The Job

Chapter 6 - Nolan

Shaeffer grabbed another beer from the fridge and set off to the den to get directions off the computer to Nolan's place.

Nolan was an old school heistman. Not quite with Parker, but definitely in the same league. Shaeffer had done some jobs with Nolan. Hell, he did some jobs with Parker on the tail end of his career when Shaeffer was just a snot-nosed kid.

Those guys were his mentors. Couldn't do better than two guys who each had spent forty years knocking over armored cars, stadiums, and banks and not getting busted for it. Kinda melancholy thinking back on it, knowing you were the last of the breed. Shaeffer didn't see any up-and-comers on the horizon. Why would he? They were all busy hacking computers. Shaeffer was lucky to get his email delivered.

Nolan had eased out of the life, married the cutest cocktail waitress in the bar he owned, and now co-managed it with her. Gradually Nolan did fewer and fewer jobs, spending more time on the legit business. He still liked to keep his hand in the game though, which is why he funded jobs. Schaeffer laughed. No fucking way was Nolan reporting all that cash from the bar to the government. Of course he had cash on hand for situations like this.

Hell, even bars were a bitch these days. Used to be everyone paid cash, unless you ran a restaurant side. Even then, the only guys that paid with credit cards were businessmen ringing up a $50 tab or better. You could slide all the cash shit to the side. Now these fucking yuppies or Gen X'ers or slackers or whatever the hell they called the new breed wanted to pay for a goddamn $3 beer with a debit card. What the hell was up with that? How could you scam that? Visa would catch you in a minute, trying to heist twenty cents off of them.

What the hell happened to the old days? Pocket $50 at the end of the night, call it over-rings on the register. Jeez, those were the days. Even small graft was going by the wayside these days.

Nolan waxed in memories for a few more minutes. Then he thought he better check if Nolan was still even around and looking for extra money. That was some old school heistman thinking, driving 600 miles hoping the guy was there and still in business when you could just call or text. Nostaglia can sure screw you up. He dialed Nolan's number just to make sure he was still around and in the game.

And why the hell did they still call it dialing? You were pressing fucking buttons on a screen or keypad. It was like telling your kids they sounded like a broken record. They would just look at you like, “What the fuck is a record?”

Shaeffer just shook his head, listening to the rings. One more sign the world was passing him by. Like he needed another goddamn sign.

Nolan picked up on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Hey, a friend of yours named Shaeffer said you might be interested in investing. This is Frankie Yankovic, with an investment opportunity in mobile ATMs. You gonna be around later this week?”

“Good hearing from you. I am definitely looking for investments. Yeah I'll be around next week..” He gave Shaeffer the address of his bar and told him he'd be there after three the next day.

They hung up. Shaeffer putzed around on the computer a little while longer, then called it a night.

He rose early the next morning, threw a change of clothes in a duffle bag, He headed to his car and started the seven hour drive to Nolan's bar in the Quad Cities.

Shaeffer pulled into Nolan's club parking lot about 5 that afternoon. Still quiet, the way he liked it. He never was one for loud crowded bars. He went in, ordered an IPA draft from the bartender. Good to see Nolan still carried the quality brew.

“Nolan around?”

The bartender was leery of the unfamiliar face asking for his boss by name. “Maybe. Who are you?”