by Dan Lawton
When it’s obvious the coast is clear, I slow down and pull onto a dirt road that’s off the main strip. The van rattles and bounces around as I drive over grassy dunes and a set of old train tracks. I stop the van on a flat spot and slide into the back. The bag of cash rests on the floor up front, but a second identical duffel bag holds the tools in the back. I unzip it and start sorting through the supplies. It’s filled with the items that Frank had picked up back at Snake’s house after I emptied the bag for the cash. Everything is there it seems, except for one thing. He better just have it in his pocket and forgot to toss it in the bag.
“Where is it?” I say, directing it to Frank.
“Where’s what, boss?” Frank says.
I lift the bag and pour the contents to the floor, hoping I missed it among the goods. “Where’s my badge?”
“Uh-”
“Where’s my fucking badge?”
“Uh, I dunno, boss. It should be in the bag. I grabbed everything like you told me to and put it in the bag.”
I sort through the supplies that are on the floor of the van now, and it's definitely not there. The one thing he left behind is the most important item, the one thing that can trace the heist back to me, Frank forgot. I’m livid and more upset than I’ve been at any other point in my life, and I don’t know what to do. I wish I could control myself, but the rage is just too much for me to handle, so I clench my fingers into a fist and start pounding on Frank’s face.
His lips move as he covers his head in defense, although I don’t hear a word that he says. I assume that he’s pleading for me to stop, as that is what his eyes are telling me. I’m completely unaware of Alicia and George around me, and I’m in the zone and my target is weak and defenseless to my fury. I don’t stop until he’s on the floor of the van and unconscious, then I finally break free from my trance.
I sit on the bench alongside George, and he slowly creeps down toward the back doors. Alicia is opposite him, terrified. My heart is pounding from the rush, but the adrenaline is slowing beginning to dissipate. I look to Frank as he rests motionless on the floor of the van. His face is battered and bloody, and I think his nose may be broken. His mouth is cracked open, but it looks like all of his teeth are still in place. The pain suddenly pulsates from my trembling hands, and my breath is slowing.
What have I done?
George creeps away from me and sits on the bench next to Alicia instead. I insist that Frank’s still alive and breathing, and I tell them so. I repeat it to myself silently, hoping that it’ll be true. I may have gone too far, but I just couldn’t control myself. I wonder if that’s how Frank felt some years ago back at the restaurant. Maybe we aren’t so different after all.
Not needing prompting, George slides from his new seat on the bench and approaches Frank. I look away while he feels for a pulse. It takes him a moment to find it, but he confirms that Frank is still alive. I try not to show it, but I’m relieved. I’ve seen many men die for a lot less, so we’re not out of the woods by any means. I won’t know how bad the damage really is until he returns to consciousness, if he ever does.
The van is silent for a few minutes while everyone tries to gather themselves. More details will come to me I hope, but I wonder if either one of them tried to stop me when I was beating into Frank. I can’t remember a thing, and that scares me. I don’t know when I became to be like this, but I don’t like it. Maybe I should get myself checked out before we leave Cancun.
The Zved’s are onto us now, that much is obvious, and they know where we’re staying. We cannot and will not go back to the old police station, and we’ll never make it all the way to Mexico before they find us. It’s practically a straight shot, so the Zved’s will have guys waiting for us at every major checkpoint. We won’t even make it out of Kansas. Everything has changed now, and we’re purely in survival mode. We need to go somewhere to buy us some time until I figure out our next move. The two men that were shooting at us saw George, and they likely snapped some pictures of him during the commotion. It will take them a day or two at most to find out who he is and where he lives. Until then, that’s where we can go to lay low for a while.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
GEORGE
Billy and I spend the afternoon mostly by ourselves after returning to my house from the store. Joe had hooked us up with a couple of pay-as-you-go flip phones and we were in and out of the store within fifteen minutes. Billy had paid for the phones and minutes in cash and we left before getting a receipt. It’s 7:15 P.M. now, so there’s about one hour left until the Zved’s should be arriving.
Frank’s body is face down in the bathtub and the door is closed. The smell of the decomposing body is seeping under the cracked door and is starting to overtake the entire upstairs. Billy has been sleeping on the couch for a few hours now, and the smell has gotten a lot worse since then. I wonder if this is part of the master plan.
I’m pacing downstairs, been doing so for a while, trying to compose myself. As the time winds down, it’s all starting to become more real. These guys are coming tonight, soon, and it’s going to change everything. One way or another, it all ends tonight. Billy talks about it with confidence and I think I believe him when he says it’s going to go well. I can’t help but think though, what if it doesn’t? What if they ambush me like they did Frank and give me no chance? Would anyone even show up to my funeral? Would anyone even know I was dead? Most of all, would anyone even care?
I glance at the clock that hangs on the wall at the bottom of the stairs: 7:45 P.M. It’s getting closer, but time is still dragging. I really just want to get this over with before I psych myself out. I’m trying to stay focused and concentrate on what I need to do, but I need a distraction.
From upstairs, it sounds like Billy’s awake. I can hear some footsteps trailing down the hallway heading toward my room, then back down toward the kitchen. The door above the stairs creaks open and the heavy feet make their way down the steps. Billy comes into view as he approaches the bottom stair.
“There you are,” Billy says. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I needed somewhere quiet to think.”
Billy nods in acknowledgement. He motions to the tile on the floor with the now mostly dry grout. “That looks pretty good, huh?”
I turn and look behind me, then nod in agreement.
He continues, “Do you want to go over it one more time? The plan I mean.”
I shrug. “If you want to. I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my mind, but we can if it would make you feel better.”
“Me?” Billy snickers. “I was asking for you, not for me. I have the easy part.”
“You’re telling me.” I want to add a snide remark at the end, but I decide against it.
We stand in silence for a few moments before Billy reaches into his pocket. He walks down the rest of the stairs and hands me one of the phones that we had picked up earlier.
“Here,” he says, “you’ll be needing this.”
I take the phone from his hand and place it in my hip pocket.
“It’s on vibrate. I’ve already programmed the number for my phone as speed dial one. You’ll be hearing from me at nine o’clock sharp if I don’t hear from you first.” Billy turns and starts to head back up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m heading up the hill. I’ll wait there.” He waits for me to respond, but I don’t. “Stay calm and stick to the plan. Everything will be fine.”
I take a deep breath and shake my head. Billy nods back before making his way up the stairs. It’s not long before I hear the front door open and close. Now I wait.
Nearly an hour later, I’m upstairs and rotating between sitting on the couch and pacing back and forth between the living room and kitchen. The clock on the microwave reads 8:27 P.M. Anytime now. A small anxiety knot is beginning to form in my chest, but I’m staying relatively calm. If I was the praying type, I’d say a prayer right about now. I take som
e deep breaths and approach the window again.
I got this.
CHAPTER FIFTY
BILLY
I pull the van into George’s driveway and I don’t tell him how I know where he lives. He doesn’t ask. When we arrive, George helps me carry Frank into the house. He’s dead weight and it’s an exhaustive task, but we make it to the couch in the living room without dropping him. Without any conversation, George eats something then disappears down the hallway and closes the door behind him. Alicia follows shortly thereafter. I relieve myself in the bathroom before taking a tour of the well-maintained home while I start to gather my thoughts. I drift away in the chair across from Frank in the living room.
Refreshed upon waking, I know exactly what I need to do. The money has to be hidden, and fast. The Zved’s will be on our trail before we know it, and we may have to leave for a while. They’ll tear this house apart, much like we did at Snake’s, so it needs to be kept somewhere they’ll never suspect.
I carefully inspect each room and look for a good place to hide the money. Light snores are heard from behind the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway, so I decide to skip that room and let them be. I open each of the cabinets in the kitchen, consider making a hole in the drywall inside the closet door in the hall, and even strongly contemplate draining the water from the toilet and storing the cash in the back of the porcelain. I think this will work, but there is not nearly enough space for all of it. I could split the money up, leave some here and there, but it’s best if it’s all together. Chances are high that we’ll have only a small window of time to gather the money before we have to leave, so that increases the chances that some may be forgotten. That’s not an option.
I make my way down the stairs and into the partially finished basement. I’m admittedly bewildered and out of ideas, and the frustration is beginning to mount. The drop ceiling is an appealing option, but that’s much too obvious. These are intelligent guys, so I need to think outside of the box if I ever want to see the money again.
As I pace back and forth on the large tiles that line the basement floor, something catches my attention. In the corner of the room rests a half-empty bag of grout powder. One of the tiles on the floor sinks slightly as I pass over it with my foot, which is a sign of a clear deficiency from a poor installation job. I pull my feet together on this tile and bounce on it. It’s subtle, but there is an elasticized flex as my knees spring, and I think this may be it.
I scurry up the stairs and retrieve a plastic tool box that I had noticed when looking in the closet before. In the kitchen, I gather a wooden spoon and fill an ugly multi-colored bowl with water and head back down the stairs. The loose tile is almost directly in the center of the floor, which is neither good nor bad, although it does pose the risk of being found easier. I place the toolbox and other supplies from the kitchen on the floor next to me and start sorting through the tools that are available. I need to remove the tile without breaking it, that’s the first step. The tile job is amateur, and I can tell the deficiencies in alignment and levelness upon a closer look. George did this himself I’m willing to bet, and his lack of precision may be just what I need.
It’s a long and tedious process, but I slowly carve away the dried grout with a painters chisel and hammer. My lower back is aching, so I’m forced to take a break for a while, despite my strong opposition. My back cracks as I stand, and I grunt forcefully. My legs have begun to fall asleep due to the restricted circulation, so I walk the perimeter of the room until the feeling is restored. My wrists are sore and my knees are swelling, but I force myself to fight through it and plop back down over the tile and get back to work.
Upstairs, I hear the creak of the bedroom door open and close, and I follow the footsteps down the hall and basement stairs. Moments later, I can sense someone standing behind me, but I don’t look up from my work.
“What are you doing?” a male voice asks, George’s.
He’s standing next to me now, so I drop the chisel and hammer, get to my feet, and explain to him what’s going on. He stays mostly quiet as I tell him that the money needs a temporary hiding place, that the Zved’s are coming after us and always were, and that this will never really end until we’re dead and they have their money back. While I tell him all this, I eventually get back to work and crack the last of the grout and separate the tile from the subfloor. Fortunately, the tile stays in one piece, so it can be used again. It’s a good thing, because I haven’t seen any spares lying around.
I dig a shallow hole and toss the bag inside. My heart aches as I force myself to let go of the hard-earned cash, but I’ll be back for it. The tile rests snugly on top of the newly dug hole, scattered remnants of dried grout falling inside, and it lays down flat. I drag the bag of grout near my workstation and pour a handful of powder into the water-filled bowl. I mix it up quickly with the wooden spoon and start spreading it in the thin troughs around the four edges of the tile.
As I work diligently, the discussion takes on a more negative turn for George. He presses me about my plan and about Alicia and the baby, and I can’t help myself. I had thought she was going to tell him everything when they were in the bedroom upstairs, but I can tell by his reaction that she has not. I take the opportunity to gladly share the truth.
There is no baby and there never was. It was all a lie to get him to play along, and it worked. I laugh hysterically in his face at his oblivion at the entire situation, and naturally, he doesn’t believe me. Why would he? Everything has been a lie up to this point, so he has no reason to believe me now. He rushes up the stairs to talk to Alicia. All I can hope is that she finally comes clean to him so we can move on.
I finish applying new grout to the tile and listen for the confrontation. To my dissatisfaction, the conversation is soft and I can’t hear a word they’re saying. She’s letting him down easy I assume, and I laugh to myself at her sensitivity. The grout won’t be completely dry for a couple of days, which is good, as it will enable us quick access for removing the money since the tile will be easier to remove. I slide the bag of grout powder back to its original resting spot against the wall near the door. I pour the remaining contents of the bowl just outside the door and leave the crusted bowl and spoon on the bottom step. I climb up the stairs and head right for the bedroom.
“You can stop the act now,” I say as I pop my head inside, “I told him everything.” I laugh out loud and head down the hallway to the bathroom to take a leak.
Moments later, I catch a glimpse of George hustling down the hallway from the reflection in the mirror, and I wonder if Alicia did finally admit it. A loud crash comes from the kitchen, and I wait for the stream to die down before going to investigate. Alicia hears it too, and her and I meet at the doorway and head toward the open concept kitchen and living area together.
I may have underestimated the fuse that burns within George. I suddenly realize that I may have crossed the line, and maybe Alicia was right about him. He’s a sensitive guy with a good heart, and I completely disregarded the testosterone within him. He stands over Frank, who still lays unconscious on the couch, holding a wide-handled butcher’s knife. I try to stay calm, but everything I say just seems to piss him off further. His eyes are full of fury, and his face is beet red. The blade is shaking in his hand and I’m afraid the pendulum is going to whip forward at any time. He is truly terrifying at this moment, and I really did not see this coming. I don’t want to do it, but I see no other way out of this. I slowly reach my hand behind my back for my gun. I feel around, but grab only a handful of an empty holster. I scan the room and see the gun sitting on the table beside George. I must have left it there when I fell asleep for a bit. Fuck.
I’m at a loss for what do to. My words aren’t helping, and Alicia is in a state of shock, so she’s useless. I consider charging him, but I don’t see how I get out of that unharmed. He may kill me and Frank if I push it, so I don’t. I drop my hands to my side, hopeless, and brace myself for whatever happens.
I close my eyes and whisper to myself, and when I open them, George has his head down and has dropped the knife.
Without thinking, I run toward him and grab the handle of the knife from underneath his bowed head. He doesn’t offer any resistance, and he doesn’t even look up at me. He’s overwhelmed and he cries tears of exhaustion. I grab the gun from the table next to him and back away. Alicia and I watch him closely, wondering what he’s going to do next.
A few tense moments pass, and nothing happens. George eventually gets up from his knees and walks past Alicia and I, and heads down into the basement.
“We should leave for a while,” I say.
“And go where?” Alicia responds.
“Anywhere, it doesn’t matter. He needs some space.”
“What about Frank?”
I stare at his still unconscious body on the couch and realize that does pose a major challenge. We can’t leave him here, as he may be dead when we get back, but I’m not sure Alicia is strong enough to help me carry him.
“You’re going to have to help me carry him I guess,” I say.
Without hesitation, she walks over to the couch and grabs his feet. I walk past her and open the front door, then wrap my arms around Frank’s torso and carry most of the weight from his upper body.
Alicia has to stop to rest three different times once outside, but we reach the van and are able to lean him against the back. I climb inside, lock my arms under his armpits, and haul him up and in. I nearly collapse once he’s finally inside, and I don’t know how many more times I can do this. Alicia sits on the bumper of the van, sweating and breathing heavily, and she hollers to me over her shoulder through choppy breaths.
“Okay, so what now?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
GEORGE