Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  Inside, she found a double mattress on box springs on the floor. There were yellowing sheets and two pillows but no bedspread. The bathroom, separated from the bedroom by saloon-type doors, consisted of a stained toilet, a rusted pedestal sink, and a cement shower. But on the balcony, there was a comfortable wood chair, a hammock, and a view that almost compensated for the room. After a quick shower of lukewarm water, she fell into bed, hoping she wasn’t sharing her slumber with bedbugs. She slept straight through the rest of the day and the night.

  She awoke early Sunday, unbitten. The job would happen in twelve days from today. She would need to call Denise, to give her a number where she could be reached. She put on a pair of shorts and the toucan blouse and sandals. Instead of the wig, she wore the do-rag. She tucked her wig, passport, and money into her backpack and set out.

  Even though it was early, the sun was already bright and hot in the shockingly blue sky. She would need sunscreen, sunglasses, and a wristwatch; those were things she had forgotten to buy. On the unofficial Front Street, she found them at a souvenir shop. Elizabeth felt a little disoriented by the town’s lack of street signs. She had learned from Marco that despite repeated attempts by council members to attract more American and Canadian tourists, the island’s one thousand residents had never abandoned their deep-seated provincialism. Nationals still saw Caye Caulker as a laid-back little fishing town. The coastline was only four miles long, and everyone knew their way around, except tourists. Street signs were unnecessary. Directions, when required, were given in terms of local residences and businesses. There were three streets: a front, middle, and back. Elizabeth was advised by Marco to stay on Front Street; the others could be dangerous. All streets ran north and south.

  The nearest public payphone was at the cemetery, said the congenial woman who sold Elizabeth a bottle of Coppertone, sunglasses, and a wristwatch with the national seal of Belize on its face. Why there was a payphone in a cemetery Elizabeth didn’t bother to ask. Nothing made much sense in Belize, she was learning. At least to a North American. The watch showed two bare-chested young men in island pants, one with an oar over his shoulder, the other with an ax. The small hand pointed upward to a point between the two men; the long hand went down to a spot near the right foot of the ax man. It was 12:30 p.m. Belize time. San Francisco was in the same time zone as Arizona, like those retirees on the boat. That meant San Francisco was one hour behind Belize.

  Elizabeth paid for the items and then handed the woman a dollar bill to change into local coins. And where was the cemetery?

  “Far. Past the Crocodile Hotel. That way.” The woman pointed south.

  Elizabeth would find it. Front Street was only one mile long. She would walk south until she found it.

  Elizabeth found a cup of coffee first and had that and then a second cup. The coffee was strong and good. Already, pale North Americans in white shorts and T-shirts were sitting in the open-air bars called palapas, sipping coffee or the ubiquitous bottles of Belikin, the domestic beer. She walked past them until she had reached the very end of Front Street. The cemetery was there, just as the shopkeeper had promised. There was a white sand path that curved through a grassy graveyard of crosses. About ten yards ahead, the path diverged, one offshoot leading to more crosses, the other to a pier.

  The payphone, courtesy of Belize Telecommunications Limited, hung on a post at the beginning of the path, next to a flamboyantly red tree in full blossom. Inserting a Belizean coin, Elizabeth was relieved to hear a dial tone. She got the operator and gave her the number to call collect. Denise answered on the second ring.

  “Denise? It’s me.”

  “Lizbeth?”

  “No. I’m Kelly, remember?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m here. Is this line safe?”

  She heard Denise snigger. “Jesus, girl, yeah, it’s safe. Whadda ’ya think?”

  “I just want to make sure.”

  “How are you?” Denise asked.

  “I’m okay, but I’m low on money. It’s more expensive here than I thought.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Listen. Is it still going down as planned?”

  “Yeah, everything’s set.”

  “Good. And you’re gonna do exactly what we talked about.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Denise said, sounding exasperated. “We’re gonna drive down to the border, Mickie’s gonna walk across and fly outta TJ to Belize City. I’m gonna rent a locker in San Diego to stash the cash, and then I’m gonna fly back to San Francisco like nothing happened.”

  “Damn it, I hope nobody heard that.”

  “Nobody heard that. Are you kidding me? In the Nash? This place is full of vampires. They don’t get up until the moon comes out.”

  “You’re thinking of werewolves.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Listen, I want you to write down this number. You got a pen or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s 501-227-1144. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “I want you to call me on that number after you’ve done the job. What time is it there?”

  Denise glanced at the clock on the wall of the lobby. “It’s about seven minutes past noon.”

  Elizabeth checked her watch. “That’s right. It’s 1:07 here. You’re one hour behind us. So, on Friday, May 31, I’ll wait here at this payphone for your call. I’ll be here from noon your time until I hear from you. Call me as soon as you can after noon, so I know that everything went all right. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just follow the plan.”

  “Awright already. Anything else?”

  “I’m running out of cash, but it’s too risky to have you wire me some. And I haven’t even seen a bank on this island,” Elizabeth said.

  “Is that gonna be a problem?”

  “No. There are banks in the city, just not where I am.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Caye Caulker. It’s a tiny island. There’s next to nothing here. But there are banks in Belize City. We can take care of opening an account after Mickie gets down here.”

  “Right.”

  Elizabeth knew she should ask, even though it seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago to someone else.

  “Is it all over the news?”

  “Is what all over the news?”

  “About Billy.”

  “Oh, that. No, I haven’t seen anything. But then I don’t read the papers. Or watch the news.”

  No, Elizabeth supposed she didn’t.

  “Denise?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is everything okay?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  “I wish you were here.”

  “I wish I was, too,” Denise said unconvincingly.

  “I was thinking about what you said, that we’re good together,” Elizabeth continued. “I think we could be. I think we can figure things out once you and Mickie get down here. We’ll all have enough money to do whatever the fuck we want. You know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We just need to follow the plan.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your call. You’ve got the number. Call me as soon as you can after noon your time on the day of the job. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “All right then. You’ll call me.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay, well, I’d better go. Just follow the plan, Denise.”

  But Denise had already hung up.

  Part Two

  Chapter Fifteen

  What was it they said about best-laid plans? Something about the best-laid plans of mice and men. It was a poem and a novel Denise had to read for Miss Diamond’s eighth-grade English class at Bern Junior High. They go awry, those best-laid plans. Yeah, that was it. Awry.

  Friday, May 31, was turning out to be a b
right, clear San Francisco morning. Blue sky, sunshine. No fog, no rain in the forecast. Perfect, except that Mickie was getting nervous. She was having second thoughts, Denise could tell.

  “You’re not backing down,” Denise told her. “I’m not gonna let you fuck this up.”

  Mickie was dressed in her Brink’s uniform, gulping the last of a cup of black coffee before she left for work. Denise was still in a T-shirt and black lace panties, her feet bare on the kitchen linoleum. She softened her tone and rubbed Mickie’s arm through the short sleeve of the cotton fabric.

  “Baby, this is it. This is our chance. We gotta take it.”

  Mickie didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod. Her blue eyes were completely empty.

  “How much do you think is coming in today?” Denise asked to get her attention.

  Mickie considered. “Probably seven million. Maybe eight.”

  “Seven million,” Denise repeated. “Or eight. Think about that. That’s like three or four million each.”

  Mickie inclined her head, looking at Denise quizzically. “No, it’s not. It’s like two million something each. We’re splitting it in thirds, not half. Right? It was Elizabeth’s plan. Elizabeth deserves her share.”

  “Right, right,” Denise assured her. “But that’s only if we can find her. I mean, she killed that dude at Omega. That’s murder. That’s some serious shit.”

  Mickie frowned, wrinkling her forehead. Denise kept talking.

  “That night Lizbeth showed up at my apartment, she was a fuckin’ train wreck. And then the next morning, she just took off before I woke up. So, it’s like who knows where she is?”

  “And she didn’t tell you where she was going?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “That seems weird. How was she going to get her take?”

  “I guess she figured she’d call us when she was safe. Ya know, like after she got some place like South America or whatever.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry about her, Mickie. Worry about us. All ’ya gotta do this morning is pick up that load from the airport, get rid of your partner for a few minutes, and then drive the truck to the Hilton parking lot. I’ll be waiting there in a white Honda Accord. By the end of the day, you’ll be walking across the border into TJ, and I’ll be flying back to San Francisco.”

  “Why don’t you drive back?”

  “It’s a stolen car, Mickie. Think. No, I’ll leave the car at the border, make it look like you left it there. Then you’ll get to the airport in TJ and buy a one-way ticket to Mexico City. You got your new ID?”

  Mickie patted her back pocket. “I’ve got it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Mickie! You’re Heather Carpenter.”

  “I’m Heather Carpenter.”

  “And you’ve got the phone number I gave you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the payphone at the Nash. I’ll be at that number this Sunday, the day after tomorrow, at 1:00 p.m. You’re gonna call that number at 1:00 Sunday to let me know where you are in Mexico.”

  “All right. Yeah,” Mickie said.

  “While we’re in San Diego, I’ll get a storage locker at one of those rental places. As soon as things cool down with the feds, I’ll start moving money to Mexico. But it may take a couple of weeks. You’ve got cash on you? I mean your own cash from closing your bank account?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’ll take some of the money from Brink’s. Are you wearing that money belt I bought you?” Denise asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. You’ve got that and your boots to hide the money in. You’ve got your suitcase packed?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a duffel.”

  “And you’ve got your meds? Your Depakote?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t stress, Mickie. It’s bad for your health. Just chill.”

  Out of habit, Denise glanced at her empty wrist. She still hadn’t replaced her broken watch. “What time is it?”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “You should go. You don’t wanna be late.”

  Mickie hesitated.

  “Mickie, everything’s gonna be all right. You’ll see.”

  Mickie set the cup on the counter. “I hope so. I’m doing this for you, Denise.”

  “No, Mickie, for us. You’re doing this for us.”

  Denise gave her a quick kiss goodbye and then watched Mickie wheel the Harley out of the living room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. It was happening.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Denise was wired. Earlier that morning, she’d taken two dexies, two little white pills, and washed them down with a cup of sugared coffee. Now she was flying; they were flying, she and Mickie, zipping down I-5, cutting through the middle of California. Just a few hours ago, the heist had almost not happened.

  The morning had started for Mickie at 5:00 a.m. when she arrived at the barn on Brannan Street. Her partner for the day was a trainee, and that was lucky for Mickie, who was supposed to be showing him the ropes of the job, including pickups and deliveries. Pete McCleary wasn’t sure how things worked at Brink’s yet, a fact that Mickie planned to use to her advantage.

  At 5:15 a.m., Mickie and Pete left for SFO in a Brink’s armored vehicle. They arrived in time to meet an inbound American Airlines flight at the West Field Cargo Facility at 6:05 a.m. After unloading twenty pounds of packaged material and placing it in the truck, they proceeded to the United Airlines depot. At 6:25 a.m., UA air freighter Flight 2806 arrived. Mickie unloaded eight canvas money bags while Pete stood guard. Each bag was about two-and-a-half feet tall by two feet wide, with a heavy corded drawstring closure and two black carrying handles. The canvas bore the imprint BRINK’S in capital letters and was stained from use. They were heavy—weighing between forty and fifty pounds each—but Mickie was strong. When she had loaded the last bag into the back of the truck, she told Pete that airport security wanted to see him inside the building.

  “Me?” Pete said. “Why would airport security want to see me?”

  “I don’t know,” Mickie said. “But they do. Just go inside and find out what they want.”

  Pete headed toward the sliding glass doors of the concrete facade. Once she saw that he was safely inside, Mickie started the engine and put the truck into drive. But before she could pull away, Pete came running out.

  “What was his name?” Pete hollered.

  “What?” Mickie asked.

  “The guy who asked for me? Who am I supposed to see?”

  Mickie told him the first name that popped into her head. “Babcock. His name is Babcock.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Pete said, turning around and disappearing into the facility.

  Mickie took a deep breath. She had almost gotten caught. What if she had already driven away? Newbie Pete would have called it in immediately, and headquarters would have known something wasn’t right. Mickie waited a few extra minutes to be sure. No, Pete wasn’t coming out again anytime soon. He’d be too busy trying to track down somebody named Babcock.

  Mickie put the truck in gear and drove away from the loading docks, turning onto West Field Road. Within a few minutes, she was on U.S. 101 heading south. After taking the Broadway exit, she pulled onto Airport Boulevard, following the road by the bay until she came to the sprawling fifteen-story Hilton. Denise was waiting in the stolen Honda in the parking lot, just like they had planned. They switched out vehicles; Mickie loaded the bags into the trunk of the Accord; and they took off down the boulevard. Mickie changed out of her uniform into jeans and a blue chambray shirt while Denise drove. Once they were on 101, they both relaxed. They had made it; they were on their way.

  “What time is it?” Denise asked.

  Mickie checked her steel-and-leather watch.

  “Ten minutes after 7:00 a.m.”

  “O
kay.”

  “I thought you were going to buy a watch,” Mickie said.

  “I forgot. It’s not like I had nothing to do. I got everything else.”

  An hour later, Denise took the CA-52 exit that put them on the Pacheco Pass Highway. Heading east, they drove for another forty minutes before they caught sight of an I-5 South sign. I-5 was the ugly route but the quickest, miles and miles of nothing but farms and tractors and roadside stands with names like Casa de Fruta and Merry Cherries. This was California’s Central Valley, depressing as hell. The scenic way was Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, but that would have added another three hours to the trip, and Denise wanted to get Mickie out of the country ASAP.

  Thinking about all that money sitting in the trunk right now, Denise couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. Seven and a half million dollars, that’s what the shipment had been this morning. Of money, real money. Bags and bags of Jacksons, Grants, and Benjamins.

  Denise had been surprised by how heavy it was. Who would have thought that paper bills could be so heavy? But when you had thousands of them, well, they were heavy. She had tried to help Mickie unload the bags from the Brink’s truck in the Hilton parking lot and had stopped after one. It must have weighed forty or fifty pounds. She hadn’t figured on that. They weren’t a problem for Mickie, who was as strong as a man, but for her…

  “Hey, Mickie,” she said now. “When we get to San Diego, ya know when we find a storage locker down there, I’m gonna need you to get those bags out of the back.”

  “Sure, babe.”

  From the radio speaker, Brooks and Dunn were crooning, “I’m a lonely dreamer on a highway in the sky. My Maria…” Mickie was singing along, tapping her knees in time to the beat. She hadn’t taken anything; she was high on nerves.

  “I’m rich,” Denise said, as if she still didn’t quite believe it.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m a rich bitch.”

  “Yes, you are.”