The Racketeer Page 0,73
I can begin each day with such quiet perfection.
At 8:30, I walk out of the condo, leaving behind a refrigerator half filled with food and beverages, a motley assortment of dishes and utensils, a nice coffeepot, some magazines on the sofa, and some bread and crackers in the pantry. For forty-six days I lived here, my first real home after prison, and I'm sad to be leaving it. I thought I would stay longer. I leave the lights on, lock the door behind me, and wonder how many more temporary hiding places await me before I am no longer forced to keep running. I drive away and am soon lost in the heavy commuter traffic going west into Jacksonville. I know they're back there, but maybe not for long.
Two hours later, I enter the sprawl north of Orlando and stop for breakfast at a pancake house. I eat slow, read newspapers, and watch the crowd. Down the street, I check into a cheap motel and pay cash for one night. The clerk asks for some ID with a photo and I explain that I lost my wallet last night in a bar. She doesn't like this, but she likes the idea of cash, so why bother. She gives me a key and I go to my room. Working the Yellow Pages and using my prepaid cell phone, I eventually find a detail shop that can squeeze me in at three that afternoon. For $199, the kid on the other end promises to make my car look like a new one.
Buck's Pro Shine is on the backside of a large assembly-line car wash that's doing a bustling business. My car and I are assigned to a skinny country kid named Denny, and he takes his job seriously. In great detail, he lays out his plan for washing and shining and is surprised when I say that I'll wait. "Could take two hours," he says. "I have nowhere to go," I reply. He shrugs and moves the Audi onto a wash rack. I find a seat on a bench under a canopy and start reading a Walter Mosley paperback. Thirty minutes later, Denny finishes the exterior wash and starts the vacuum. He opens both doors, and I ease over for a chat. I explain I'm leaving town, so the suitcase stays in the backseat and the cardboard box in the trunk is not to be touched. He shrugs again, whatever. Less work for him. I take a step closer and tell Denny that I'm going through a bad divorce and I have reason to believe my wife's lawyers are watching every move I make. I strongly suspect there is a GPS tracking device hidden somewhere in or on the car, and if Denny finds it, I'll slide him an extra $100 bill. At first he is hesitant, but I assure him it's my car and there's nothing illegal about disarming a tracking device. Her slimy lawyers are the ones breaking the law. Finally, there's a twinkle in his eye and he's on board. I pop the hood, and together we start combing the car. As we do so, I explain there are dozens of different devices, all shapes and sizes, but most are attached with a strong magnet. Depending on the model, the battery can last for weeks, or the device can even be hot-wired to the car's electrical system. Some antennas are external, some internal.
"How do you know all this?" he asks, flat on his back, his head under the car, poking around the chassis.
"Because I hid one on my wife's car," I reply, and he finds it funny.
"Why haven't you looked for yourself?" he asks.
"Because I was being watched."
We search for an hour and find nothing. I am beginning to think maybe my car was bug-free after all when Denny removes a small panel behind the right headlight. He's on his back, his shoulder squeezed against the right front tire. He snaps something loose and hands it to me. The waterproof covering is the size of a cell phone and made of hard black plastic. I remove it and say, "Bingo." I've looked at a hundred of these online and have never seen one like this, so I assume it's government issued. No brand name, no markings, numbers, or letters. "Nice work, Denny," I say, and hand him a $100 bill.
"Can I finish detailing now?" he asks.
"Sure." I drift away, leaving him to his labors. Next to the car wash