Ricky pulls the truck back onto the highway, humming a tune I don't recognize. The Miami skyline grows larger as we approach, and my mind races with possibilities about this container job.
The words "easiest score in history" echo in my head. Famous last words, I think, but keep my mouth shut.
"So what's your plan?" I ask as we pull back onto the highway.
"Simple. We drive my pickup to the fence around midnight, cut the lock, load up whatever's in that container, and drive away." Ricky says this like he's describing a trip to the grocery store. "In and out, twenty minutes tops."
I stare at him. "That's it? That's your entire plan?"
"What else do we need? The guards won't be a problem. One's asleep, the other's way on the other side of the yard." He grins like he's just explained a foolproof master plan.
Jesus Christ. I close my eyes and try to visualize the operation from start to finish. Two guys in a beat-up pickup truck rolling up to a shipping facility. Cutting through a fence in broad view of anyone who might be watching. Loading stolen goods into a vehicle that's registered to Ricky's family. Driving away on roads where any passing cop could pull them over.
I rub my temples, amazed at his arrogance. "Ricky, we can't just drive your personal vehicle into a shipping yard in the middle of the night."
"Why not? Nobody's going to remember a pickup truck."
"Your truck with your license plates? The same truck you drive around Miami every day? The truck registered in your name?"
His smile falters slightly. "Oh."
"And what are we wearing on this mission? Those cowboy boots make noise on gravel, and that hat of yours is quite recognizable."
"I got dark clothes at home," he protests. "And I can leave the hat."
I exhale slowly. "We need dark clothes like pants, shirts, gloves. Something less noticeable. And we need a bolt cutter for the lock."
Ricky perks up again. "I got a bolt cutter! My dad used it for the garden fence."
"How big is it?"
"About this big." He holds his hands about a foot apart.
"That might work for a regular padlock, but shipping containers use heavy-duty locks. We need something bigger."
Ricky nods thoughtfully. "There's a hardware store on the way back. We could stop and look at what they got."
"Good idea. I need to pick up some clothes anyway."
"Harison's is a department store," Ricky says. "Hardware store only sells tools and stuff. But I know a place that has both: Rodriguez Hardware on Calle Ocho. They got tools in the front and some clothes in the back. Work clothes mostly, but they'll have what we need."
Twenty minutes later, Ricky pulls into a small parking lot in front of a brick building with a faded sign reading "RODRIGUEZ HARDWARE EST. 1952." The windows are cluttered with displays of tools, fans, and random household items.
Inside, the store smells like a mixture of metal, oil, and dust. An old ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, barely moving the humid air. The place is crammed with merchandise, shelves reaching to the ceiling, narrow aisles packed with everything from hammers to washing machine parts.
Ricky leads me toward the back where a small section displays work clothes, mostly blue jeans, canvas jackets, and flannel shirts.
"Look for black," I mutter, flipping through a rack of shirts.
I find a black long-sleeve work shirt and a pair of dark jeans in my size. No gloves, though.
"What size gloves you need?" asks a gruff voice. A gray-haired man with thick forearms stands behind the counter, watching us.
"Medium," I reply.
He reaches under the counter and pulls out a pair of black leather work gloves. "These good?"
I try them on, they fit perfectly. "I'll take them. And these clothes."
While the man rings up my purchases, Ricky wanders over to the tool section. I join him after paying for my items.
"Look at this beauty," Ricky whispers, holding up a massive bolt cutter with red handles and heavy-duty jaws. "This could cut through anything."
I check the price tag: $32.50. Not cheap, but worth it for the job.
"Let's get it," I say, pulling out my wallet again.
As we browse through the store collecting a few more items like black electrical tape for any reflective surfaces, a small pry bar that might come in handy, a troubling thought occurs to me.
"Ricky," I say quietly, "we still haven't figured out the car situation."
He looks confused. "What's wrong with my truck?"
"Everything's wrong with it." I lean closer, lowering my voice further. "It's registered to you. If anyone sees it or remembers the plates, it leads straight back to you."
Ricky frowns, finally grasping the problem. "I didn't think about that."
"And we can't exactly rent a car without leaving a paper trail."
"We could borrow one," Ricky suggests. "My cousin has a—"
"No," I interrupt. "No family involved. Too risky."
We move to a quieter part of the store, pretending to examine a display of door hinges.
"What about..." Ricky hesitates, then lowers his voice to a whisper. "What about borrowing one without asking?"
He means carjacking. This thought gives me goosebumps, but not because I'm morally against it, but because carjacking is another serious matter that needs to be done without haste.
"I know this guy on my block, real jerk," Ricky says, eyes lighting up. "Drives a black '75 Chevy Nova, always parks it on the street. Guy's a real piece of work, plays his stereo too loud. Nobody would miss it for a night."
I shake my head immediately. "No way. Stealing a car from your own neighborhood? That's amateur, man."
I stare at the bolt cutters in my hand, mind racing. We need transportation that won't lead back to us, but stealing adds another serious risk.
"Let me think on it," I finally say. "There's gotta be a way to pull this off without adding grand theft auto to our problems."