“Check the glove compartment, see if there’s something to write with.”
Skarda opened the glove compartment with one hand—the other was still cuffed to the handle above the door—and found a pencil and a small notebook. I took them, returned to the Cherokee, and carefully wrote down the vehicle identification number that I read off of the metal strip attached to the corner of the dashboard. When I returned to the Explorer, Skarda said, “Now what?”
“Watch and learn,” I said.
Not far from the Maplewood Mall was a community of new and used car dealerships. I found one that sold Jeep Cherokees and pulled into the lot. I left Skarda waiting in the Explorer while I walked inside. I went to the parts and service desk and told the mechanic that yet again I had locked my one and only key—along with my wallet containing my ID—inside my Jeep Cherokee. I asked if they could contact the manufacturer, give them the VIN, ask for the specs, and cut a duplicate key. They said that they could, that it would take half an hour. Fifty minutes and fifty dollars later, I walked out of the dealership with a new key. That’s the part I told a visibly relived Skarda when I returned to the Ford Explorer. The part I didn’t tell him was that the dealership had demanded proof of ownership before they cut the key, which I was able to supply with a call to the Minnesota Department of Driver and Vehicle Services because, well, I actually did own the Jeep Cherokee.
We drove back to the mall, parked the Explorer, unlocked the Cherokee, slipped inside, and started the engine. Yes, I again locked Skarda’s handcuff around the door handle before we drove off. Despite that, Skarda was impressed.
“That was the slickest bit of car stealing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “I didn’t know it was so easy.”
“Like most things worth doing, it requires audacity. In any case, it beats the hell out of pulling ignition wires and breaking steering column locks. And look, we have a full tank of gas. So, where are we going?”
“Why ask me?”
“Hey, pal. You’re Plan B, remember. I deliver you to your crew and your crew pays me fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yeah…”
“You’re not reneging on your part of the agreement, are you, Dave?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s just … fifty thousand dollars.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll settle for half; take it in cash. I’ll scoot up to Canada and lay low until things cool down a bit, give it maybe a couple months just to be on the safe side, then come back for my money.”
“Ummm.”
“You had better not be messing with me, Dave. We had a deal.”
“I’m not, I’m not messing with you, it’s just…”
“You might not know this about me, pal, but I have a volatile personality.”
“It’s just that I need to make a phone call first, that’s all.”
“Once we get out of the Cities we’ll find a pay phone,” I said. “Do they still have pay phones?”
They did. We found one in the lobby of Tobies Restaurant and Bakery in Hinckley, about halfway between the Twin Cities and Duluth. Because of its location, Hinckley had been a popular tourist trap since World War II. Travelers traditionally stopped there for a pee break, to purchase petroleum by-products, stretch their legs, or grab a quick bite. Since ’48, Tobies had been the main beneficiary of this tradition, at least until the fast-food chains set up franchises across the street. It was crowded—it was always crowded. Admittedly, the food wasn’t all that memorable, the service was what you would expect in a tourist town, and the congestion was exasperating at best. On the other hand, Tobies bakery served astonishing caramel rolls; they were so light, sticky, and sweet that I swear to God, they could kill a diabetic in thirty seconds flat.
I had to remove Skarda’s handcuffs before we went inside. After I did, I showed him the Glock that I concealed beneath my shirt and reminded him that I was an exceedingly desperate man.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Dyson,” he said.
“Then I won’t,” I said, although I didn’t mean it.
Tobies had a bakery, restaurant, coffeehouse, and lounge, plus banquet and meeting facilities in different buildings that seemed to be connected by Velcro. We entered through the bakery. I exchanged bills for change and found the telephone. Skarda pumped the quarters in, but I stopped him before he could dial.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you calling your family? Because that’s the first place the cops’ll look for you. They might already have a tap in place.”
“We have prepaid cell phones. We only use them for business and then we toss them away.” Skarda grinned. “I really do have a crew. We really do know what we’re doing.”
“How did you get caught, then?”
“How did you?”
He had me there.
“We’re just a couple of John Dillingers, we are,” I said.
