The Redeemers

by Ace Atkins

  “Think on what?” Kyle said. “Christ Almighty! We tried the combo Mickey gave us and it ain’t worth a shit. And now his expert safecracker, his backup plan, doesn’t know what the hell to do.”

  “Did I say that?” Peewee said, getting up, slow and pained, off one knee, where he’d been studying the lock. “Did I say that? I said go get me a goddamn glass of water and let me get my mind right. You ain’t no more help than a dog licking his balls while you on a hunt.”

  Kyle dog-cussed Peewee a bit and left the closet, Chase not knowing what the hell they were talking about the closet being small. The closet was twice as big as the damn room where he’d grown up in back in Gordo. Shit, it was still nicer than where he lived now. A big top section, with hunting shirts and flannels and dress shirts, and a bottom section, with Carhartt pants and fancy boots made out of snake hide and crocodile. Uncle Peewee went back to his knee again, just like football players did to pray after the big game, studying that dial on that gun safe. Chase couldn’t wait for that old boy Kyle to watch his uncle crack that son of a bitch and try to talk with a big helping of dog shit in his mouth. That sure would be something.

  “You know you don’t have to wear that thing inside,” Peewee said. “Damn, son.”

  “What?”

  “The fucking turtle mask,” Peewee said. “I swear to you, I’m not so sure that we’re kin sometimes. I think you got too much of your daddy in you.”

  “I don’t know why you’re saying all that mess about my daddy,” Chase said. “You said yourself you didn’t know him that well. He might’ve been a good man.”

  “Lots of good men over in Kilby,” Peewee said. “And crooks dumber than shit, too.”

  Kyle walked back into the closet, holding a plastic cup from Sonic. Peewee was sweating, hand a little shaky as he reached for it and told Kyle thank you, he didn’t mean to cuss him none. “I just get a little edgy when I’m trying to think without some weed. Hey, boy? You go down and get me a little smoke down in the van? It’s over the visor.”

  Kyle stood in the doorway, mouth looking like it was about to hit the damn floor. “Wait one minute. Are you saying we all need to stick around in a house we just busted into while your boy goes down and fetches you a joint? Are you shitting me, man?”

  “You want me to think? Or not?”

  “What I want is for you to admit that you don’t know jack shit about safes and that you tricked Mickey into thinking that you’re Butch Cassidy. You thought you were just going to kick open that back door, use his code, and walk out with some cash? How’s that deal sounding to you now?”

  “Why don’t you just calm down,” Peewee said, tapping in some numbers. “Hell. I can’t even hear myself think. Both of y’all get out of here. I need to be alone with this baby. How we doing for time, Chase?”

  “Been in here twenty minutes,” Chase said.

  “Well,” Peewee said. “We counted on an hour. Them folks gonna be gone till tomorrow. If you hadn’t figured it out, this is Plan B we’re working on. Give me a second. Y’all just clear out and let the master do his thing.”

  “Don’t you have a pair of them things a doctor uses to hear people’s hearts?” Chase said.

  “You talking about a stethoscope?”

  “I guess.”

  “It don’t help if you don’t have no tumblers,” Peewee said. “Just get me a hammer and a chisel.”

  “Oh my God,” Kyle said from the other room. “A fucking hammer? Are you shitting me?”

  Peewee looked to be in pain on that one knee, glancing up from where he was working, nodding his head toward the other room. “Keep that bastard away from me, son,” he whispered. “This is professional work here. You understand? He’s messing with my mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chase said.

  Chase walked back out into the big room and sat down on the floor, where he could keep Kyle from coming in and out. They’d kept the lights off and he had to use his flashlight to read old copies of Field & Stream and Guns & Ammo. He found a section in the back of G&A about women with big titties shooting firearms to raise money for veterans. All the girls wore bikinis and got to shooting damn machine guns and bazookas and shit. He sure wished he could see them on video and get all the vibrating action of them pulling the trigger, recoil, and such.

  “Hey, man,” he said to Kyle. Kyle sulking, leaning against a wall, smoking a damn cigarette in the dark. “You got to see this shit.”

  “We been here almost an hour.”

  There was the tap-tap-tapping sound of the hammer and chisel in the rich man’s closet. A few times Chase heard Uncle Peewee say “Shit” and once say “Hot damn.” But the “Hot damn” was soon followed by an “Oh, shit” and he knew he wasn’t getting any closer to opening that son of a bitch. About fifteen minutes later, Chase had moved on to reading an article, “Best Days of the Rut,” when Peewee walked out, mopping his face with a handkerchief, thick eyeglasses fogged all to hell. “God damn,” he said. “I ain’t seen nothing like it. That son of a bitch is thicker than I thought. Locked up tight.”

  “It’s a safe,” said Kyle from the shadows, smoke all in the room now. “It’s what they do.”

  “I never met a safe acted this way,” Peewee said. “I need some more muscle. This one is a like a woman who just don’t want to put out.”

  “How much muscle?” Kyle said.

  “Shit, man,” Peewee said. “I’m about tapped out. But I don’t think a man can do it.”

  “Can you blow it?”

  “You mean, like, explosives?” Peewee said, using his sweaty handkerchief to clean his glasses. “I ain’t got none.”

  “Great.”

  “How about a jackhammer or some shit?” Chase said. “Them things could bust that door wide open.”

  “You know where to get one?” Kyle said.

  Chase shook his head. He closed the magazine, a picture of a big fat doe staring up with big doe eyes, and got up off the floor. He looked at the time, knowing that Mr. Kyle was right. They’d just farted away a dang hour and hadn’t so much as budged that door. He sniffed and moved the turtle mask back over his face. He figured they maybe should be heading on to Gordo right now. He was too young to end up like his daddy.

  “Fuck it,” Kyle said. “I got something will open it up.”

  “What is it?”

  “Ever heard of the Jaws of Life?” Kyle said, stepping up close to where he stood with Peewee. He blew smoke in both of their dang faces.

  “Like firefighters use on wrecked cars?” Peewee said, pig-snorting a bit. “Shit. How the hell we gonna find one of them?”

  “Because you’re looking at the chief of his volunteer fire department,” Kyle said, plugging another smoke into his mouth, lighting up. “You two Alabama shitbirds stay here and keep watch. I’ll be right back.”

  15.

  Look at it,” Mickey Walls said. “Ain’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s fucking cold, is what it is,” Tonya said. “Come on, let’s go back to the bar. You owe me a shot of Jäger.”

  “I owe you two shots of Jäger,” he said. “You beat me on that video game fair and square. Damn, you got a mean punch.”

  They stood together at the edge of the beach out back of the Flora-Bama Lounge, watching the waves hit the shore, frothy and cold, loud country music playing from the bandstand. Tonya had on her pink faux fur coat and Mickey wore his old Carhartt work coat over his Hawaiian shirt, refusing to admit they were in the dead of winter. He looked out at the Gulf of Mexico, moonlight turning the tips of waves all pretty and silver, and hugged his ex-wife tight to him. “How come you don’t call me Big Daddy no more?”

  “You want me to call you Big Daddy?”

  “Well,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess. Sure.”

  “OK, Big Daddy, let’s get our asses off the frozen beach and back to those
space heaters and some warm booze,” she said.

  “How about we make it double or nothing?”

  “Double what?”

  “Double the drinks I owe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn about those drinks,” she said. “I can buy my own, Mickey Walls. I didn’t come down here because I need free shit from you.”

  “What fun is in that?”

  She grabbed the front of his work coat, the pink fake fur tickling his nose as he brought his lips down to her neck, tasting a bit of that salt after they’d done tequila body shots. Tonya snuggling right on up to him, breath smelling like booze, eyes hazy, not saying a word as he got a good hand on her ass and said, “Let’s go swimming.”

  “You’ve lost your damn mind,” she said, looking this way and that, down the miles of beach from Alabama on one side and Florida on the other. Not a soul. The Flora-Bama was a big old two-story boardwalk of pressure-treated pine wrapped in plastic. Hundreds of people were packed inside the four bars and two stages. Florida Georgia Line supposed to come onstage at eleven and would be counting down the New Year.

  “It’d be our own little club,” he said. “Let’s get buck-ass nekkid and run on into the water, wash away all the bad shit that happened last year. It’ll be like a damn baptism.”

  “A Flora-Bama baptism?”

  “They do have a church service here on Sunday.”

  “You’re crazy as hell,” Tonya said, but looking up at him, grinning a little. Some devilment about her. “Do I have to take my bra and panties off, too?”

  “Everything or it don’t count,” Mickey said, taking off his work coat, a forgotten little wrench jingling in his pocket, cold wind like a damn knife ruffling his silk shirt as he worked on the buttons and kicked off his boots. He stripped down to his boxers, the cold so hard and mean that it just numbed him all over. His last thought before taking down the boxers was about his pecker. He knew that thing would be crawled up inside him like a scared turtle. But, fuck it. Fuck it all. It wasn’t easy to make things right.

  He took off his boxers. Tonya shook her head like she was talking to one bad boy and took off the pink coat and then the dress. It was too cold for some kind of debate and, a second later, they were nekkid as could be, hand in hand, shivering and laughing and waist-deep in the Gulf of Mexico on the last day of the year.

  “God damn you,” she said.

  Mickey grabbed her and pulled her cold skin in tight, pressing her big tan boobies against him, thinking this was damn well going to be the year. Everything was going to work out. All the bad shit would just float on away down to Cancún. She was screaming and yelling and laughing, and he dipped them both under the water, more screams, and then they broke free, running like hell back onto the beach and pulling on their clothes. Teeth chattering, her lips turning blue but smiling, “Four drinks,” she said, “Big Daddy.”

  “And then?” Mickey said, glad to be pulling his pants over a unit that had all but disappeared. Sand clinging to his bare feet.

  She slipped into the pink coat. Wet hair and big teeth. Dark brown skin. But something off about her, makeup running down her eyes.

  Something just didn’t seem right.

  “Come on,” she said. “Come on.”

  He knew the smile just slid from his face.

  Damn, he saw it. Those mean, lying eyes of her daddy. God damn Larry Cobb’s ugly ass. He wobbled a little bit and made his way up toward the boardwalk. Tonya hadn’t noticed he wasn’t laughing anymore and raced ahead of him, shoes in hand, toward the bar and the free drinks she’d won from her Big Daddy.

  Mickey picked up his boots and followed. Maybe another drink would help.

  • • •

  It’s getting to be midnight,” Chase said. “We better get the fuck out of here.”

  “Boy’s got it,” Peewee said. “He’s got it.”

  “Shit,” Chase said. “He can’t get a grip. Them things are meant to cut into fucking cars, not safes. Those pinchers can’t grab hold of a big ole safe like that. We need some kind of damn saw, something that can cut through that thick metal.”

  The generator Kyle had brought with him from the fire station was heavy as shit, noisy as hell, and Chase had to yell a bit as he was conversing with Uncle Peewee. Uncle Peewee had all but quit, sitting at the big fancy dining table of the folks they were robbing. He’d helped himself to their scotch and some Christmas cookies. He had green sprinkles stuck all around his mouth as if he’d just gone down on the Grinch himself.

  “Well, we’re gonna need some kind of miracle,” Chase said. “Y’all need to start thinking about running the ole two-minute drill. You remember last year’s LSU game when the Tide was down by a touchdown? Ole AJ switched things up in less than a gosh-dang minute. He damn marched their ass down the field in five plays. Five damn plays. How you like that?”

  “This ain’t football, son,” Peewee said, licking his fingers. “It’s robbing.”

  “I’m just saying we need a big play,” he said. “All we’re doing is farting around and fumbling. We need some momentum. Leadership. We got to see some daylight in that there safe. Ain’t nobody taking charge.”

  “You want a drink or something?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Hell you don’t.”

  “I drink beer,” Chase said. “But that ain’t like drinking alcohol or nothing. Beer never killed a man. Hey, hey. You hear that? Hold up.”

  Chase left Peewee in the dim-lit dining room with that fancy-ass table and chairs, pictures of some big-headed man with a gray beard with all his kids and shit, and walked on into the bedroom and that deluxe closet. He heard a popping noise, a squealing that sounded like a dying squirrel, and figured that maybe old Kyle sure as shit was getting close. You could feel all the pressure, nearly popping in the air, as that boy was down on both knees sticking those metal pinchers in the door. But the pinchers were still closed, needling into the frame, trying to run the machine in reverse, hoping to separate the pinchers and open those doors to glory.

  “Hell-fucking-yes,” Chase said.

  “Won’t budge.”

  “I heard it,” Chase said. “Come on, now.”

  “What you heard is this damn machine going full tilt,” he said. “If I could just get a little more grip, just edge a little more into that door. Hey, hey. You got a crowbar?”

  “Peewee got one.”

  “Get it.” Kyle’s face was red as hell. But even though he was breathing hard, a lit cigarette hung from his mouth in true dedication. It bobbed up and down in his lips while he cussed. “God damn. Son of a bitch.”

  Chase got the crowbar from the bag and walked it back into the closet. There was a floor-to-ceiling mirror back there and from a long ways it appeared that four folks were working on that safe. He handed the bar to Kyle, Kyle snatching it away, and Chase stood a little taller and sucked in his little gut. He had on a hooded canvas coat over a ROLL TIDE hoodie. The smoke and sweat in that little room sure was getting to him. Kyle worked and worked with that crowbar, but didn’t seem to get nothing, and tossed it on the floor.

  Chase checked his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. Damn.

  Kyle used his legs and feet to push those pinchers as far as they’d go into the safe’s frame and pushed the lever. His face reddened more, sweating, cigarette bobbing and then falling from his mouth, as he gave one final all-out groan, the generator and pump on a real high whine, until he fell to his ass and caught the cigarette just as it burned a hole into his jacket. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  “You tried,” Chase said. “Hell of an effort. I mean it. Hell of an effort.”

  “Get your uncle in here,” he said. “This ain’t working.”

  “You want to try some more with that crowbar?”

  “I said, go get that fat bastard and tell him to get in here now,” he said. “Shit. Shit. Wai
t. What the hell’s that?”

  Gunfire was popping off all around them. Crack-Crack-Crack. Pistols, and then an automatic weapon on full blast. Kyle scrambled to his feet and ran to the generator to turn off the device. “It stopped. Wait.”

  More shots. Chase ran from the closet to get Peewee. This whole thing was headed south fast. Good thing Kyle had driven the van on up the dirt road. If they could just get on out to the vehicle, maybe they’d still have a chance. Sounded like a damn army out there.

  Peewee was standing near a lamp and studying the bottle in his hand. He didn’t look as if he had a concern in the world.

  “Come on,” Chase said. “Didn’t you hear that shit? Come on. They’re shooting at us.”

  Peewee looked up at him from under those wild, crazy eyebrows and shook his head. “Damn, son,” he said. “It’s New Year’s Eve. People got an American right to fire off their weapons.”

  Chase turned back and saw Kyle wheel the big cutters and generator out of the bedroom. The man had heard what Peewee said and shook his head, knowing he’d been just as almighty stupid. “Think,” Chase said. “This is when the game breaks down. We make mental mistakes that’ll cost us a game. We need that safe. We got to get it with us and then find a way to bust in.”

  Kyle nodded. He gathered up the orange electric cord in his hand.

  Peewee moved on toward a back door that opened into the garage just as a light shone into the dark room, all of them hitting the carpet to dodge it. The flashlight circled over the far wall, and they heard footsteps on the walk outside and the halting sounds of the sleet. Whoever was walking around had on a radio, the radio making squawking sounds, as doorknobs rattled and someone knocked on the front door.

  And they just kept on knocking.

  Chase looked to his Uncle Peewee. Peewee grinned and put a long finger to his lips. This whole night just seemed funny as hell to the old man. That automatic weapon went off again. Six shots from the pistol.