Free Dirty Deeds by Armand Rosamilia

to McDonalds under the seat. Not a new clean and polish. I needed this to look old and grungy, like a real work van. The cops needed to be out looking at the million plumbers, carpenters, flooring guys and whoever else drove these things so I could get away.
    Instead, I was in the shiniest white van in Las Vegas. I was sparkling down the road, an eyesore for drivers around me. If I hadn’t already set everything into motion and needed to drive out and to Texas as soon as possible I would’ve called Marisa and had her find a new van and fire whoever she was working with on this bright thing.
    I usually drove past the location three or four times when I wanted to be seen, but with the van so obviously new, most of the work vans in the city would be eliminated by the cops. As soon as I dumped it and switched cars I knew it would be a race to get as many miles away from Vegas before it was found.
    Yeah, I know. I keep talking about it but lately things were bugging me more than usual. I really didn’t need this job. Definitely not for the money, but for the sheer fact I was too busy to really get behind it. You needed to commit both mentally and physically, and I was still thinking about Will Black in the window.
    I took a leisurely drive past the school, already let out and only a few cars in the parking lot. With any luck, the school cameras would pick up on the van and get the tag number, which was yanked from another car.
    Damn, I hoped it was. Didn’t everyone know that was how you did it? Based on the van I now had my doubts.
    I called Marisa and complained about the situation.
    “Stop whining and get it done,” Marisa said. She had a way with words. Just for the record: when my voice swells a couple of octaves it isn’t whining. It’s getting excited. Big difference. “They stole a new van since they had short notice. The plates are jacked from another van, which will throw the cops for a second. Enough to get you out of Dodge.”
    “I’m in Vegas, not Dodge.”
    She didn’t even bother to tell me how lame my joke was.
    “How’s the surveillance in New York going?” I asked.
    She groaned loudly on the phone.
    I was supposed to be working and when you were in the midst of a job you never worried about the previous one or the next one. But in all fairness, Will Black wasn’t an upcoming job. He was a problem I needed to sort out before Keane or Chenzo figured out where he was hiding.
    “I have a guy on it. Don’t worry. The club was open last night and two of them went inside and listened to boringly smooth jazz for hours,” Marisa said.
    “What came of it?”
    “They both hate jazz even more, I imagine. Will Black never made an appearance and they couldn’t get up the stairs to the apartments. Too many eyes watching. There is definitely something going on in the building, but it could just be drug trafficking. According to what they heard, the joint is only open Friday night through Sunday afternoon,” Marisa said.
    “Did you call it a joint?”
    Marisa laughed. “Just hip to the jazz lingo, mulligan.”
    “I think mulligan means cop, or something to do with golf?” I had no idea but I knew she had used it wrong. She needed to work on her jazz slang.
    “Anyway. . . it’s being looked at. Not any of your concern right now. You need to focus on the task at hand, see?” She said this in a really bad 1950’s mobster movie voice, which made me laugh.
    I hadn’t laughed in awhile and it felt good.
    “Are you wearing a disguise?” Marisa asked.
    “Yes,” I answered reluctantly. I never showed her what I had done to change my appearance but it never stopped her from asking.
    “Take a selfie and send it to me.”
    “I don’t know what a selfie is but I’m not sending one to you,” I said. Part of the fun was her going out of her mind trying to guess what I was dressed like or what I’d done to my face for the job.
    Five years ago I’d taken a newborn from a stripper in Kansas City. My