Cash Landing Read Free Page B

transfer of the money bags from the getaway truck to the trunk of Ruban’s car had gone off without a hitch. Marco from the tile depot had supplied the “borrowed” black pickup, and it was his job to ditch it. Jeffrey and his uncle left in separate cars and in opposite directions. Ruban drove off with the money, but only after assuring his coconspirators that all five bags would remain sealed until it was time to make the split. They agreed it would be that night in the garage at the Betancourts’ rental house.
    â€œOpen it, bro,” said Jeffrey.
    Ruban was standing over the bags with a kitchen knife in his hand. Pinky was beside him. It was just the three of them. The others would get their money later.
    â€œHold on,” said Pinky. “What if there’s one of those blue dye packs inside? You know, the ones that explode in your face when you open the sack of money.”
    â€œAlvarez says there’s no dye packs,” said Ruban.
    â€œWhat if some kind of tracking chip starts beaming out a signal to the cops when you open the bag?”
    â€œAlvarez says no. Nothing but money inside.”
    Jeffrey chuckled. “Dumb fucks need to watch more cop shows. Open the bag, bro.”
    He tried to puncture it with a kitchen knife and nearly broke the blade. The bag was impenetrable. “I need a power tool.”
    Jeffrey got an electric drill and a steel bit from the tool board. Ruban used it like a jigsaw to cut a fist-sized hole in the bottom of the bag. He reached inside eagerly, grabbing and pulling brick after brick through the hole. The bag hemorrhaged fifty- and hundred-dollar bills until it was empty.
    â€œHo-leee shit,” said Jeffrey, staring at the pile of money on the concrete floor.
    â€œPretty, huh?” said Ruban. “Four more just like it.”
    â€œWho’s going to do the counting?” asked Pinky.
    â€œI’ll do it,” said Jeffrey.
    â€œYou can’t count that fucking high.”
    â€œThen let Savannah count it,” said Jeffrey. “She’ll get it right.”
    Savannah was Ruban’s wife, and Jeffrey’s younger sister. The joke in the family was that “Savannah got the looks, but Savannah got the brains”—which, strangely, always made brother Jeffrey laugh. She was a Latina beauty with none of her brother’s weight issues. “Wow,” “gorgeous,” “sexy,” and “ linda, como su madre ” were typical of the ways people described her. Ruban was handsome, not in the classic sense but more in the bad-boy Marc Anthony mold, so it was plain to see why he’d fallen for the neighborhood version of J-Lo. Some said there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.
    â€œSavannah’s not home,” said Ruban. “I made sure of that.”
    â€œHow much does she know?” asked Pinky.
    Ruban looked right at his accomplice, making sure he understood. “ Nada . Savannah knows nothing.”
    â€œBut she has to find out some time,” said Jeffrey.
    â€œShe finds out when I’m ready to tell her. Got it?”
    â€œYeah, sure. Whatever you say.”
    â€œI’ll count the money,” said Ruban.
    It took hours to cut open the bags, count each bill, and divide each player’s take into separate piles. Three times Jeffrey had gone out to “use the bathroom.” Each time he’d come back all wired up and sniffling, unable to stop pacing a circle around the money. Clearly he’d been blowing coke. That was one drug Ruban had no use for. Some guys claimed it was an aphrodisiac, but as far as he could see, doing coke only made you want to do one thing: more coke.
    By midnight, there were seven stacks on the floor. Ruban announced the final tally. One million for Alvarez, the armored-car insider. Another million for Marco.
    â€œThe rest is ours,” said Ruban. “Three-way split.”
    â€œHow much? How much? ” asked