. GPS could call up the places they’d programmed in. Places they might return to in their car. You could easily tell whether they had kids, if they ate takeout a lot. All sorts of information.
Stick collected all this information and stored it away. He also had this magic gizmo that he’d had some brainiac tech guy make for him. It looked like a regular garage door opener remote, but if you pressed it at the same time you pressed a real garage door remote, it somehow copied the signal code, creating a duplicate remote. It worked the same with gate opener remotes for the posh gated communities.
And, of course, with the valet system you had access to the keys. If he had time while the car owners were dining, Stick would drive a couple of towns away (not going back to the same town without a month or two in between) and have a duplicate car key made. If there wasn’t enough time, he just made an impression on the spot and had the key made later.
Stick had seven or eight valets throughout the area in his pocket.
But his network didn’t stop there. Hairdressers. Massage therapists. Postal clerks. All people who knew when folks were going on vacations or would be out of town for a while.
Stick wasn’t stupid enough to steal someone’s car the night after they’d been somewhere with valet service—that would have caught up with him within a month.
Stick was smarter than that. And patient. He kept tabs on a car, as if he was stalking an ex-girlfriend or something.
When, say, an “order” for a Cadillac Escalade in crystal red with shale leather interior came up, Stick only had to make a couple of phone calls to find out that the owner of that car would be going to Jamaica in three weeks. By then Stick would have had that car’s address, garage code, and a set of keys for months, just waiting.
Because of being patient, Stick didn’t get caught. And none of the car owners thought it important to mention that they’d eaten at a restaurant with valet service three months earlier when reporting their stolen car to the police.
There were snags, of course. Home security cameras were, I knew, a big detriment to Stick’s…access to the cars. But he must have his ways around that, because he seemed to be doing all right for himself.
And he kept his network well taken care of for their information.
I had stolen cars twice for Stick when I’d needed the money for Oxy. Mostly I’d been the guy who showed up when the valets called. My speed would come in handy if I needed to run from a car if people who shouldn’t be walking by walked by. Though that had never happened.
“Why so much?” I asked. I wasn’t seriously considering it—that life was behind me—but that amount was double what it would normally pay.
“A few reasons. One, I’ve been waiting for this car for a while. Two, it’s short notice and has to happen tonight, so the pay is extra. Three—”
I held a hand up to stop him. “Never mind. I don’t really need to know. I’m not interested.”
“Come on. I know you need the money. And I need someone I can rely on for this one. Two hours out of your life and your problems disappear.”
It was tempting to make all my problems disappear. But that was why the Oxy had been so delicious, so all-consuming—it made everything disappear.
Then you sober up, and you still can’t play football anymore.
But Ididsober up. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d done it. And I did face my problems. And yeah, I had one right now with needing money, but I’d find a way. A legitimate way.
Because life was going too well right now to rock the boat. Andy was adjusting. The steam room job was going well and would probably lead to more. My mom was rehabilitating. And Lily? Lily Spaulding was in love with me.
I could not jeopardize any of it, but I especially couldn’t lose Lily.
She was what made the rest of it all bearable.
“Pass,” I said firmly. I rose from the couch as if calling this meeting to an end.
Stick stayed seated, a man with his own agenda.
“Would it make a difference if I told you the car belonged to George Bell?”
