Shaeffer couldn't believe he was reduced to this shit. Mugging goddamn parking meters for Chrissakes. Parker was rolling over in his grave. Shaeffer just knew it.
Nothing says "loser" louder than being the man who steals from parking meters in goddamn Tulsa, located in fucking Oklahoma. Sweet Jesus.
He plodded along, toting his cart behind him, emptying the next parking meter into the bag. He had a keyring of copied master keys, letting him into meters all over the country. Jesus, did he feel like a criminal mastermind now or what.
No, he felt like a schmuck in his Acme Parking Systems coveralls, just walking along, just a man on a boring-ass job. Shaeffer was still wondering where he went wrong.
Shaeffer was the last of the heavy heistmen. You needed to knock over a football stadium, you called these guys. Armored trucks...that was an easy morning job. Cash payroll, no problem. Hell, Parker took down a whole town in Montana one time.
If a heistman saw a pile of cash, he immediately starting thinking about how to get it. Heistmen were always keeping an eye out for the next big money score.
The heistmen weren't part of the mob. You might call them criminal freelancers. Even the mob called them in when they needed the heistmen's special talents.
Shaeffer broke in with Parker as a rookie. When Parker retired or did whatever the hell he did, Shaeffer worked on a few of Nolan's strings. He finally ended up with his own string, custom assembling each one for each job.
He was probably the last heavy heistman left in America. Hell, even in the heyday, there was only 50 or 60 of the heavyweights. Even less when you broke it down by specialty. Jake, over there, was your man for cracking safes. Bob, well, he could shoot anything at anybody at any distance. And when you needed a quick set of wheels, you called Murphy. There was probably only a half dozen to a dozen men in any one specialty that you could rely on.
You needed to knock over a football stadium, there was a short list of guys to call were. Cool and calm, heavy heistmen could handle anything thrown at them.
Shaeffer had seen this same quality most often in inner city firefighters and Special Forces guys. Never bragging, never verbose, they just quietly let it be known that if the shit went down, well, they've been there, done that.
Shaeffer followed in Nolan and Parker's footsteps. He was the planner. Give him the outline of the job, he'd fill in all the details, cover all the bases. Figure out what could go wrong. He always had a Plan B. And a Plan C, when things really went to shit.
But Jesus, where was the money these days? Goddamn electrons, that's where. What was Shaeffer supposed to do, hold a gun to Paypal's head? Who the hell was Paypal anyway?
Shaeffer opened up another meter. Another 10 bucks in the bag. Jesus Christ, 55 years old and he's got a goddamn job. And not just any job but a job that could get him a 15 year stretch upstate.
Maybe that was the heavy heistman's retirement plan. Get busted on your last job, make the feds take care of you the rest of your life. Shaeffer snorted. No wonder they didn't fucking tell you about that job benefit upfront.
He could pull a Parker. Just disappear. Guy's probably still holed up with Claire somewhere on a lakeshore. Parker always liked to live lakeside in a vacation community. He had to be dragging 90.
Jesus, Shaeffer thought, I gotta think of something better to do. Yeah, I'm bringing in $500 a day, but what a risk. Pull a job at a stadium, you make $50,000, one time risk that you can plan for.
This way, he was at risk walking down the street where any bored cop could make an easy collar. Toting around $300 of loose quarters in a cart? What the hell was Shaeffer gonna say? He got lucky at a laundromat?
He hit another meter, raked in another $8.75. Jesus Christ, maybe he should get a job with the goddamn Coca-Cola company collecting from vending machines. Lots more than $8.75 apiece in those machines. Shaeffer laughed. He could just see himself in one of those Coca-Cola monkey suits the repair guys wore.
Shaeffer shook his head. Like there was a lot of call for his specialty these days.
"Well, tell us about your experience, Mr. Shaeffer," the interviewer would ask.
"Well, I have 23 years experience taking down armored cars and football stadiums."
He could see them clearing their throats. "Well, ahem, we haven't the situation arise. But we'll keep your resume on file, Mr. Shaeffer. Don't worry, we'll call you as soon as something turns up."
Yeah, well, fuck you too buddy.
Shaeffer emptied another parking meter. Another $7.25. What the hell was an out-of-work heister supposed to do for work?
Find a niche? Isn't that what all the business gurus were saying these days? Shaeffer found a fucking niche
"I take big money off stadiums, armored cars and banks."
What was wrong with paying with a $20, instead of Paypal or Google Wallet, or Square or Triangle or whatever the hell the next techie thing was called. Jesus Christ, where the hell did they come up with these names, Shaeffer wanted to know.
What was he supposed to do, walk up to someone, say "Gimme all the 20's in your iPad. I know they're in there."
Yeah right. Shaeffer could see how well that would go over. Even worse, he'd have to spend half his time in yuppie coffee shops, strong-arming geeks. Shaeffer snorted.
Maybe he ought to join up with the post office,. They weren't making any money either. Hell, Shaeffer thought. They should stick him in a post office in Detroit. What a broke-ass trio that would be.
He keyed open another meter. Another $9.50. Jesus.
He had gotten the parking meter idea off of one of Nolan's associates. Shaeffer thought he should call him a former associate, seeing as how Nolan killed the cocksucker. At the least the guy wouldn't be looking for any references soon.
Shaeffer needed the money bad, get back a stake. He needed to get back in the ballgame. Fucking embarrassing is what it was.
For a pro heistman like Schaeffer, ripping off meters was like a four star chef flipping burgers at Mickey D's. You just knew your best bud was gonna walk through those doors next day and bust your ass.
Even the parking meters were going high tech these days. Just swipe your goddamn debit card, pay your fee. This gig only had a few years to run. Shaeffer got that message loud and clear.
Jesus, Shaeffer thought, what the hell was wrong with carrying a quarter in your pocket? You know you're gonna have to park your car.
Cash was going away,and fast. Shaeffer just hoped he'd be dead before the end happened. He had no clue how to knock over a debit card or Paypal.
What was he gonna do? Knock over Stop-n-Robs for a living? Get $23? Jesus. Shaeffer figured he'd just turn himself in, save the cops the hassle.
A heistman's lament. Where the hell were all the up and comers? Probably being smart and hacking computers instead, Shaeffer thought.
All the guys he grew up with? Last Shaeffer heard, Handy McKay was in a goddamn nursing home. Handy had been his contact for years. You needed Shaeffer for a job, you called Handy. Handy decided if it was a worthwhile call, passed those that were along to Shaeffer.
Jesus, can you see Handy doing it from a nursing home? Getting calls at 12:30 in the morning from gruff voices, asking the nurse's aide to go get Mr. McKay for them. Not a fucking chance.
Parker - who knew? He flat out disappeared. Grofield - retired. Acting the actor's life. Murphy? A guest of the state for the next ten years. Salsa? Dead. Nolan? Running a bar outside of Green Bay, fucking the cutest waitress on the staff. And Nolan would definitely be taking Viagra. Hugh Hefner had nothing on that old codger.
Another goddamn meter. Another goddamn $8.75 in the bag. Jesus.
Shaeffer sighed. He trudged on to the next meter.
