Déjà Vu All Over Again
Jim Farren
What’s that line from Casablanca about, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world...’?
Having won a few bucks at the blackjack table, I was in the casino restaurant partaking of their All-You-Can-Eat-Prime-Rib buffet. I am a sucker for prime rib, it’s one of the many things you don’t get in prison. In prison you get stringy beef and bad bologna when you get meat at all. The waitress passed by, pausing long enough to refill my coffee. I watched her full hips twitch as she walked away, another of the many things you don’t get in prison. Sex in prison is . . . well, you’ve heard the stories, and they’re true.
Anyway, I was enjoying my second pass at the buffet when a shadow fell across the table. I looked up and there stood Crockett. Ask me to name five people I expected to see when I got out of prison and I’d give you ten without Crockett making the list. Ask me for guys I never expected to see again and he’d be the first.
He pulled out a chair and sat saying, “Hello, Hollis. Long time, no see.” There was a good-looking redhead with him and he pulled her onto his knee like a ventriloquist’s dummy. He said, “Angelique, say hello to Hollis.” Just this side of gorgeous, she was closer to my age than his, with all the requisite parts in sleek abundance. Her eyes were dark with no innocence in them. She looked at me the way I imagined a praying mantis looked at its mate. She said, “Hello, Hollis,” in a husky voice with a southern undertone, something else you don’t get in prison—a voice like that speaking your name under any circumstances.
Crockett hadn’t changed much; a little more gray in his crewcut, a few more crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, but his gaze was still sharp, and his smile affable, his features tanned and trustworthy. He stroked Angelique’s back possessively, but kept his eyes on me.
“How long you been out?”
I swallowed the food in my mouth and placed the silverware on the edge of the plate. I took my time sipping coffee before saying, “Four months, three days.” I was still keeping prison time, ticking off each day.
“They release you early?”
“I was a good boy. Besides, it’s crowded in there and they had enough dishwashers.”
“At least you didn’t do the full six years.”
“Trust me, five was more than enough.”
There must have been something in the tone of my voice because Crockett sighed and narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Are we going to have a problem over what happened?”
I pushed my chair back enough to cross my legs. I reached around and scratched the middle of my back. I used to keep a revolver there, but felons can’t own guns. I sipped some more coffee. Finally, I shook my head.
“No, we are not. I’m a stand-up guy. I came to the job with my eyes open. You held up your end and gave me a fair cut. It’s not your fault I got careless with the money. They didn’t have enough evidence to tag me for the robbery. Everything with me was postscript—possession of stolen goods, accessory after the fact.”
“They tried to get you to roll on the rest of us.”
“I’m no rat, Crockett. Sure, they knew who did it, but didn’t have proof. I could have given you up and only served six months. But like I said, you treated me right. Besides, I didn’t want to live looking over my shoulder for one of you.”
Crockett smiled and nudged Angelique. “Didn’t I tell you he was a smart guy?” Then to me, “You working now that you’re out?”
I nodded. “Humping boxes and loading trucks at UPS. They’ve got a hiring program for non-violent offenders who kept their noses clean inside.”
“You like it?”
“Beats standing by the road with a will-work-for-food sign. I don’t need much in the way of stuff right now. Fresh air and decent food goes a long way after five years.”
“I’m putting together another job. Gonna need a couple of guys. You interested?”
I thought about that for a moment. “I dunno. I can’t afford to take another fall. What kind of job?”
“It’s too soon to talk details. I’m working some angles. You have a way I can get in touch?”
I thought about that, too, then gave him my cell phone number. He smiled again and stood up, taking the redhead with him.
“Angelique, say goodbye to Hollis.”
She gave me an appraising look, locking my eyes with hers before saying, “Goodbye, Hollis,” in that honeyed tone she had.
Crockett said, “I’ll call you,” then guided her out of the restaurant.
I sat there for a moment, thinking about Crockett, and about Angelique. The waitress broke my reverie by refilling my coffee. I cleared my head of thoughts and made a trip to the desert bar. Decent ice cream was something else you didn’t get in prison.
—— / —— / ——
My efficiency unit was a medium-sized room with a private bath. It was sparsely furnished and neat as a pin. In prison you have little stuff and less room; avoiding clutter is a habit that follows you upon release. I locked the door and opened the window. I can’t seem to get enough free air these days. I sat on the neatly made bed and took off my shoes, lining them up with the other pair next to the chiffarobe then stripped down to tee-shirt and boxers. I looked around with a sense of accomplishment, perhaps even pride. The table-cum-desk held a small flat-screen TV, a second-hand laptop, and a Hav-A-Tampa Jewels cigar box where I kept my bills. Beside the bed, a reading light sat atop a two-shelf bookcase crowded with paperback mysteries and a few westerns by guys who knew how to write—Elmore Leonard, John Sandford, Robert B. Parker, and Elmer Kelton. On the counter, beside the toaster-oven, was my one luxury, a Keurig coffee maker I’d bought at a scratch-n-dent sale. Prison coffee is thin, bitter, and never hot enough. Being able to make one cup at a time, anytime I wanted, was somehow more important than it should be.
I made a cup and stretched out on the bed. Tomorrow was Sunday and, if the weather was nice, maybe I’d ride the bus out to the dog park. Among other things, I missed having a dog. I hate riding the bus, but I’m a good blackjack player. The casino was helping me bit-by-bit save up money for a third-hand car. Once I had a set of wheels I would truly be free, even if I had nowhere to go.
I thought about Crockett, wondering if our chance encounter had been chance at all. I was in the habit of drinking an occasional beer at Charlie’s Place where I knew the bartender from back in the old days. Crockett could have picked up my trail there. He hadn’t seemed surprised to see me at the casino, but then nothing ever seemed to surprise him. I wondered what kind of job he was setting up and whether I wanted to risk what I had for what I didn’t.
Thinking of Crockett led to thoughts of Angelique. I wondered if she smelled as good as she looked, and what their relationship was. It had been a long time since I’d been that close to a woman that attractive. I felt a stirring in my groin and slipped a hand into my boxers. I closed my eyes and stroked slowly, wondering if she was any good in bed. My breathing quickened because I knew she would be. Later I fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
—— / —— / ——
Crockett called on Wednesday. I was sitting at the table eating a grilled cheese sandwich and watching the local news.
“You give any thought to another job?” he asked after I said hello.
“I’d have to know more about it,” I said. “I don’t want to go back to the joint.”
“This one’s a piece of cake. Kind of make up for the last one going south, even if it was your own fault.”
“I’m older and wiser now,” I said. “Still...”
“I hear you’re hanging out at Charlie’s. Why don’t you meet me there Friday after work and we’ll talk.”
“I don’t get off until 6:00.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you around 7:00. Run a tab and I’ll pay for it. It’s the least I can do.”
—— / —— / ——
I was hoping he’d bring Angelique, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. We took beers to a small table in the corner farthest from the bar. One nice thing about Charlie’s, the pool tables and juke box are downstairs where the happy hour folks congregate. Upstairs is relatively quiet and caters to regulars who are older and less frenetic than the younger crowd, many of who are casino employees starting their weekend.
Crockett waited until we were settled and I had lighted a cigarette. He leaned closer and kept his voice low.
“A week from tomorrow an armored truck is going to pull off the Interstate at a certain rest area so the guards can stretch their legs and piss. One guard is supposed to be with the truck at all times, but they’ve been making the same run every two weeks for the last four months. They’ll be lazy and complacent, not paid enough to be ever vigilant. They’ll park with the 18-wheelers and we’ll be waiting; me, you, and another guy. You don’t know Drake, but he’s reliable. The key is, I have keys. We’ll be back on the Interstate in less than five minutes, us in the truck and Drake in his car. The next exit is a state route to the county seat. Two miles down it is a gravel road that dead ends at an abandoned hay barn where we transfer the goods from the truck to the car then drive twenty miles to a mom ‘n pop motel on the edge of town. Angelique will have already rented rooms. We’ll hole up overnight, divvy up the loot, and split—me, you, and her in her car, Drake on his own. We’ll be back here by noon on Sunday.”
“What’s the haul?”
“Cash, three-quarters of a mil minimum, maybe more.”
“And the split?”
“I take sixty percent off the top. Ten percent goes to the guy who got me the keys. You and Drake split the rest. Your end ought to be something over a hundred grand.”
I thought about that—a hundred grand—about all it would buy. Then I thought about going back to prison and all I would lose. There was a sour feeling in my stomach, but visions of sugarplums in my head.
“I need to think about it,” I said.
“Fair enough. The reason I’m offering this to you is because you’re a stand-up guy. Look, this is going to be a piece of cake. The key is the keys. We’ll be gone before the guards zip up their pants. I need an answer by Monday. I’ll call you after work. All I want is a yes or no.”
—— / —— / ——
I went to the dog park on Saturday, played with somebody’s collie and somebody else’s terrier. Sunday I stayed home, thinking. I thought of places I could go and things I could do if I told Crockett yes. I thought about women. Not Angelique specifically, but women like her. I thought about the kind of woman a hundred grand would attract, then about the kind attracted to a guy with a dead-end job at twelve bucks an hour. When my phone buzzed at 6:30 Monday evening, I picked it up and said, “Count me in.”
—— / —— / ——
Saturday started out fine. Crockett picked me up outside my room and I climbed in back of the small SUV. He looked over the seat and said, “How you doing?” I told him fine and he introduced me to the driver. “Hollis, this is Drake. Drake, Hollis.” Our eyes met in the rearview mirror and Drake nodded curtly as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the Interstate. Crockett handed me a pair of leather gloves that I pulled on and a cheap Lone Ranger mask that I shoved in a pocket.
Crockett went over the plan as we drove. There wasn’t much to it, which made it brilliant. Complicated timing and fancy maneuvers are what screw up a heist. The simpler it is, the better the chance of pulling it off.
We reached the rest area fifteen minutes before the armored truck was due. Half a dozen big rigs were parked on the slant near a farmer’s cornfield. Drake stayed in the car, engine idling, while Crockett and I got out to stretch our legs. He handed me a cell phone saying, “I’ll be driving, you’ll be riding shotgun. Speed dial 8 for Drake, 9 for Angelique . . . Look, here it comes right on schedule.”
A boxy armored truck pulled into the parking area and two uniformed guards got out. They worked the kinks from their backs and started up the sidewalk to the comfort station. As soon as they disappeared thru the door, Crockett slapped me on the arm and said, “Let’s go!”
The two of us raced to the passenger’s side of the truck and Crockett unlocked it with one of several keys on a ring. I fumbled with the door as he ran to the other side and shoved another key in the driver’s door. Two things happened almost simultaneously—a County Sheriff’s cruiser pulled off the Interstate and one of the guards reappeared with a candy bar in hand. So much for having to piss.
—— / —— / ——
Things went south in a hurry. FUBAR—military slang for fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition. The guard saw Crockett at the truck and pulled his weapon. “Hey, stop!” he yelled as Crockett worked the key. Shielded by the truck’s bulk, I had the passenger’s door open. The guard yelled again then let loose a shot that ricocheted off the armor plating near Crockett’s head. I ducked reflexively and saw a small Brinks bag on the floorboard. The guard fired another shot and Crockett cursed. At the sound of gunfire, the cop in the cruiser hit his light bar and siren. The lights and noise must have panicked Drake because he floored the accelerator of his car and jackrabbited forward, peeling rubber as he went.
I peered over the boxy hood of the truck to see the cop’s door swing open. He had his weapon in one hand and a radio mic in the other. That’s when the other guard came charging out. By then Crockett had a gun in his hand and fired two shots at the guards. Guns blazing, they jumped behind a brick and plexiglass You-Are-Here sign. The sound of lead ricocheting off metal added to the din.
“Fuck, I’m hit,” Crockett grunted. “Run for it, Hollis.” Being unarmed and out of sight, I didn’t need a second invitation. Reflexively, I grabbed the solitary Brinks bag, slammed the passenger door, and ran. I zigzagged between two 18-wheelers, raced across twenty feet of grass, then dived over the fence into the corn.
More shots, more yelling. I hunkered down, willed myself to be invisible, wondered if I’d been spotted. The shooting stopped, more cops arrived. It was like a Chinese fire drill and everyone but me had a whistle. I waited in the corn, hidden from view; waited and wondered, waited and worried. An hour passed with no one coming my way. I started breathing again.
—— / —— / ——
Angelique picked up on the second ring with a simple, “Yes?”
I saw no reason to sugarcoat things. “This is Hollis. Crockett is dead.”
Her voice was tight, her breathing controlled. “I know, it’s all over the news. Drake’s dead, too.”
“Drake? How?”
“He tried to run a roadblock and ended up in the ditch. He came out shooting and the troopers killed him. Where are you?”
“Still at the rest area, in the middle of some farmer’s cornfield. I don’ think they saw me, but I can’t be sure.”
“What do I do?” She sounded more pissed than panicked.
“Stay there, stay by the phone. You’ll have to come get me, but not now. I’ll call again when things are in the clear here. If you don’t hear from me by morning, you’re on your own. Can they get to you thru Crockett?”
“No, I don’t think so. You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Positive. Hang in there.” I broke the connection and slipped the phone into my pocket.
—— / —— / ——
Once it got dark I wormed my way back toward the fence until I could just make out the flashing lights in the rest area. Maybe I was lucky, maybe they hadn’t seen me. In a gunfight your vision telescopes until all you see—all you focus on—is whoever is shooting back at you. A circus troupe could be performing next door and you wouldn’t notice it. I kept waiting for them to come looking, but nobody did. I spent the next several hours watching a bevy of cops and assorted others working the crime scene.
At 4am I phoned Angelique again. As soon as she picked up I said, “It’s Hollis. What are you driving?” She told me and I gave her instructions. “Come to the rest stop in an hour, park facing the comfort station and go inside. Leave the car unlocked. Do whatever it is women do in bathrooms. When you return, I’ll be on the floor in the backseat. Drive to the next exit and gas up. Turn around and head back to town. I’ll give you directions to my place on the way. Clear?” She said it was and I hung up. I shoved my gloves, Crockett’s phone, and the mask I’d never worn into the Brinks bag, then folded it in half and stuffed it under my shirt.
Angelique was right on time.
—— / —— / ——
She looked around my apartment and said, “Pretty spartan, Hollis. Just like prison.”
“Some habits are hard to break.” I unbuttoned my shirt and dumped the Brinks bag onto the bed. I kicked off my shoes and unbuckled my belt. “I need a shower. Count that while I’m gone.”
When I came back toweling my hair she was cross-legged on the bed with the cash in neat stacks in front of her.
“How much?” I asked.
“Thirty-one thou and change. Where did it come from?”
I told her about the bag on the passenger floorboard. Sitting across from her, I divided the money into two piles, pushing the larger one toward her. “I’m keeping thirteen thousand, forty percent. You take the rest, it’s Crockett’s cut.”
“Why not split it equal shares?”
“Because he was in it for sixty percent, that’s why. Look, don’t argue. Consider it found money. You sure they can’t trace you thru him?”
“I don’t think so. He always came to my place, never took me to his. He said he wanted to keep me off the radar, for my own good.”
“Your place?”
“I’m in a Residence Inn. It’s paid for thru the end of the month.”
“Stay there for now. Until we’re sure.”
—— / —— / ——
We laid low for two weeks. I made my shifts at UPS, hustling packages and loading trucks. Angelique came by most evenings. We ate fast food or ordered take-out Chinese. Sometimes we went out to dinner and hit the casino where she watched me play blackjack—squeezing my thigh when I won and pouting at the dealer when I lost. Other times we just sat in my room drinking beer from the bottle and talking to pass the time.
She changed gradually, little by little. Less makeup, tousled hair down to frame her face instead of swept up to showcase her jawline and throat; skirts and blouses rather than dresses, flats instead of heels. She was like a butterfly in reverse, reverting to type. She shared an easy laugh and the southern lilt in her voice was more pronounced. I liked the new her which seemed to be the old her coming out.
—— / —— / ——
“What’ll you do now?”
“I’d like to go home and see my folks. It’s been too long since I was in Tennessee. This time of year it’ll be all green and summery. Mama will have a garden and Daddy will be rocking on the front porch with a big ol’ glass of iced tea. Neighbors call in the evening and kids catch lightning bugs in mason jars. Home’s a good place to go, as long as you don’t have to. What about you?”
“Me? I’m not sure. My cut will buy a decent used car. After that, who knows? I’ve got no family, I’m not tied to anywhere special. I’ve always had a hankering to go out west—see the Rockies, climb Pike’s Peak, hike Yellowstone and watch Old Faithful blow. A guy who’s not particular can always find work. I’m a pretty good short-order cook. It doesn’t much matter where I go or what I do as long as I’m not in jail.”
—— / —— / ——
“Do me a favor, Hollis?”
“Sure, if I can.”
“Crockett called me Angelique because he liked the sound of it. I got the feeling he called all his women Angelique so he wouldn’t have to remember who they really were. He found me barefoot on the front porch of a country store drinking an RC Cola. He swept me off my feet. In some ways he gave me the best three years of my life.”
“And me the worst five of mine.”
“There’s more than one kind of prison, Hollis.”
“Yes, but only one kind of freedom. Now, what’s the favor?”
“I’d like it if you’d call me Mary Louise. That’s my real name, Mary Louise Flanagan from Squirrel Run, Tennessee. I know it’s not as glamourous as Angelique, but it fits who I really am. Could you, would you?”
I smiled at her earnestness, touched by her hesitancy. “Of course I will.”
—— / —— / ——
“Did you get yourself a car?”
“Uh huh, a three-year-old van. I’m practically broke again, but at least I have wheels.”
“You know, the farthest west I’ve even been is Kansas City. As for dough, I’ve still got Crockett’s cut—and his case money.”
“Case money?”
“It’s another ten thousand he kept back, for expenses and stuff. He called it his getaway money, just in case.”
“He always did think ahead.”
“Were you serious about seeing the Rockies and stuff?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well . . . ummm . . .we could go together, you and me.”
“Together? Are you serious?”
“Well . . . yes . . . but only if you want to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being pushy. I just thought maybe . . . well, you know.”
“Look . . . uh . . . I’m just a regular guy. Life with me would be pretty dull, especially after your history with Crockett.”
“I don’t like history, Hollis. I prefer the here and now to the then and there.”
—— / —— / ——
I was on my back on the bed, hands laced behind my head. My hair was damp with sweat and my shirt was unbuttoned. The room was empty of everything I intended to keep. She was standing in the middle of the floor, hands on hips, looking around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Satisfied that I’d done good, she said, “I’m excited, honey.”
“Well, everything’s packed and ready to go. We’ll leave at first light and you’ll be home by suppertime.”
“Can we eat breakfast at Waffle House? I love Waffle House.”
“Sure we can, they fix great hash browns. I hope you’re not too excited to sleep tonight.”
“Excited? Don’t worry about that, honey. I know how to deal with excitement.”
She did a little bump and grind beside the bed, then flashed me that killer southern smile. Hiking her skirt, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties. As she peeled them off her hips she said, “Stay on your back, Hollis, I can’t abide being on the bottom.”
I smiled and opened my arms to her. I called her by name. “Mary Louise Flanagan,” I said, liking the way it sounded. “Do you know what vuja de is?
She cocked her head to one side and gave me a puzzled look. “Vuja de? Don’t you mean déjà vu?”
The thing is, there’s more than one kind of prison—with more than one kind of bars. But there’s more than one kind of freedom, too. Sometimes you learn that the hard way.
“Nope,” I explained, “vuja de. It’s the uncanny premonition that nothing like this has ever happened before.”
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