The Best Laid Plans
Robert Jakucs
On a dry, dusty afternoon, two men stood inside the exit gate at the California Men’s Prison in Corcoran, California, a large, foreboding complex surrounded by high, chain-link fencing with bands of concertina wire at its apex. Ominous-looking concrete silos, with Plexiglas guard shacks manned by rifle-toting guards, stood like silent sentinels around the complex’s perimeter.
One of the men, a prison guard supervisor, was a short, thick Hispanic in his late thirties with a high-and-tight military haircut, pressed khaki shirt, black tie, mirrored sunglasses and forest green trousers with a razor-sharp crease. Squinting into the bright sunlight next to him was a tall, muscular black man with a shaved head and thick mustache. He was dressed in an ill-fitting, standard-issue, civilian blue shirt, dark pants, white socks and tennis shoes.
The second man was Billy De Wine, but everyone in the prison yard and on the streets of South-Central Los Angeles knew him by his nickname “High Time.” He’d just finished three years of a five-year sentence for armed robbery, and the state prison board had granted him his release with a two-year parole.
Just before the supervisor signaled for the gate to open, he turned to Billy.
“How long before you’re back, De Wine?” said the bored bull as he handed Billy an envelope containing enough state-issued money for a meal in town.
“This is the last you’ll see of me, Boss,” said De Wine.
“They all say that, but most are back within a year,” said the supervisor. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
Billy walked out the gate without a backward glance, enjoying his first breaths of freedom, when he spied a familiar face standing next to a dark gray Chevrolet in the civilian parking lot. It was his old running mate Chester Dawes, a tall, thin, laconic man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a pork pie hat perched on his head.
“My man Chester,” Billy said as he walked up and embraced him. “Good to see you, brother, and thanks for making the drive up to this hick town to get me. How’s Clarice doing?”
“She’s got a place on Avalon Boulevard and a job waitressing at Tiny’s Tavern.”
“Let’s stop by and see her once we get to town. I sure do miss her.”
“You going to get a real job now that you’re out, High Time?” said Dawes.
“I got a real job. I’m a stick-up man.”
“Man, what kind of nonsense you talking? Here you are, just out of the joint, and you talking about doing the same s— that put you away.”
“Chester, in prison you have a whole lot of time to think. Every night I’d lay there thinking about what I’d do when I got out. I thought some about getting a regular job or even going back to school, but then I came to realize I’m not a lunch pail, eight-to-five, factory guy, and I hate sitting in a classroom for hours on end.
“That’s when the truth hit me. I’ve been ripping and running all my life. I’ve been banging since I was eleven. I’ve been hired muscle, a dope dealer, a gun runner and a hitman. Crime’s all I know, and it’s what I do best.
“I made a lot of money, but ripping off those big-time dope dealers was way too dangerous. I pissed off some bad hombres, and sooner or later those Mexicans were going to kill me. Prison’s the best thing that ever happened to me, ’cause they couldn’t get to me inside.
“I got a plan now, and it’s a good one. There’s easy money to be made taking down those Korean-owned liquor stores in the hood. They only deal in cash, they’re too cheap to hire security, and everyone in South-Central hates them. That’s who I’m going to hit. I’m going to get in and out fast, but I need a good wheelman to help me, and you’re the best, Chester. Can I count on you? Are you in?”
As was his way, Chester didn’t answer right away. He stared out the window and chewed on a toothpick as he mulled over Billy’s offer. After some time, he tossed the toothpick out the car window and said, “I got nothing going, Billy, and I’m as poor as the day I was born. I need the money. I’m in.”
Billy was quiet for most of the three-hour trip from Corcoran to Los Angeles until he saw the tall skyscrapers of downtown LA. They took the Slauson Avenue exit off the Harbor Freeway and now were in the familiar territory of South-Central LA.
“I’m back home, Chester, and things are gonna start going my way. Let’s go surprise Clarice.”
When they walked into Tiny’s Tavern, a few men were standing around the bar with a light-skinned black woman of about twenty-five. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans, heeled brown sandals, a white tank top that revealed some generous cleavage, a flat stomach, and a nice caboose. As soon as she saw Billy, she gave out a yell, ran over to him, and gave him a big hug and kiss.
“My, my, it’s High Time Billy De Wine. I didn’t know you were out. Why didn’t you let me know?”
“Just got sprung today, baby. Figured I’d surprise you. You’re sure looking good, Clarice. You ready to party again with High Time?”
“Sure, Billy. You know I’m always looking for a good time.”
“Going to be like old times, Clarice. Just you and me.”
A few days later, Chester Dawes took the bus to Clarice’s apartment. It was a small, neat, one-bedroom walkup in a hard-scrabble neighborhood of cracker-box bungalows and vacant lots that had been decimated by the rock cocaine epidemic. Once inside, he sat down at the kitchen table with Billy and Clarice. Billy was dressed in a white T-shirt and boxer shorts, while Clarice was wearing a beige nightgown and housecoat.
“You are looking rested, High Time,” said Chester. “Appears that civilian life and a good woman appeal to you.”
“Sure does beat prison, but I’m getting antsy, and it’s time for me to go to work,” said Billy. “I’m gonna scope out this liquor store on Vermont today, then we’ll meet back here in a week or so. In the meantime, I’ll get ahold of my brother Bobby and get him on board.”
A week later, four people crowded around the same table in the small apartment with Billy holding court. Besides Billy, Clarice, and Chester Dawes, they were joined by Billy’s younger brother Bobby, a short, dark-skinned fireplug of a man with a stylish Jheri curl hairstyle and a thick, Fu Manchu mustache. The men sat around talking old times, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee as Clarice hovered nearby.
“Good to see the old gang together again,” said Billy. “I scoped out a place the other day that’s ripe for picking. It’s the liquor store on Vermont near the car wash, the one owned by that mean-ass Korean. There’s no security guard, he don’t let anyone hang inside, and he don’t have any cameras in the store. Next Tuesday is the first of the month, all of them welfare checks gonna be cashed, and everyone’s gonna be stocking up on beer, wine and lottery tickets.
“Here’s the way I see it. Chester’s the best car thief around, so he’ll grab an old clunker and park it near here. I’ll use my old sawed-off to take the place down.
“The three of us will drive over to the liquor store at night just before quitting time. Chester will be the wheelman, and we’ll do a pass by first to make sure there’s nobody inside but the owner. Once it’s clear, Chester will park near the store, and Bobby and me will go inside wearing ski masks.
“I’ll go up and do the jack, and Bobby will cover me in case anyone comes in. That cash register will be loaded, and we’ll make a killing on it. Sound good?”
A look of concern clouded Bobby’s face. He looked at his brother, shook his head, and said, “Count me out on this one, High Time.”
“You never got rubber-legged on me before,” said Billy, a concerned look on his face as he leaned into his brother. “You were always my cover man. Why the cold feet now?”
“I have a gun case coming up for sentencing,” said Bobby, looking down at the floor, too ashamed to look his brother in the eye. “I can’t afford to pick up a robbery beef, too.”
“We sure could use you,” said Billy, visibly trying to control his anger at his younger brother, “but if that’s the way you want to play it, you better leave now. Best be quiet about this, too.”
“You’re my brother,” said Bobby, as he reached across the table and gripped Billy’s arm. “I’d never give you up.”
Billy pulled his arm away and turned his back on his brother, who rose from the table and walked resignedly out of the kitchen.
Once he left, the room went quiet. Clarice put down her coffee cup and walked out of the kitchen to the bedroom. Chester leaned over to Billy and said in a whisper, “You think it’s a good idea to be going ahead with this, now that Bobby knows about it, and he having a case and all?”
“He’s my brother, Chester. He ain’t no snitch. He’s cool.”
“Yeah, but even family do funny things when they be looking at jail time,” said Chester.
Billy’s eyes narrowed as he hissed at Chester, “That’s it, and I don’t want to hear any more about it. You want to bail on me too, Chester, there’s the door.”
Chester waited a few moments before he let out a sigh and said, “I’ve stuck by you through thick and thin, and I’ll be with you on this one, too. I just hope you know what you’re doing, High Time. I’d hate for you to guess wrong.”
The following day, the phone rang on the informant cold call line in the LAPD South Bureau Narcotics office.
“Hello,” said Detective John Donaldson.
“Can I speak to Mr. Donaldson?” said a nervous voice.
“Who is this?”
The caller gave Donaldson their name.
“How can I help you?” said Donaldson.
“I have information on a robbery that’s going to go down, but you have to promise that you’re going to help me on my court case,” said the caller, their voice rising in desperation. “I can’t go to jail. I just can’t!”
Donaldson knew from experience that what he said next would either make or break this call. The fear was palpable in the person’s voice, and if he didn’t establish a bond with them right away, they’d hang up.
“Look, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I know what you’re up against,” said Donaldson. “I’ve talked with lots of people who were in the same predicament you’re in. The first thing you need to know is that I will never lie to you. I’ll always be upfront. Here’s the way it works. I’m sure you have good information, but I must be able to arrest someone on it before I go to bat for you with the DA.”
“I’m scared to death about going to jail, but I’m more scared about him finding out if I snitch on him. He’ll kill me for sure.”
“If you deal straight with me, he’ll never find out. My lips are sealed. They can cut me in little pieces, but I will never give you up. At some point you’re going to have to trust someone, so why don’t you go ahead and help yourself. Tell me what you know.”
Donaldson heard the caller take in a deep breath and let it out.
“You know Billy De Wine?” they said.
“Who doesn’t know High Time?”
“Well, he and Chester Dawes are planning on robbing a liquor store.”
“I thought High Time was in prison?”
“He just got out.”
“Where’s he staying?”
The caller provided the address of the apartment on Avalon Boulevard, along with the details of the planned robbery and the store address.
“I hope I can trust you, Mr. Donaldson. I’m really scared.”
“You have to trust me. I’m all you got.”
Unlike most narcotic detectives who favored the grunge look, John Donaldson was a clean-shaven, short-haired operator with choirboy looks and the steely nerves of a pickpocket. As soon as he hung up the phone, he verified that Billy De Wine had been released from prison. His next call was to the LAPD Special Investigative Section, a little-known team of veteran street detectives who had the reputation in law enforcement circles for being the best surveillance unit in the country.
Their job was surveilling violent, armed criminals, waiting until they committed a crime, and then taking them down. Some chose easy to go to jail, while others chose hard, and for those that took up the gun, they ended up with a one-way, toe-tag ticket to the county morgue. After passing on the information of the planned robbery to SIS Detective Sergeant Mutt Kelsey, a heavyset, gray-bearded man with a gravelly voice and deep, emerald-green eyes, Donaldson sat back and waited.
In the early morning darkness on a chilly winter Tuesday, Chester Dawes slipped out of his mother’s house on Towne Avenue. Dew covered the parked cars on the street, and a cold wind blew off the ocean from the west. Dawes walked a few blocks from his home and spotted a gray, older-model, two-door Ford parked on the street. He used a slim jim to pop the driver’s side door open, a car punch on the ignition, and had the car hot-wired and running in less than a minute. Dawes drove it through the light traffic to Avalon Boulevard and parked it a few blocks from Clarice’s apartment. Later that evening, Dawes met with Billy at the apartment.
“You ready to make some money, Chester?” said Billy, backslapping Dawes as he walked in. Clarice stood nearby, a concerned look marring her pretty face as she nervously squeezed a dish towel in her hand.
“That’s why I’m here, High Time,” said Chester with a sigh and a note of resignation in his voice. “That thing about Bobby still bothering me, though.”
“I told you he’s cool, Chester,” said Billy, with rising irritation in his voice. “Let it go. Best focus on the job. Tonight’s the right night. Them folks in the hood were cashing those welfare checks this morning, and they’ll be spending lots of money today.”
“I’ll give you that,” said Chester, nodding his head in agreement.
Billy turned to Clarice, put his arm around her, and gave her a kiss.
“I wish you weren’t doing this so soon after getting out,” said Clarice, her eyes filled with anxiety. “I’m worried half to death about this, Billy.”
“Sit tight and wait for me, honey,” he said. “We’ll be in high cotton when I get back, and we’ll go out and celebrate.”
It was a crisp, clear, star-filled winter night with a bright, full moon and some white, puffy clouds visible above them as Chester and Billy walked around the corner to the stolen Ford. Billy was carrying a brown gym bag with a sawed-off shotgun and a black ski mask with eye slots inside.
“It’s game time, Chester,” he said. “Let’s make a pass by the liquor store to check it out, then park near the front. Once there’s no customers, I’ll go in, jack the clerk, clean out the till, and book it back to you. Keep the engine running while you’re waiting. You ready?”
“I was born ready.”
They drove past the liquor store, a small convenience shop located in an old block of two-story, faded brick buildings with small businesses on the ground floor and rentals on the top. A few of the stores were boarded up, while others had metal-grilled security bars across their frontage. Here and there, local gang graffiti tags were spray-painted on the wall. The area had a run-down, world-beaten feel to it.
Dawes parked the Ford at the curb with a view of the store. Inside, an elderly black woman was talking to a short, wizened, gray-haired Asian man who was standing behind the counter. Billy waited until the woman left the store, then he slid the ski mask onto his head, took the gym bag in his left hand, and walked toward the store as he gave one last look to make sure there were no cop cars driving by.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he pulled the ski mask down over his face and took the sawed-off out of the bag. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and he had that old, familiar rush that he loved just before he sprang into action. Before reaching the door, he scanned the interior through the glass front as he reached for the doorknob. There were a few aisles of fast food and liquor, and behind the counter was an open space leading to the storeroom. Off to the right was a large cooler filled with soft drinks, beer and bagged ice.
Back on the street, Chester had his window down and was smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves as he watched Billy approach the door. He took a long drag, and as he blew the smoke out the open car window, he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel behind his left ear.
“Police,” whispered a voice. “Move and you’re a memory.”
When Billy reached the door, he flung it open and walked toward the counter with the owner staring at him. Nobody here but that Korean, he thought. This is going to be a piece of cake.
“It’s a jack, mutha—,” Billy said as he pointed the sawed-off at the Asian man who immediately raised his hands.
“No shoot. No shoot,” the man said, his terror-filled eyes homed in on the shotgun pointed at his head. Billy tossed the gym bag at him and said, “Empty out the till, and keep your hands where I can see them or I’ll blow your s— away.”
The Asian man scooped paper bills from the cash register and stuffed them into the bag.
“Where’s the rest of the money, old man?” Billy said.
“No more. No more. Please go.”
Billy reached in and turned over the black till, revealing more currency underneath.
“Holding out on me, you lying piece of s—,” Billy said as he stuck the sawed-off hard into the man’s thin neck. “Put that in there quick or you’re dead.”
The owner reached down and scooped the additional bills into the bag.
“Keep your hands up and count to a hundred,” said Billy. “If you call the cops, I’ll come back and kill you.”
He reached down with his left hand, grabbed the gym bag, and ran toward the front door. As he opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, he looked up and saw a dark green Buick and a gray Plymouth stopped in the street. Four long-haired, bearded men dressed in scruffy clothes were crouched behind the cars pointing twelve-gauge Ithaca pump shotguns at him.
“Police,” they shouted in unison. “Drop the gun.”
Damn. Bobby gave me up, Billy thought.
He started to raise the shotgun to his hip to fire but was hit by four rounds of double-aught buckshot in the face and torso. The force of their impact propelled him backward, where his body shattered the glass door, and he was dead before he hit the ground. He lay on his back, vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling, with his legs draped over some shards of broken glass in the door. In the now-deafening silence, the only sound heard was the whimpering of the store owner as he lay sprawled behind the counter.
The four bearded undercover detectives walked cautiously toward the door, their shotguns leveled at the body on the ground. The oldest one, a stocky, gray-bearded man with penetrating green eyes, shook his head and said, “Looks like the end of the line for High Time Billy De Wine.”
Two weeks later, Detective John Donaldson put on a white shirt, blue tie, and dark gray suit and drove to the downtown Criminal Courts building on Temple Street. He carried a brown leather briefcase and looked like a young lawyer except for the four-inch .38 Special revolver in a shoulder rig under his suit coat. He walked through the crowded lobby, took the elevator to the eleventh floor, and walked into the District Attorney’s office for his appointment with Deputy District Attorney Bill Goldman.
Upon entering Goldman’s office, they shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and then got down to business. Goldman was a handsome, clean-shaven, late-thirties professional who was an up-and-comer in the DA’s office. He was a hard-nosed, no-nonsense litigator who appreciated good police work and cops like John Donaldson.
“How’s it going, Bill?” said Donaldson. “I need to talk to you about a case you have on calendar today. The defendant’s one of my informants. It’s a little complicated because they could be looking at doing state time on their case.”
“Do you have something I can work with here, John?”
“Yeah. You remember High Time Billy De Wine?”
“I heard SIS smoked him. He sure was one bad actor.”
“Well, my informant’s the one that gave him up,” said Donaldson. “We need to do the right thing here, Bill.”
“You’re right, John. I think I can swing it. How does a misdemeanor conviction, no jail time, and probation sound?”
“Sounds good, Bill. Appreciate you going to bat on this.”
“One good turn deserves another. What’s your informant’s name?” asked Goldman.
“Clarice Dawson.”
“What made her give him up?”
“She was High Time’s girlfriend before he went away, but she was doing his brother Bobby while he was gone, and she just found out she’s pregnant with Bobby’s baby. She has that dope case, she’s looking at jail time, and she doesn’t want her baby born in jail.”
“So, her one-way ticket out of jail was to give up High Time, knowing there was a good chance he’d be killed,” Goldman said as he slowly shook his head. “You know, John, we sure do work in a sewer. Nothing is clear, there is no black and white, and everything is clouded in gray. I’ll have to take a long shower after this one, but I think all the scrubbing in the world won’t get the grime off me.”
Robert Jakucs is a retired Los Angeles Police Department homicide detective and Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam, Gulf, and Iraq Wars. His fictional crime stories focus on the underbelly of Los Angeles.
