The Nest Egg

Crime Fiction by Roy Dorman

Bobby Mason walked out of the front gates of the Nevada Restitution Center with a spring in his step.  He’d done seven years and eight months of a ten-year sentence, leaving early due to his good behavior.

Bobby had gone in at age twenty-three and was now a free man at a little over thirty.

It was two miles into downtown Reno and Bobby was looking forward to walking the entire distance.  After all, it would be the farthest he’d walked in over seven years.

After walking about fifty yards, Bobby turned and faced his former home.

Raising his arms in the air with his two middle fingers saluting that pile of cement, he shouted, “Fuck yer time off for good behavior!”

He felt better than he had in a long time.

All of his belongings were in a prison laundry bag and he had $857.75 in cash from working in that laundry. Less than a thousand dollars for over seven years work.  There had been a few “expenses” early on, but Bobby had been more careful with his money over the last couple of years.

And here’s what brought a smile to his face as he walked.  If Jennifer Chambers hadn’t double-crossed him, he also had his half of approximately two hundred and fifty thousand dollars waiting for him.  The eight hundred-plus dollars was only needed until he found Jennifer.  Then he had it made.

He hadn’t seen her since his sentencing when he’d mouthed “stay away” to her.  There had been no letters or visits that could’ve tied her to him. 

Jennifer was smart.  The money was safe.  She’d stayed away.  She hadn’t given the authorities or the insurance company detectives any chance to recover the loot.

***

Bobby’s clothes were new, but cheap.  At release, he was given socks, underwear, a blue T-shirt, a denim work shirt and blue jeans, along with some shiny black oxfords.

Anybody who lived or worked in Reno recognized the outfit and would be giving Bobby plenty of room.  Who knew what he’d been in for?

Bobby picked up a cheeseburger at a McDonald’s in a strip mall just outside Reno proper and kept walking as he ate it.  It was his first fast-food in seven years and it tasted good.  He almost turned around and went back for another. 

But his first stop was going to be to visit his Parole Officer to see what he could wrangle out of the system.

He needed a burner cell phone and a place to stay to start with.  From what he’d heard while inside, that would be part of the drill.  In order to get a job, he’d need an address and a phone.  The system would supply that much.  After that he’d be on his own.

That suited Bobby just fine.  He only planned to be in Reno until he hooked up with Jennifer.

***

“So, Bobby Mason.  How’s it goin’ so far?” said a jowly fifty-something guy in a cheap suit.

“I’ve only been out for about a half hour,” said Bobby.  “So far, so good.”

“Well, let’s see if we can keep it goin’ good.”

His Parole Officer, Arthur St. Clair, stared at a spot over Bobby’s left shoulder, never looking him in the eye as he spoke.  Bobby felt like jumping across the desk and punching him in the nose.

Maybe after he located Jennifer and was ready to leave town, he’d do just that.

“So, we knew you were comin’ and got yer little “Welcome Out” package, as we call it, all made up for ya,” said St. Clair.

He pushed a button on the intercom that sat on a corner of his desk.  “Susie, would you bring in Mr. Mason’s package, please?”

St. Clair continued to stare at the spot over Bobby’s left shoulder.  Bobby heard the door behind him open and close, and then the tapping of high heels on the floor.

“Susie, this is Bobby Mason,” said St. Clair, smiling over Bobby’s head.  “He was released early due to good behavior.”

“Well, good for you, Mr. Mason.  No need spendin’ more time in that place than ya have to.”

Bobby stiffened, but controlled himself from turning around.  He knew that voice.

It was Jennifer!

Susie, or rather Jennifer, came around to the side of the desk and put a package on St. Clair’s desk.  Bobby looked up at her and did his best to keep a straight face.  After spending over seven years in the Nevada Restitution Center he was ready to grab her and kiss her.  And she knew it.

“Thank you, Susie.  That’ll be all for now,” said St. Clair.

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Mason.  Hope you do well.”

“Thanks,” said Bobby.  “I’ll try.”

“So, Bobby,” said St. Clair after clearing his throat.  “It would be a lot better for you from here on out if you were to return that stolen money.  You could —”

“Same ol’ song to sing, huh?  I’ve told everybody all along that I didn’t steal that old guy’s money,” said Bobby.  “It was a drifter I was drinkin’ with one night and I never even got his name.  Just called him “Buddy” that night.  When I woke up that next morning he was gone and so was what little money I’d had.”

“Well, my job is to help ya keep clean and out of trouble,” said St. Clair.  “But if ya decide to confide in me —”

“Yeah,” said Bobby, standing up.  “If I can tell ya anything more, I will.  Thanks for the stuff.  See ya next week.”

***

Bobby and Jennifer are sitting in a little truck stop diner outside of Truckee, California.  It was only a half hour from Reno, but being in another state offered them some privacy.

Leaving Nevada would be the first time Bobby broke parole.  But probably not the last.

Bobby had met Jennifer after work at a prearranged Arby’s parking lot in Reno and they’d left in a rush.  They pulled into a motel in Truckee and made love for an hour before deciding to go someplace to have dinner and talk.

“Yer still my woman, right, Jennifer?” asked Bobby, as he bit into his burger.

“ ’Course I am, ya dope,” said Jennifer.  “I waited seven years for ya and didn’t let another man touch me.  Though some tried.”

“Includin’ that dippy Parole Officer?”

“Yep, includin’ him.  The perv.”

“So, the money’s safe and sound?” asked Bobby, changing the subject and looking Jennifer in the eye.

“It was a little over two hundred and fifty when you went in, and now it’s almost three-fifty.”

Bobby’s jaw dropped.  “How’d you do that, Jennifer?”

“Hey, it’s been over seven years, Bobby.  Money grows if ya don’t spend it.  Don’t worry, it’s safe.  I had a guy at a Reno cassino launder it for me and I invested it a little at a time.  I’ve been living off my salary.  Except for that nice, shiny Dodge Ram pick-up out that there I needed for work, I’ve left it sit.  For us.”

“That guy in Reno,” said Bobby.  “He didn’t try and shake ya down?  Get the money from ya?”

“I told ‘em you’d hunt ‘em down and kill ‘em when ya got out if he did,” said Jennifer.  “I gave him a small commission to start and then just told him he’d finish the job for free if he knew what was good for ‘em.  Worked out well — ”

“Let’s just keep talkin’, Jennifer,” Bobby said quietly.  “Don’t turn around.  A guy just came in and sat down in a corner booth.  He’s got the look of a detective or an insurance investigator.  Did ya ever have anybody follow ya around early on after the robbery?”

“I don’t think the police ever connected us, and I stayed away like ya said I should,” said Jennifer.  “I never saw anybody who seemed to be stakin’ me out.  Maybe he’s just picked up on you being released.”

“How about this?” said Bobby.  “You tell yer boss there was a death in the family and yer needed back home in Des Moines to help with the funeral and all the other stuff.  You’ll be gone for two weeks at least.  That’ll give us two weeks to get outta here and find someplace far enough away from whoever that joker back there is.”

“I can access the money from anywhere as we need it, Bobby.  It’s not in a bank here in Reno.  It’s with a big investment company.  I’m practically invisible to them.  Under another name, ya know?”

“You got any hardware?” asked Bobby.

“I’ve got a Glock under the passenger seat in the truck and little Sig Sauer in my handbag here.”

“Technically, I’ve already broken parole by leaving Nevada.  If that guy tries to stop us when we leave, things may get kinda Wild West.  I’m not goin’ back in after only bein’ out for a day.  You okay with that, Jennifer?”

“Gimme a sec,” said Jennifer, her brow wrinkled in thought.  “How about this?  I pass my Sig under the table to you.  Then I yell, ‘What did you call me?’, slap you, and storm out.  I drive the truck around the block and wait.  If I hear a shot, I come back and pick ya up and we split.  If he’s not who you think he is, just walk around the block and we’ll sneak back into Reno and decide on a plan.”

“Yer a peach, Jennifer.  Let’s do it.”

Jennifer passed the Sig Sauer, yelled at Bobby, and slapped him.  She walked out the door without a glance at whoever was at the booth in the corner.  She pulled out of the parking lot as if she intended to put a lot of miles between herself and the truck stop.

Bobby looked appropriately sheepish, put some cash on their table, and slowly walked out.  He, too, didn’t look at the man in the corner booth.

***

Jennifer drove around the block, pulled the truck up to the curb, and prepared to wait.  She put two strips of some duct tape over the numbers on her license plate so if she had to go back to the restaurant, witnesses couldn’t so easily identify her vehicle.

When she heard the gunshot, she took off.

But then there were two more shots.  And then another.

“Oh, shit,” she said, braking at the first corner and pulling over.  “That wasn’t in the script.”

But Bobby was her guy.  She reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the Glock.  She made the first turn to get around the block and back to the diner.

Two men were lying on the asphalt of the diner’s parking lot.  One was Bobby in his prison clothes and the other was a middle-aged man in a black suit.

People looked out of the diner’s windows, but nobody was brave enough to come out yet.

Jennifer pulled up as close as she could to Bobby.  She got out, pulled him up, and helped him into the passenger side of the truck.  He appeared to have been shot once in the left shoulder and once above the right knee.  She picked up her Sig Sauer from the pavement and got into the truck.

Bobby’d only been a free man for a little over twelve hours and his brand-new prison clothes already were bloody and had bullet holes in them.

After hastily packing Bobby’s two wounds with rags, Jennifer tore out of the parking lot and headed back to Reno.  She knew a doctor who could keep his mouth shut if there was enough money involved.

“You came back,” Bobby husked.  “Thought I was gonna bleed out on that damn parking lot.”

“ ’Course I came back,” said Jennifer, keeping her eyes on the road.  “Now don’t talk.  Just sit there all slumped over and try not to bleed on our nice upholstery until I can get you to Doc Reynolds.”

“He another friend of yours?”

“Sort of. He’s actually a veterinarian.  Does dicey work for cash.  Heard about him from a woman I know who messed up a Quik Stop robbery.”

“She live?”

“Yeah, she did.  And what did I say about no talkin’?”

“Bossy woman,” muttered Bobby, chuckling.

***

Outside of Reno, Jennifer left a county road and pulled onto the driveway of a little ranchette.  She drove up to a small barn, and after getting out of the truck to open its doors, drove inside.

An older man came out of the little one-story bungalow twenty feet from the barn.  

“By all means, make yerself to home,” he said with a smile.  “Have we met?”

“Nope, but I heard you did some doctorin’ for those who needed it done quiet like.”

“Let’s go see what we’re talkin’ about.”

Jennifer and Doc Reynolds entered the barn and walked up to the truck.  Opening the passenger side door, Doc Reynolds held some fingers to Bobby’s neck.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but we’re just a little late for this one.  He’s gone.”

“Goddammit!” Jennifer yelled.  “He was my — ”

“I’m sure sorry for your loss,” said Doc Reynolds.  “There’s still some things I can help you with if yer in need of assistance.”

“Like what?” Jennifer shouted, sobbing.  “He’s dead!  My Bobby’s dead!”

“If ya don’t want the authorities involved, and I’m pretty sure ya don’t, I can call the right people to take care of the body and the truck.  The truck’s probably a little hot right now, right?”

Jennifer just stared at Reynolds.  She was having trouble thinking.  But she knew she had decisions to make.  She could do more grieving later.

“Yes, I’m sorry.  Thank you.” Jennifer said, sighing.   “Please take care of both the body and the truck.  Cops from Truckee to Reno are probably lookin’ for both.  Might be lookin’ for me too.”

“There’ll be some costs involved,” said Doc Reynolds.

“The sale of the truck should cover some of the costs and I’m good for any additional that’s needed.  Have you got a loaner car I can use for a couple of days until I can get a new vehicle?”

When Doc Reynolds hesitated, Jennifer took three hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and handed them to him.

“I do appreciate all you’ll be doin’ for me, Doc Reynolds.  And you can be sure I can be very discreet.”

Doc Reynolds nodded and smiled.  He could tell he was dealing with a tough cookie.

***

Jennifer — or, Susie — was at work early the next morning and walked into St. Clair’s office with a note telling him about her needing time off for the funeral in Des Moines.

“Well, well, Susie,” said St. Clair with an oily smile, setting the note aside.  “Come in, sit down.  I wasn’t sure I’d be seein’ you this morning.”

Jennifer figured that St. Clair knew something about yesterday afternoon’s happenings in Truckee.  She’d have to finesse her way out of this if she could.  If she couldn’t, well…

“Why wouldn’t I be here, Arthur?  It’s not some holiday, is it?”

“Let’s cut the crap and get right to it, shall we?  Bobby Mason shot and killed an insurance investigator in Truckee late yesterday and you helped him escape.”

“That just didn’t happen, Arthur.  I did my laundry and went grocery shopping after work yesterday.”

“Now, I think I might know different, Susie.  Aidin’ and abettin’ during the commission of a felony is a serious crime.  Now, maybe if you was to be a little more friendly to me after work hours —”

“Who else knows about this supposed “aidin’ and abettin’” shit yer talkin’ about?”

“Just me, you, and Bobby Mason.  I heard some of the details on the police scanners last night and put two and two together.”

It was a little after 8:30 AM and nobody else would be in the building until 9:00 AM.  Jennifer opened her tote bag, pulled out her Sig Sauer, and shot a surprised looking Arthur St. Clair in the forehead.  She left the note as it would explain her absence.

After leaving the office, she withdrew some money from a small savings account at a Reno bank and continued on to Doc Reynolds’ ranchette.

“Here’s another two thousand for the loaner.  I’m gonna have to keep it.  I’m quite a bit hotter today than I was yesterday and have to leave town like five minutes ago.”

“But —” stammered Reynolds, getting a little red in the face.

“I’ll be in touch and send more when ya come up with a final tally.  If ya need yer car that bad, I’ll call and tell ya where I dropped it off.  It’ll be someplace in Nebraska or Iowa and the keys’ll be under the mat.”

“But —” Reynolds started again.

“That’s it.  Gotta go now,” said Jennifer, planting a kiss on Reynolds’ cheek.  “Pleasure doin’ business with ya.”

Doc Reynolds watched as Jennifer got into his loaner car and took off down the driveway.

“Yep.  That’s one tough cookie,” he said, touching his cheek and smiling.

---

Bio: Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years.  At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer.  He has had flash fiction and poetry published in Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama, Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye Whiskey Review, Near To The Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, The Yard, and a number of other online and print journals.  Unweaving a Tangled Web, published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.

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