The Holdup

by Rob Aspinall

  Don't wanna leave any mud on the walkway.

  But wet footprints are okay. They'll dry up fast. I roll up my jeans. Sopping, dirty, horrible. I walk around the front of the SUV across the motel parking bays and onto the walkway.

  The ground is still submerged a centimetre with water. It's cold on the soles and toes.

  I enter the room where I left the four dead men, stepping over the body of the guy I used as a human shield. I reattach the shower curtain in the bathroom and carry out the battering ram. It slides nicely under the bed in my room. I lock the door behind me and turn my attention to the bodies. I haul the human shield up into a fireman's carry. I open the boot door of the Chevy and dump him in. I roll his body all the way in. I put the backseats down and drag the remaining three bodies out one at a time, too tired to carry 'em all. A couple of 'em are too heavy, anyway. If you've ever carried a dead body, you'll know they always seem to weigh more than a live one.

  I haul the final one in on top of the pile.

  It's a struggle. I end up flopping over on top of the pile, exhausted. Feeling the cold flesh of a guy's hand on my face, it gives me the creeps. Stirs me into action.

  I close the boot and return to the room, close the door and flick on the light. I find a spare pillow on a shelf in the wardrobe. There's also a thick, brown blanket folded up for the colder months. I toss the blanket on the bed and strip the white cotton case off the pillow. I go about picking up the discarded weapons. I detach clips and unscrew silencer barrels. I stuff 'em in the pillow case along with the pistols.

  Next, I look around for shell casings. I start in the bathroom and work my way across the floor. I shuffle backwards on my hands and knees, scouring every inch of worn coffee-coloured carpet.

  I check under the bed, too.

  When I'm satisfied I've got 'em all, I check the walls, running my hands over the nobbled cream wallpaper. I find a few slugs embedded in the plasterboard and use the end of my room key to dig 'em out.

  There's one in the ceiling, too.

  I wipe my feet dry with toilet paper. I flush the paper and walk back into the room. I stand on the bed, reach up and prise the bullet out.

  I toss it in the pillow case with the rest of the evidence.

  The blood on the wall—that's a problem. But I've gotta get rid of the bodies first. If they don't have a body, then at least they can't match the blood to a face and name.

  I carry the pillow case and blanket outside, closing the room door as far as it'll go without a latch.

  I open the boot on the SUV, dump the pillowcase on top of the bodies and open out the blanket. I check around me for prying eyes out on the street.

  But the town is empty. Everyone tucked up in bed. Even the cows aren't awake yet, with the sky still black and the stars shining behind dissipating clouds. I hear the drip, drip, drip of rainwater. The crickets out in the fields. I breathe in a lungful of fresh, after-storm air and throw the blanket over the bodies. I tuck it in around the sides and close the boot.

  My boots, I dunk in the shallow rainwater, washing the mud and sand off. I slip 'em back on and lace 'em up. They're wet, unpleasant, but beggars and choosers . . . I close the driver door and start the engine. I'm gentle on the accelerator, turning the Tahoe around and cruising easy out of town.

  Once I'm a few hundred metres out, I turn on the headlights and apply some gradual speed. I take it slow on the highway. The last thing you wanna do is crash your car with a boot full of bodies. So I skirt the standing water on the side of the road and keep an eye out for a good spot.

  I find a side road off the highway. It runs for a couple of miles and dead ends into a vast stretch of desert and scrub.

  Nothing out here but hollowed-out skulls and animal bones.

  Perfect.

  I stop the Chevy and get out. I open the boot and throw off the blanket. One by one, I drag the bodies out over the boot lip.

  They flop loose in the dirt. A couple with their eyes still open. Skin blue behind dark facial hair. I dump the pillow case and blanket on the ground and pick up the shovel. I walk a few feet away from the SUV and thrust the pointed end of the shovel in the sand.

  The ground is wet and compact. Makes it easier to dig out a hole. It still takes me a while, mind you, with four of 'em to get rid of. I could kill for a drink right now and the sky is getting lighter. It's a beautiful sight. Shame I can't enjoy it.

  I keep the grave nice and shallow--four feet deep and easy for me to clamber out.

  I drag the bodies across the sand and roll them one at a time into the hole.

  I leave the biggest one until last. I tear the Velcro straps loose on his Kevlar vest. I pull the vest off him and put it to one side. I check his hand size.

  Close enough.

  I peel the gloves off his dead fingers and throw them on top of the vest. Last, I search for a backup pistol. He has a Beretta and with a clip inside.

  I tuck the gun in the back of my jeans and kick the dead guy into the hole. All four bodies lie in a tangled mess at the base of the grave. I throw in the pillowcase full of guns and the blanket.

  I return to the SUV with the vest and gloves. I put them down and notice a white plastic container the shape of a petrol can. It's four-litres, half full of something and has a pair of black, heavy duty rubber gloves resting on top, along with an air filter mask. I pull the gloves on and unscrew the cap. I take a sniff.

  Smells like ammonia.

  Only it isn't. It's lye. And it was meant for me.

  I carry the container over to the hole and check the direction of the breeze. I stand with my back to the wind so none of the lye blows on me. Trust me, you don't want this stuff anywhere near your skin. It'll eat you right down to the bone given half the chance.

  I snap on the mask and pour the lye evenly over the bodies until the container is empty. I toss the container in the hole with the gloves and mask and waste no time in shovelling the wet sand on top of the bodies.

  Filling a hole is a lot quicker than digging one. And a lot less work. The trick is to flatten it down. Make it look like any other part of the landscape. When I'm happy with how it looks, I slide the wet sand off the end of the shovel with the sole of my boot.

  I throw the shovel in the boot of the SUV, slam the doors closed and pull a U-turn back onto the road. As I speed towards the highway, I check the night sky. There's a pale orange band on the horizon. It melts upwards into green, into blue, into a fast-disappearing black.

  This is gonna be close.

  I drive fast into town, rainwater already shallower than before, evaporating at speed. I kill the headlights again and park up quiet—around the rear of the motel this time.

  I'm worried there'll be a morning delivery. An early jogger, dog walker or worker knocking around the main streets of town. And I don't want 'em seeing the Chevy out front.

  I lock the SUV, taking the handheld vacuum cleaner with me. I check my watch. Cleaning up a mess always takes longer than you plan for. I hurry back to the room where the action took place. I step inside and stare at the blood stains on the wall to the right of the bed.

  I look around me. See a framed picture on the opposite wall. One of those generic pastel-colour ones with trees and a lake. I leave the vacuum cleaner on the bed and take the picture down, prising out the hook between finger and thumb. I carry both over to the opposite wall. I push the hook into the wall in the centre of the dry bloodstain. I hang the picture up and straighten it out.

  Taking a few steps back, I turn on the light.

  There, no more bloodstain. Unless you move the picture.

  I open a few drawers, knock over a chair and find the safe inside the wardrobe. I open out the safe door and leave it. I want it to look like a failed break-in.

  Finally, I get down on hands and knees in the bathroom and run the vacuum cleaner over the shower cubicle and sink. I run it over the bed sheets and the carpet, too, backing up towards the door and hoovering up any mud and sand leftover.


  It's not ideal, but the best I can do. I back out of the room and turn off the vacuum cleaner. I flick off the light and pull the door as closed as it’ll go.

  Returning to my room, I kick off my work boots and leave 'em outside. I quick-change into some clean clothes and a pair of my usual boots.

  I take a liner from the bin and stuff my dirty clothes and work boots inside. I also clean up a little, washing blood and mud off my face, neck and hands.

  I dash out of the door, lock it and return to the Chevy, bin liner full of clothes in hand. I toss it in the passenger seat.

  The night's almost over, the sun peeping its dirty-orange head out over the mountain peaks. As if it's watching me, judging me.

  No need for headlights anymore—I cruise a mile out of town, to a place I know from my morning walks to the Collins ranch. There's a steep road up a ridge. Over the other side of that ridge, an almost sheer drop into a desolate valley. Nothing but rocks and bushes. I stop the Tahoe close to the edge, get out and remove the shovel from the boot. I stand it up in the ground and take out my trusty lighter. I flip the end open and thumb a flame. I set fire to the clothes inside the bin liner and shove the bag inside the glove box. There's plenty of plastics in the dash, which means the temperatures will get very hot, very fast. I release the parking brake, the gear in neutral and the engine left running. I shut the front passenger door and walk round the back of the Chevy.

  I duck low and put my shoulder against the boot door. It's a heavy bastard, but I drive forward and it moves an inch. I put all my weight behind it and it rolls a foot and another foot, until it's rolling on its own.

  I give the Chevy one last shove and it rolls off over the edge of the ridge. I stand and watch it crash into the valley below, a tumbling, flaming wreck, the fire already taking hold.

  I slap the palms of my hands. Job done.

  I pick up the shovel and carry it over a shoulder, the sun coming up and the moon fading into a pale blue sky.

  It's a twenty minute walk to the motel.

  When I make it back, I rest the shovel inside the wardrobe of my room. I pick up the screwdriver Kurt gave me off the bedside table. Room number five doesn't need to change, so I work from six and four outwards. The screwdriver is a good one. A new tool with a fat handle made of yellow rubber. I unscrew the metal number four on my motel room door first. Then I remove the number six from the broken door. I switch the numbers, returning the number six to my own room and the number four to the room the kill squad broke into. I repeat the process along the row, switching the numbers back to their original doors. Seven changes place with three. Eight with two. And nine with one.

  I walk along the row, checking I've not miscounted.

  Maths isn't my strong point.

  But I got it right. Gold star for Charlie. It now reads one to nine.

  Exhausted, relieved, I return to my room. I lock the door behind me, rest the screwdriver on the bedside table and wrestle my way out of my clothes. I open the knee-high fridge I paid extra for and take out a two-litre bottle of ice cold water. I down half a full litre, take a piss and get into bed.

  As I remove my watch, I check the time. Coming up on five in the morning. What a bloody night.

  21

  Eyes sticky. Head heavy. Body aching all over. I listen to the noise on the street outside the motel room.

  Traffic passing left and right.

  People walking and talking in the near distance.

  A door swinging shut and the hiss and rumble of a heavy-rolling truck.

  The room is hot. Nasty. The smell of bad breath and BO.

  Smells like death.

  Think I forgot to turn on the air con.

  I feel around on the bedside table for the remote. I point and shoot at the unit in the top right of the room. The flaps open and it starts to pump out a stream of cold air.

  I snatch my watch off the bedside table and check the time.

  Damn, it's afternoon already. I groan and shift my weight up in bed. My mouth feels like I drank a bag of sand.

  I haul my weight out of bed and walk sleepy-eyed to the fridge. I finish the rest of the big water bottle I've got chilling and open a window. The air blows in and ripples the drapes.

  I move into the bathroom and dink the shaving light on over the mirror. I trace a finger around the purple circle on my midriff. It stings to the touch. I ignore the pain and feel my ribcage.

  No breaks or fractures.

  A miracle, considering.

  Probably the extra cushioning—all the pancakes and donuts I've been scoffing since I landed in the States. But Christ, if there's one guy who looks rougher than those four dead men in lye, it's the guy who put 'em in the ground.

  I rub a hand over my black and grey stubble, fast turning into a beard. My lightning-strike hair that's starting to get longer than I'd like. And the dark slits I squint through tell a tale of a rough night.

  I hold my hands up under the light--dirt and dried blood under the fingernails.

  That's where I start, scrubbing until clean.

  Then I reach for a disposable motel razor and foam, bypassing my electric shaver. I scrape a week of living off my face until I'm about as fresh-faced as a guy like me gets. I step into the shower and clean off the rest of the night.

  As the hot water cascades off my scalp and shoulders, faces flash into my mind like gunshot blasts. I see the bodies, their hair, their clothes, their eyeballs and everything but their Kevlar dissolving.

  When the lye is done, the bugs and the worms will chew through the rest, picking 'em to the bone.

  Shit, killing feels worse than it used to. Maybe I'm getting soft. Or maybe I'm out of practice.

  I step out of the shower refreshed. I comb my hair to one side, clean my teeth and spray on some deodorant. Suncream comes next. You need plenty of it out here, even now my skin is tanned from the Arizona heat.

  Feeling human again, I pull on jeans and a white t-shirt. I grab my room key and open the door. It's bright outside. An uninterrupted sky. The roads and pavements pale and bone dry.

  I slip on my Wayfarers as I step out of the motel room. The cleaner is finishing up at the end of the row. Her name is Dora. She's a short little Mexican lady in a pink uniform—with a smile that gives the sun a run for its money.

  "Ah! There you are, Mr Ronsen," she says. "I was about to finish my shift You want your room cleaning?"

  "That would be amazing, Dora."

  I pull out my wallet and tip her five dollars. I turn my attention to room number four. Taped off by police. CSI seems to have come and gone. Dora parks her cleaning trolley outside my room. She opens the door and her head rocks back like she took a jab to the face. She waves the smell away from her nose and says something uncomplimentary in Spanish.

  I flee the scene, passing by Kurt's office.

  He puts down a newspaper he's reading. "Hey, we had a break in last night," he shouts.

  I stop outside the office. "Too bad. They take anything?"

  "Nothing to take," Kurt says. "Damn fools."

  "Lots of 'em around," I say.

  "You hear anything last night?" he asks.

  "Nothing but the storm," I say.

  Kurt stares at me, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, it was a big one . . . You got my screwdriver?"

  "I'll give it you back later," I say, moving on my way.

  "I want that screwdriver!" he shouts after me.

  I cross the street and head straight for Al's. Not for a beer, but for something to eat. My stomach feels like my throat's been cut. And Al's place does a mean burger, served up straight from the Collins' ranch. One hundred percent grass-fed beef. Just one of the things that'll change if Collins doesn't pay that loan,

  I settle in a quiet corner of the bar. A friendly blonde waitress takes my order. She comes back with a pitcher of iced water, a black coffee and a burger the size of a hubcap. It's stacked high with a double quarter-pounder, a slab of melted cheese, lettuce, tomato, bacon and onion rings.


  The one thing about this country, they know how to feed a man. The only thing they're missing is a good cup of tea.

  As I tuck into the burger, I start to think through my situation. There's a hell of a lot to chew on. And not just on the plate.

  The fact that Western & Main is a mob bank. That changes everything. I finish my black coffee and swirl a fry in a pool of ketchup. I need to come up with a new plan. But in all my years in fixing, I don't think I've ever had a ball of bollocks as tangled as this one.

  "How many animals had to die to make that?"

  "Oh Christ," I say. "It's the veggie police."

  I look up over my burger. Cassie sits in a white vest and a pair of denim shorts that are far too short if you ask me. Not that anyone does ask me. And not that she'd listen anyway.

  "Cassie, my bundle of joy, it's been a while."

  "Since your last hallucination? I know," she says.

  I bite into the burger. They flame-grill the meat here. It makes all the difference.

  "So," Cassie says. "How many?"

  "Dunno," I say. "A cow. A pig. That's all."

  "That's all?" Cassie folds her arms and shakes her head.

  "But it tastes so bloody good, Cass . . . You hungry? Take a fry."

  Yeah, I know. Offering a figment of your imagination a french fry is ridiculous. But it's a father's instinct to feed his only child.

  "Go on, have a fry," I say. "Unless growing potatoes is against your code, too."

  "They're on the same plate as the meat," she says.

  "Yeah, in a separate pot," I say.

  It's true. They're stacked in a small tin pot lined with greaseproof paper.

  She leans over the table and grabs one. Bites into it. Grabs a couple more. I notice the pot of fries looks just as full as before.

  "So what are you gonna do now?" Cassie asks.

  "Buggered if I know."

  "You know you're a dead man, right? Whether you pay them or not."

  "Thanks for reminding me," I say, removing an onion ring from the burger and dipping it in ketchup.

  "You're the one who robbed the truck, Dad. And you killed . . . How many guys is it now?"