For a month starting the second week of October 1969, he watched the construction office, noting arrivals and departures, mapping routines.
He knew the trade, despite his failed last attempt five years before. During fifty months of incarceration, he vowed success on the next.
A quick cut of the electrical line, a crowbar opened door, stealth avoiding holiday passersby. The six-foot high black safe dominated the back wall, flanked by dirty, cluttered shelves. Boom time in the cyclic industry, with all the oilers drilling offshore, bulging Coastside Construction to fifteen-hundred well paid employees. He believed this necessitated a well-stuffed safe for employees without bank accounts.
Jagger, nicknamed for a loose resemblance to the rock star, embraced the name with demonstrative idiosyncrasy, dying white Converse sneakers flaming red. Most mocked not his flamboyance; the last who did suffered a broken jaw.
Holding to schedule, he spurred on his co-conspirators. Twitch laid wire and Carl kept watch. Jagger puttied the safe door perimeter with plastic explosive, anticipating himself as legend, for different reasons than the singer.
Explosive applied and detonator affixed, he wired the trigger box and battery behind the scratched old oak desk by the door, forty feet away. Huddling behind it, Jagger and Carl used earplugs; Twitch slid an index finger into each ear. Button, depressed.
Jagger erred, again. The armoured car arriving at 10:15 each day delivered not money, but the driver for coffee with his brother. The safe contained not a million dollar haul but a thousand pounds of Class A explosive, bedrock shattering dynamite. Success flashed and evaporated in a mushroom cloud.
At Mom Canard’s Fresh Seafood, an outdoor diner jumped when a red sneaker stomped his fried crawfish plate. At sea, a sail caught and dropped a red sneaker onto the deck, befuddling the day sailors.