Old Vito's Trap

It was Justin's idea. Billy Joe, he had never broken a law in his life, not even as a screwed-up juvenile, but with no jobs to be had anywhere, the bills piling up, two months behind on the rent, and, worse, with the bike dealer threatening to repossess his Harley-Davison 1200 Roadster, his only pride and joy, Billy Joe had no choice but to go along with Justin's plan to rob the old man.

He lived, the old man did, in a one-room brick house he built by himself on a lot he bought when he came down from some big city up North twenty years back. That house he built like a fort—one narrow, thick steel side door, small barred windows so high that you'd need a ladder to reach them, and no trees or shrubs around for anyone to hide or approach unseen. About thirty yards behind the house was a shallow concrete pit with a ramp leading down into it, where the old man had installed the water pump of his well.

From the looks of him, he must have been a least eighty, shriveled up like a prune, and tiny, not much taller than five feet. Yet he had a spring to his step and no trouble hiking the two miles to town and back with a backpack full of groceries. He had no car or other motor vehicle, and would accept no rides. In fact, he had no use for company of any kind. Not that he was unfriendly or nasty with people. Just the opposite. He was always polite and would return your greeting if you greeted him, but that was the extent of it. Without saying it, he let everybody know that he didn't need no help. He wanted people to leave him alone, and everybody did. He went by the name of Vito, his first or last name, nobody knew which. Just plain Vito.

By the way Vito talked it was obvious that he was a foreigner. Our town librarian, who knows something about accents, claimed that he was from Sicily, that's in Italy, home of the Mafia. So Justin figured that if the old man was from there, the home of the Mafia, then he must be a rich gangster running from the law or, more likely, from other gangsters for making off with their loot. What made Justin think all that was that his ex-girlfriend, Linda, a teller in the only bank in town, had told him that Vito had no bank account; and from talking to store clerks, he also learned that Vito had no credit cards, either, that everything he bought he paid for in cash. And from a real estate agent and an accountant at ABC Supplies Co., he further learned that Vito had paid cash, in full, for his five-acre plot and for all the materials to build and equip his house. That, then, would explain the fort-like design of the house, the old man's secrecy, and even his building skills. From watching gangster movies Justin knew that many Mafia types had a hand in the construction business. And if all that was true, then there was no question in Justin's mind that old Vito had a huge pile of cash stashed somewhere in his house, just begging to taken.

At first Billy Joe had his doubts about robbing that old man. Maybe Vito was no ex-gangster after all. Maybe he was some honest immigrant who busted his ass all his life to earn and save his money. But Justin refused to believe it.

"No way," he said. "Me, I know a crook on sight. I can see it in is eyes. And that guy is a crook, from way back, trust me. He's robbed plenty of people before, maybe killed some, and deserves to get robbed himself. Justice, I call it."

Justin was right about one thing. He had met plenty of crooks in his life, having served time, first in juvenile detention when he was underage, and later in adult prison, for stuff like burglary, car theft and, at least once, for assault.

"Besides," Justin went on, "Even if he ain't no crook, what difference does it make? I mean, what's a guy that old want with all that money? Hell, at his age, he ain' got no need for women or fancy clothes. And knowing him, he ain't got no relatives or friends or a favorite charity. When he croaks, which should be soon, the government will get it all. Better us, than the fuckin' government. Think about it."

"Makes sense," Billy Joe concurred, the though of him losing his Hog Roadster clouding his better judgment. "Whether or not old Vito is a crook don't make no difference to me. It's the money. That's all I care about."

"Come to think of it," Justin added. "He owes us for all that money deducted from our paychecks before the factory laid us off. Half of it went for government benefits to old farts like him. Young guys like us, we get nothing but grief."

It occurred to Billy Joe that if old Vito was getting government benefits, as Justin was saying, he would've had to give out his name and address, but if he was hiding from the law or the Mafia, that would be the last thing he'd do. So old Vito probably didn't owe them anything. But Billy Joe kept these thoughts to himself. To get Vito's stash, he and Justin had to work as a team, and Justin knew how to go about it better than he. No point starting arguments with Justin at this late in the game.

"Yeah, you're absolutely right. The old guy does owe us plenty. But, I've been thinking, How in the hell are we going to break into that house of his? Shit, busting down that thick steel door, will take a power machine, and coming in through them high windows won't be easy. We'd need a tall ladder to reach them, then hacksaw the bars, probably made of hardened steel, and even if we could cut them with a hacksaw, the openings look too small for guys our size to squeeze through."

Justin shot Billy Joe a disparaging grin. “My plan, old buddy, is simple. Even a yokel like you should be able to understand it. You see, we don't try to break in when the old guy is away in town. That would be stupid. No, we make our move when he's home, so he can open the door for us."

"But why would he do that? That guy wouldn't open the door for nobody." Billy Joe had figured that Justin was kidding. But no, Justin wasn't kidding. He did have a plan, and though Billy Joe didn't like it, he again let the vision of the stash of money cloud his better judgment.

"We'll do it like this," Justin explained. "There's this guy in the National Guard who owes me. He once beat up this girl in front of me, almost killed her, actually, but when the cops came asking, I pretended I didn't see it. Anyway, this guy stole some tear gas from the base where he serves and has agreed to give me a couple of canisters. So, we bring along a ladder, climb up to a window, dump in the tear gas, and when the old man comes out for air, we hogtie him. Hell, a guy that old can't put up much of a fight. We then wait a while for the tear gas to blow away, then go in and get the money. Very simple."

"But what if he has an alarm system or calls for help on his cell phone? Everyone has got one of them nowadays. And I know he’s seen us in town. He's sure to recognize us."

Justin sniggered. "Put your thinking cap on, old buddy. A guy like him hiding from the law or the Mafia, or both, probably, ain't about to call the cops. And as for him recognizing us, there's no way he can do it if we are wearing ski masks. I already got me a couple, shoplifted them so no clerk can testify later that I bought them, in case the cops investigate, which, as I said, ain't likely to happen. So, don't worry about a thing. I've got it all planned out and ready to go." Then fixing Billy Joe with a camaraderie look. "You still with me, ain't you?

"All the way,” Billy Joe, nodded, though little red flags of doubt kept popping up in his head. The old Sicilian, he sensed, would not be that easy a prey. Billy Joe had seen when he went to town how those dark eyes of his shuttered like little cameras, taking everything and everybody in sight, including him and Justin hanging around the convenience store. His ear too must have picked up the distinct sound of their voices. Billy Joe had also noticed that Vito didn't follow a regular schedule. Sometimes he'd come to town in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and on different days of the week, obviously so nobody could predict where he'd be at any given time. A guy like Vito couldn't have lived as long as he had by mere accident. He had a built-in sensor that warned him of trouble. But then, again, Billy Joe figured, Justin must have though about that, too. As he said, he was always a step ahead him.

At first light next day, Justin pulled up to Billy Joe's trailer with an 28-ft extension ladder attached to the roof of his old panel truck.

"Rise and shine, old buddy," he announced cheerfully, "Time to rock and roll. The old man was in town shopping yesterday late afternoon and chances are he ain't about to be going out two days in a row. So he must be home now, probably still in bed."

On the floorboard of the truck were two large-sized Army backpacks, each containing a ski mask, a plastic bottle of water, a brand-new pair of work gloves, no doubt shoplifted like the ski masks, and a tube-like container with official-looking lettering stenciled on it, the tear gas canisters. The back pack closest to Justin also held an object bundled in a shammy cloth. The knapsacks would later serve to bring back the loot. That was why Justin got the large-sized ones.

They parked the van out of view in a clearing by an abandoned dirt road half a mile behind Vito's property. From the backpacks they took the work gloves, put them on, detached the ladder from the van, set it on the ground, shouldered their backpacks, picked up the ladder, one at each end and, following Justin's lead, headed though the wooded area toward Vito's house. It being late fall, all the undergrowth had lost its leaves, so the going was clear and easy. In ten minutes they arrived at concrete pit behind the house and, setting the ladder down, stepped in the pit and took a position there to reconnoiter the house and consider their next move.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan, yet Billy Joe felt that something wasn't right. The doubts that had been worrying him earlier, the red flags popping up in his head, had not gone away, and when Justin drew from his knapsack the shammy bundle and opened it, Billy Joe knew at once that he had made a big mistake. The thing wrapped in the shammy was a pistol, a .45 caliber, the kind that could blow fist-sized hole through a man.

"What the hell is that for?" Billy Joe was about to ask, but just then the water pump turned on, drowning out his words, and next thing he knew, Justin was lying on the concrete floor, jerking all over, the top of his head blown clear off. Billy Joe's eyes then caught the glint of the rifle barrel sticking out through one of the house’s back windows.

Funny how the sight of violent death makes stupid fools like Billy Joe suddenly smart. Now he saw it all: Justin had planned to kill the old man, not just tie him up, and, after he helped Justin tote the ladder and the money back to the truck, he would kill him, too. Justin wasn't about to split the loot with him and leave alive a half-willing accomplice who might later talk under pressure.

Billy Joe now realized that he old man had been expecting them all along. He must have sensed when he last saw him and Justin in town, how they looked back at him, the tell-tale smirk on Justin's face, what they were planning to do, and he was ready for them. But, if the old man was that perceptive, Billy Joe figured, hoped, then he must also have seen that it wasn't his idea to steal his money, that he was dragged into by Justin, the real thief. And if the old man had sensed that, then he might forgive him, spare his life, and the fact that he hadn't shot him already, though he had him dead in his sights, was a good sign.

Waving his arms friendly-like, he yelled out against the racket of the water pump. "Hey Sir, I didn't mean you no harm! Really! You let me go and you'll never see or hear from me again!"

And Billy Joe meant it. He would return his Road Hog to the dealer, leave town, get a fresh start somewhere, out West maybe, where no one knew him, go back to school, learn a trade, land a decent job, get married, have kids, lead a normal life. Hell, at heart he weren't no criminal. He remembered his Christian upbringing, his loving parents and sisters, his getting decent grades in school, until he got mixed up with the wrong crowd and dropped out, joining the Wanderers motorcycle gang and later, tired of that, go off on his own and end up in Rock City, where he met Justin. He glanced at the body of Justin sprawled on the floor, his limbs still quivering. Billy Joe didn't want to end up like that. He deserved better. The old man would see that would spare his life. But Billy Joe could barely hear himself think. The racket of the water pump was deafening.

Old Vito had figured correctly that to avoid detention the two intruders would approach the house through the wooded area behind the property, and that they would likely stop at the concrete pit to gather their gear and plan their next move.
Imbecilli! Running along the walls inside the house was a permanent scaffold that Vito had erected so he could look out the high barred windows. Positioning himself, atop the scaffold at one of the windows with a clear view of the pit, his vintage WWII M-1 rifle at the ready, he waited. for the intruders to enter the pit. With a remote control switch, he then turned on the water pump, to startle them into a moment of stillness so he could get a good aim. To assure that the pump made a loud enough racket, he had beforehand loosened the bolts attaching its casing to the concrete floor. Now taking aim through the rifle scope, he shot one intruder, then the other, both clean through the head. The interval between shots had taken less than two seconds.