Kelson found Sylvia Crane’s address by searching online property records for the town of Mundelein and then the surrounding towns of Libertyville, Vernon Hills, Hawthorn Woods, and Long Grove. He expanded the rings until he found a two-acre plot with an enormous house on Cambridge Lane in Lake Forest, twenty-five minutes from the G&G headquarters.
As the sun rose, Kelson and Rodman laid their weapons on one end of the couch, under Malcolm X’s gaze – Kelson’s two pistols, Rodman’s snub-nose Colt, his big Beretta, and a Walther semiautomatic rifle with a twenty-inch barrel, which he pulled from the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
‘Dibs,’ Marty said, and picked up the Walther.
Rodman let his eyelids hang low. ‘Dibs?’
‘Fuck, yeah,’ Marty said.
At nine, Kelson, Rodman, and Marty rode in Rodman’s van to a South Halsted store called The Cop Shop, which sold everything from pink T-shirts that said Sleep tight, Chicago, we got this to Blackhawk duty holsters, knee-high combat boots, and Damascus riot gear. The clerk spent twenty minutes finding a Kevlar vest that fitted Rodman. Marty settled for a bright yellow petite vest, which he refused to take off once he got the Velcro straps right, instead grabbing a pair of mirrored tactical sunglasses off a display and marching around the store in them.
‘Give the man a little money, and see what he turns into,’ Rodman said.
Rodman and Kelson laid their vests on the counter and picked three folding combat knives from a glass case.
Along with the yellow vest, glasses, and knife, Marty wanted a black leather glove with integrated steel knuckles.
‘Why?’ Rodman said.
‘For later,’ Marty said.
‘I don’t want to know,’ Rodman said.
‘I do,’ Kelson said.
Marty said, ‘It’s a thing I do. Janet’s cool with it, so why shouldn’t I?’
After putting their purchases in the van with the guns they ate a second breakfast up the block at a diner called George’s, because, as Rodman said, ‘We’re skipping lunch today. Either we’re sitting with cops as they pound us for our stupidity, or we’re bleeding in a hospital.’
‘Or worse,’ Kelson said.
‘I don’t see it,’ Marty said. ‘I see us doing the fucking job and driving away. Maybe you need a shower afterward. Me, I’m going in and out clean.’
They filled their bellies with eggs, pancakes, and bacon anyway.
Then they drove north to Lake Forest in mid-morning traffic. It was the last day of May, and the air was warm, the sky clear, so they rode with the windows open. Kelson called the main number at G&G and asked the receptionist to put him through to Sylvia Crane.
‘She’s not in today,’ the receptionist said.
‘I didn’t think so,’ Kelson said. ‘Harold Crane?’
‘I can take a message,’ the receptionist said.
‘I’ll deliver it myself.’ Kelson hung up.
Downtown Lake Forest had shops for the kinds of people who had Lake Forest needs – luxury foods, Italian housewares, and designer clothing, with a UPS store in case the residents wanted to send friends and relatives luxury foods, Italian housewares, and designer clothing.
‘Just like the hood,’ Rodman said.
‘Just like the westside warehouse district where I grew up,’ Marty said.
‘Just like the inside of my head,’ Kelson said.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Marty said, and, when Kelson started to explain, said, ‘Please don’t tell me.’
Sylvia Crane lived on a thickly wooded lot at the top of a gently rising slope. Rodman, Kelson, and Marty pulled into the end of the long driveway, and Rodman turned the van sideways across the pavement so it would block cars from coming in or leaving. As they readied their guns, they glanced at the house. It was all white, with a veranda that extended across half of the long front, and big windows, rounded at the top, where the veranda ended. The house rose two stories, plus a high dormered roof where hired help could live.
‘A damn hotel,’ Rodman said. He pinched little bullets and dropped them into the little revolver cylinder.
‘An inn,’ Kelson said. ‘Like the ones you see in old movies – with Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire. The kind of place that should always be surrounded by snow.’
‘Like Holiday Inn,’ Marty said, ‘where they sing “White Christmas”.’
‘Exactly,’ Kelson said. He popped the magazine from the KelTec, checked that he’d loaded it tight, and popped it back in. ‘I didn’t see you as a movie guy,’ he said to Marty.
‘I love that fucking movie,’ the little man said. ‘Always makes me cry.’
‘It’s a musical comedy.’ Kelson popped the magazine from the Springfield, checked it.
‘To each his own,’ Marty said, and he jacked a round into the chamber of the Walther.
‘Looks more like that lodge in The Shining,’ Rodman said, and climbed out of the van.
Standing at the end of the driveway, Kelson called Venus Johnson, got voicemail, and said, ‘If you hear this message anytime soon, you’ll want to scoot up to Cambridge Lane in Lake Forest. Three of us are about to visit Sylvia Crane.’
Then he called the Lake Forest police.
‘I want to report shots fired,’ he told the dispatcher, and gave her the address.
The dispatcher tried to keep him on the line. ‘How many shots?’ she asked. ‘Is anyone shooting now?’
‘They’re about to start,’ Kelson said, and hung up.
The men marched up the driveway toward the house.
‘Lightheaded with fear,’ Kelson said to Rodman and Marty, or to himself – he wasn’t sure.
‘No,’ Marty said, strutting in his little yellow vest.
Rodman glanced at Kelson with concern. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure. I’m always lightheaded.’
‘Don’t be a pussy,’ Marty said.
‘Listen, Tweety—’ Kelson said.
‘Guys,’ Rodman said, smooth and calm.
Then the thick boom of a shotgun sounded from one of the second-story windows.
‘Fuck,’ Marty yelled. He stared at his vest. Buckshot had dented the yellow Kevlar.
‘Your ear’s bleeding,’ Kelson said.
Gripping the semiautomatic, Marty wiped a dot of blood with the back of his hand. ‘A nip,’ he said.
The shotgun fired again, the sound booming over the yard.
Kelson, Rodman, and Marty ran for a stand of trees.
Kelson peered out and saw two men arguing at an open second-story window.
‘Someone got overexcited,’ Rodman said. ‘Why would they want to scare the neighbors?’ He stepped out from the trees and raised his hands over his head, his Beretta tucked into the back of his pants, his little revolver in his side pocket. ‘They should want us inside where they can try to get their money and the thumb drive without so much noise.’
No one shot at him.
‘You’re a smart guy, DeMarcus,’ Marty said.
‘I hope you can still say that later,’ Rodman said. He walked – slow, calm, staying near the trees – through the yard and toward the house.
Kelson and Marty followed him, Kelson’s hands high, his guns in his belt, Marty cradling his semiautomatic.
The men in the window – Kelson recognized one of them as Stanley Javinsky – watched them come. Another man appeared behind a closed window a couple of rooms from the first, his face obscured by the glaring glass.
As Rodman, Kelson, and Marty approached the veranda, Javinsky aimed the shotgun down at them from the open window but didn’t pull the trigger.
Rodman, Kelson, and Marty went up the front steps and under the shelter of the veranda roof. Rodman and Kelson each got out a gun – Rodman his Beretta, Kelson his KelTec. Marty slipped to the side, crouched, aimed his gun at the front door, and readied it to shoot.
Kelson slipped to the other side. Then Rodman kicked the door in.