“Think he’s got a dog?” said Danny Pogue.
Bud Schwartz said probably not. “Guys like that, they think dogs are for pussies. It’s a cop mentality.”
But Bud Schwartz was wrong. Bill Hawkins owned a German shepherd. The burglars could see the animal prowling the fence in the backyard.
“Guess we gotta do the front-door routine,” said Bud Schwartz. What a way to end a career: breaking into an FBI man’s house in broad daylight. “I thought we retired,” Bud Schwartz complained. “All that dough we got, tell me what’s the point if we’re still pullin” these jobs.”
Danny Pogue said, “Just this one more. And besides, what if Lou takes the money back?”
“No way.”
“If he can’t get to the guy, yeah, he might. Already he thinks we tipped Kingsbury off, on account of all those rent-a-cops.”
Bud Schwartz said he wasn’t worried about Lou going back on the deal. “These people are pros, Danny.
Now gimme the scroogie.” They were poised at Billy Hawkins’s front door. Danny Pogue checked the street for cars or pedestrians; then he handed Bud Schwartz a nine-inch screwdriver.
Skeptically Danny Pogue said, “Guy’s gotta have a deadbolt. Anybody works for the FBI, probably he’s got an alarm, too. Maybe even lasers.”
But there was no alarm system. Bud Schwartz pried the door jamb easily. He put his shoulder to the wood and pushed it open. “You believe that?” he said to his partner. “See what I mean about cop mentality. They think they’re immune.”
“Yeah,” said Danny Pogue. “Immune.” Later he’d ask Molly McNamara what it meant.
They closed the door and entered the empty house. Bud Schwartz would never have guessed that a federal agent lived there. It was a typical suburban Miami home: three bedrooms, two baths, nothing special. Once they got used to the idea, the burglars moved through the rooms with casual confidence—wife at work, kids at school, no sweat.
“Too bad we’re not stealin” anything,” Bud Schwartz mused.
“Want to?” said his partner. “Just for old times” sake.”
“What’s the point?”
“I saw one of the kids has a CD player.”
“Wow,” said Bud Schwartz acidly. “What’s that, like, thirty bucks. Maybe forty?”
“No, man, it’s a Sony.”
“Forget it. Now gimme the papers.”
In captivity Billy Hawkins had agreed to notify his family that he was out of town on a top-secret assignment. However, the agent had displayed a growing reluctance to call the FBI office and lie about being sick. To motivate him, Molly McNamara had composed a series of cryptic notes and murky correspondence suggesting that Hawkins was not the most loyal of government servants. Prominently included in the odd jottings were the telephone numbers of the Soviet Embassy and the Cuban Special Interest Section in Washington, D.C. For good measure, Molly had included a bank slip showing a suspicious $25,000 deposit to Agent Billy Hawkins’s personal savings account—a deposit that Molly herself had made at the South Miami branch of Unity National Savings & Loan. The purpose of these maneuvers was to create a shady portfolio that, despite its sloppiness, Billy Hawkins would not wish to try to explain to his colleagues at the FBI.
Who would definitely come to the house in search of clues, if Agent Hawkins failed to check in.
Molly McNamara had entrusted the bank receipt, phone numbers and other manufactured evidence to Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue, whose mission was to conceal the material in a semi-obvious location in Billy Hawkins’s bedroom.
Bud Schwartz chose the second drawer of the night-stand. He placed the envelope under two unopened boxes of condoms. “Raspberry-colored,” he marveled. “FBI man uses raspberry rubbers!” Another stereotype shattered.
Danny Pogue was admiring a twelve-inch portable television as if it were a rare artifact. “Jesus, Bud, you won’t believe this.”
“Don’t tell me it’s a black-and-white.”
“Yep. You know the last time I saw one?”
“Little Havana,” said Bud Schwartz, “that duplex off Twelfth Avenue. I remember.”
“Remember what we got for it.”
“Yeah. Thirteen goddamn dollars.” The fence was a man named Fat Jack on Seventy-ninth Street, near the Boulevard. Bud Schwartz couldn’t stand Fat Jack not only because he was cheap but because he smelled like dirty socks. One day Bud Schwartz had boosted a case of Ban Extra Dry Roll-on Deodorant sticks from the back of a Publix truck, and given it to Fat Jack as a hint. Fat Jack had handed him eight bucks and said that nobody should ever use roll-ons because they cause cancer of the armpits.