Cat Burglars
Noye walked in looking like he just woke up, in a nursing home. He was like a middle-aged guy that was dressed by his senile mother. Except he wasn’t. The fault was all his.
“My buddy that cleans restaurants told me about one downtown that pays in cash because almost everyone that works there is illegal,” I told him over lunch. He settled for an everything bagel BLT, apparently hoping for something salmon-like in the mix.
“Efectivo,” he said.
“Cash, in Spanish.”
“Thanks. The owner saves up the efectivo each week instead of depositing it and pays the staff on Friday. The few that are legal get paid by check. He also gathers all the tips and distributes them to everyone on Friday, so that cash is on hand too.”
“That tip thing doesn’t sound right. I don’t think he’s supposed to do that, legally.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “There’s a safe, but it’s broken, so the guy keeps the cash locked in a box in his desk drawer.”
“Door alarms, which I can take care of, but no cameras and no motion detectors.”
“How do we get in?”
“Grill vent to the roof. That’s you. Then you unlock the back door for me.”
“I’ve got something better,” Noye said.
I heard him out, but Noye never had anything better.
“You know that guy Rogelio?” he said.
“The fat pervert with the harelip that hangs out at Jai-Alai?”
“I think the lip is from a knife fight,” he said.
“Whatever. I don’t like him much.”
“He’s on some special sex offender probation.”
“When his probation officer comes to his place he has to answer the door.”
“We knock on the door and say “Probation” and he has to open it.”
“What then?”
“We take what he has.”
“What does he have, other than a blow-up doll?”
Noye looked perplexed. “I don’t know.”
“Drugs, efectivo, jewelry, guns?”
Noye shrugged. He had no idea.
“It’s hit or miss,” I said. “He’s a gambler so he probably has nothing most of the time.”
“I suppose.”