Black Bronco

I'm a valet parking attendant. The man in the black bronco made me rich, snaping pictures and swiping keys. This is my confession:

Quick author’s note for subscribers: I’m going to be ending my Sunday publishing schedule once “Montauk” finishes its run. I’ve fiddled with the times a bit; I’m just convinced most readers are busy those days. The response has been astronomically better on Thursday.

Photo by K Soma on Unsplash

On my taxes, I’m a valet parking lot attendant. But I pay my bills cloning keys, planting trackers, and snapping Polaroids of every high value car that rolls onto my lot. At the end of each week, I turned over a scrapbook of easy-to-steal rides to the man in the black bronco.

His crew is patient, waiting weeks or months to make their move. By then the victim has forgotten all about me — the common thread linking these cases together. I got a hefty finders fee for each successful score — cash in an envelope, stuffed in my glove box.

After six months, my illicit employer tried to cut me loose. It was the first time I’d seen him outside of his trademark ride since the night we met. He looked rail thin—the kind of skinny you get from a serious coke habit—with a crooked smile and a golden tooth.

“Too much face time, kid; someone is bound to remember you.”

At that point I could’ve bought a house with the cash I’d bothered to launder down at the Riverview. But that’s the thing about easy money: once you’ve got a taste, it’s hard to walk away.

I begged for more.

In exchange for a bigger cut, I quit my valet gig to start doing the actual stealing. The job was easy when you knew where the car was, and had a copy of the keys.

He had one firm rule: knocking off other criminals was more trouble than it was worth. If I stumbled on something unsavory, I was to wipe the key, burn the picture, and forget the tracker. But I couldn’t ignore what I found in the backseat of that pickup, parked at a dim diner off the old highway. Still can’t forget.

I made an anonymous report and let police do their jobs. Cops have beaten us to cars before. The man in the black bronco just shrugged when I told him the revised version of why I returned empty handed.

The next time I saw him — well, parts of him — was on pay day. The envelope in the glove box was heavier than usual. Instead of cash, I found a stack of pictures. A few were of my family and friends. Others showed me meeting the man in the black bronco. A red X covered his face. The rest were of me relaxing at home, with the word “snitch” scribbled across each photo.

The envelope still has some weight to it. I turned it upside down with a shaky hand. A pile of golden teeth, crusted with dried blood fell into my palm.

Right now I’m trying to plan my next move. I’m hoping what I know is enough to get a protective custody deal. But what about the rest of my family? My friends?

How can I protect them all from ending up like what I saw in that backseat?

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