The Holdup

by Rob Aspinall

  So when it was the right tool, for the right time, for the right environment, Mr Box was happy to work with a needle.

  With a perfected technique, one could puncture a target's skin without their knowledge. And in the most public of places. Mr Box had picked his moment. As Curtis Blake had reached up to stow his luggage away, his shirt had rode up away from his skin, Mr Box had delivered the injection in the blink of an eye, the needle was in and out and back in Mr Box's pocket faster than anyone could have seen.

  Misdirection was key. Distract the target with a physical or mental task. It worked wonders.

  As Blake breathed his last breath, Mr Box took his phone from an inside jacket pocket. He took a silent photograph of Blake with the flash disabled, Blake's head resting against the window.

  Mr Box pocketed the phone and pulled Blake's wallet from his jeans. He rose from his seat and reached overhead. He pulled down Blake's case and carried it along the aisle to the nearest door. He stepped off the train while the guard's back was turned. The man blew his whistle and the train doors closed.

  As the Amtrak to Tijuana pulled away from the platform, Mr Box set the case down, extended the handle and wheeled it behind him. He walked along the platform and the main concourse, weaving through crowds of commuters. He brought the case to a stop when he reached the bank of lockers. He took out Blake's wallet and found two credit cards, black and silver. He inserted the silver one first into the payment machine. A message onscreen declined the card: unrecognised. Mr Box returned the card to its slot inside the wallet and tried the black credit card instead.

  This time, the machine recognised the card. There was a charge—the PIN pre-entered by Blake. Mr Box pushed the pay button and turned to see locker twenty-two spring open. He removed the card from the machine and returned it to the wallet. He walked to the locker and opened the door as wide as it would go. He hauled out the case inside and set it down on the floor. He laid the other case out flat and opened it up. As he suspected, nothing but clothes and personal belongings. He zipped up the case, pushed in the handle and lifted the case into the locker. He closed the locker, zipped open the other case an inch and checked inside. Mr Box caught a glimpse of a hundred dollar bill. One of many. He zipped the suitcase shut and flipped it up on its wheels. He extended the handle and strolled out of the entrance to the train station.

  On his way out, Mr Box took a twenty-dollar bill from Blake's wallet. He handed it to a homeless man hunched on the floor outside the station. He slipped the wallet in a nearby public bin and wheeled the case towards the taxi rank.

  A man to his left stood against a red Honda Accord in the drop-off zone. A short, tubby man in a pale-green polo shirt tucked into black pants. He wore his grey hair spiked and wraparound sunglasses over his eyes. He opened the boot on the Honda.

  Mr Box let go of the handle on the case as he walked. The man in the polo shirt caught hold of the handle, pushed it all the way down and lifted the case into the boot of his car. Mr Box glanced over a shoulder and saw the man climb in the car. The Honda pulled away from the kerb. Mr Box continued on to a cab rank full of yellow Prius taxis. He opened the door on the cab parked at the front of the line.

  The driver was a large Indian man in a white open-necked shirt. "Where to?" he asked.

  "LAX," Mr Box said, texting the image of a dead Blake to an unnamed number.

  "Where are you flying to?" the driver asked.

  "Phoenix," Mr Box said, tucking his phone away and pulling on his seatbelt. "Phoenix, Arizona."

  29

  Collins drives us back towards town. On our way, we pass by the ranch. The road outside the entrance to his home is swamped either side by a convoy of vehicles. Big, heavy duty machines. Trucks. Pickups and bright-yellow earth movers.

  Work crews, too, lighting barbecues and throwing American footballs by the side of the road.

  It only leaves a narrow gap for other traffic to get through.

  Collins slows the pickup. We roll along the road doing twenty. "What the crap—" he says, staring wide-eyed as we pass by the convoy. "Those sons of bitches."

  "They're just messing with you," I say. "Trying to make you snap. Accept the inevitable and be on your way."

  "Why the hell would they do that?"

  "I guess it costs a lot to hire the contractors and set up this kind of operation," I say. "They won't wanna waste any time. The sooner you go, the sooner they can start the money ball rolling."

  "Well I ain't movin' one second earlier than I need to," Collins says.

  We pull past a pair of company supervisors in office wear and hard hats at the front of the line. They tip their hats in mock respect.

  "Just ignore 'em," I say. "It's not over yet."

  We continue on our way. Collins pulls the truck over outside the motel. I open my door.

  "You thought of a plan yet?" Collins asks.

  I pause, a hand on the door. "I'm working on it."

  "What's gonna happen to you? Now the mob know you—" Collins catches himself as a man passes by walking a dog. "Now that you're implicated."

  "They'll come for me," I say.

  "More guys?" Collins says. "Cause if you need a hand. I'm pretty good with that rifle."

  "I appreciate it, but they'll be sending someone else. A contractor. Someone skilled and expensive."

  Collins looks at me confused.

  "It's called escalation," I say. "First they hire local boys who need to pay off a debt. Then they send in their own team. When that fails, they hire the job out. They usually try and avoid the third option 'cause it costs 'em."

  "How do you know all this?" Collins says. "How do you know how they think?"

  "Cause it's how I think," I say, sliding out of the passenger seat. I shut the door and lean in through the open window. "Give me some quiet time. I'll come up with something."

  "If you need a hideout, there are plenty of places. Not just the ranch."

  "It's a small town. I'm just as well out in the open. But thanks, Bill." I slap the roof and wave Collins goodbye. He heads off along main street.

  As I return to my room, I see the police tape is gone from number four.

  I open my own door slow, checking the room and bathroom for hidden killers. I lock the door, open the fridge and chug down a pint of cold water. I turn up the air con, kick off my boots and lie back on my bed.

  I listen to the hum of the air conditioning unit. I smell the scent of Darla's perfume on my pillow. I stare at the ceiling and think hard on the problem. Let the whole tangled web unfurl itself in my mind. Examine each individual strand. Then I set my watch and take an afternoon nap.

  My alarm beeps twenty minutes later. I wake up, slide off the bed and put on my boots. I leave the motel room and walk off the main street to the church. The day has cooled, a welcome wind blowing in. Willow trees planted around the church sway and rustle.

  The Church of the Servant sits in the shade of the trees. It’s cool inside. Empty, too. The pews are ancient, the smell musty and the floorboards creak all the way up to the alter.

  Father Shaw stands behind a lectern, reading through some papers and scribbling a few notes. He looks up from his work.

  "You busy, Father?" I ask.

  He puts down the paper and pen. "Just writing my sermon for Sunday. Nothing urgent. How can I help, Charlie?"

  "I wanted to—Ah shit." I hesitate. I guess I'll have to come clean with the guy first. "Father, I'm ready to confess."

  "Of course," Shaw says, stepping down from his preaching box.

  "It's confidential though, right?" I say. "Between me, you--"

  "And God . . . Yes Charlie," Shaw says. "What is it, my son?"

  "My son? What are you, twelve?"

  "Terminology," Father Shaw says.

  "Well I'll spit it out quick, Father . . . I organised the robbery on the armoured truck. I blew the hole in the road that's been causing all those diversions out on the highway."

  "Go on," Shaw says, nodding.
<
br />   "Um, I guess I killed two of the other crew and wounded the other guy. I killed another four guys last night at the motel and beat up another man in the desert."

  Father Shaw shifts on his feet, uncomfortable, eyeballs squirming in their sockets. He takes a hard swallow.

  "I set fire to the first two, buried the other four. And I took half the money from the raid," I say.

  "Um, anything else?" Father Shaw says.

  "Yeah, I lied to the sheriff—and oh, gave Wallace a black eye and a fractured nose or jaw, I don't remember. Then there were those three losers who had me tied up at the scrap dealers. I sorted them out too."

  "You, um, you killed them?" Shaw says.

  "Nah, I went easy on 'em. I just busted a couple up and shot another one in the leg."

  Father Shaw stares wide-eyed at me. Clears his throat. "Is, is that it?"

  "Yeah," I say, before realising there's something else. I slap my forehead. "Oh, there was one other thing. I've been lying to Bill Collins, saying I've been shooting coyotes when I haven't. I've been missing on purpose. Just scaring 'em, you know?"

  "Well I think God can give you a pass on that one. The other, um, altercations . . ."

  "It's okay, Father. I didn't come here looking for salvation. I came here looking for your help."

  "Oh, what with?" he asks.

  "I want you to call an emergency meeting, here in the church. Can you do that?"

  Father Shaw thinks to himself. "I don't see why not. When were you thinking?"

  "Right now."

  "I can try," Shaw said. "Everyone, or—?"

  "No, um, say, Collins and his family. The head of the anti-fracking committee. Maybe Darla, Al and his wife, too, if they're available."

  I stand there a moment. Father Shaw returns to his lectern up on stage.

  "What happens now?" I say. "You ring a bell or something?"

  “I usually use WhatsApp," Shaw says, holding up his phone.

  30

  Chris Gallagher sat out on his folding chair by the side of the road, a burger in hand, cooked on the grill by one of the contractors. It was charred to an inch of its life and slapped in a cheap white bun with a dollop of ketchup. Hardly gourmet, but a man had to eat. And besides, it had already been a long wait out there by the side of the highway.

  Gallagher was in his fifties. Balding, out of shape and past caring. He wore a pastel-pink shirt with large, dark rings around the armpits. He wore his silver tie slung low and his sleeves rolled up over ham-like forearms.

  Gallagher checked his watch again, bored out of his mind. He wasn't one for throwing a football and he'd worked his way through his entire newspaper. Now all he could do was sit, wait and eat.

  As he opened his mouth for another bite, he heard a car roll slow up the road. He closed his mouth and dropped the burger to a paper plate on his lap. It was a squad car. The Sheriff's Department.

  The car pulled past him and stopped at the head of the convoy.

  "Ah shit," Gallagher said to himself, rising from his chair, his whole body weary. He rested the plate on the chair and crossed the highway on stiff legs, pulling up his black office pants as he went.

  A small woman climbed out of the cruiser. She slammed her door shut and looked up and down the parked convoy. As Gallagher got close, he made out the badge on her shirt: Sheriff Dooley.

  Gallagher pushed his tie up to his collar.

  Dooley looked at him from behind a pair of reflective aviators too big for her face. "You in charge here?" she asked.

  "Yes ma'am."

  "What the hell is all this?" she said, motioning to the convoy.

  "A work crew, Sheriff."

  "I can see it's a damn work crew," Dooley said. "What's it doing cluttering up my highway?"

  "We parked out of the way the best we could. It's not illegal to park by the side of a public highway, is it?" Gallagher said, looking both ways. "I don't see any signs."

  "Your vehicles are taking up half the road, Mr . . ."

  "Gallagher . . . Chris Gallagher . . . Other vehicles can get through, can't they? It's a pretty wide highway. And pretty quiet too. More coyotes round here than there are cars."

  "You're causing an obstruction. An overtaking hazard at least. All it takes is two cars coming either direction at the same time and we've got a head-on collision.”

  "It's just temporary, Sheriff."

  "You bet it's temporary. Pack up and scram. Come on, now."

  "But—"

  "Come back when you've got permission on that land. Not a minute sooner."

  Gallagher sighed. "Okay, but the boss isn't gonna like it."

  "The boss can kiss my sweet ass," Dooley said, opening the door to her squad car.

  Gallagher returned to his spot on the other side of the highway. He picked up a loud hailer, resting face down on the ground next to the chair. He turned it on. Got feedback. Cursed under his breath. He brought the loud hailer to his mouth and walked towards the crews. "Okay boys, pack it all up, we're moving out."

  The crews paused. Looked at each other. Threw their arms in the air and shook their heads.

  "Sheriff's orders," Gallagher said, keen to shift any blame for the decision away from him. He turned off the loud hailer and returned to his chair. Found the burger attacked by flies. As the crews packed up the barbecues and footballs, Gallagher tossed the burger and paper plate. He left the newspaper and almost empty water bottle behind. He folded the chair and tucked it under one arm. He shuffled across the road, carrying the loud hailer in one hand, pulling up his pants with the other.

  As he got to his silver company Buick, Gallagher put down the chair and rested the loud hailer on the roof. He took his phone from a trouser pocket and leaned against the passenger door, only to spring off it—the car hot enough to fry eggs on.

  The call was to Welch. Gallagher dreaded making it. But if he didn't let him know now, he'd get far worse later.

  "What is it?" Welch said.

  "Ah, it's Chris Gallagher, Mr Welch. Bad news I'm afraid."

  "Get to the point, Chris."

  "The sheriff. She's ordered us to pack up and move."

  "She can't do that."

  "Sorry, Mr Welch, she just did. I guess we could get the lawyers down here—"

  "No," Welch said. "Do as she says. But roll it straight onto the Collins' land."

  "But isn't that trespassing, Mr Welch?"

  "You arguing with me?" Welch said.

  "No, of course not."

  "We've got a couple of hours at most before end of business," Welch said. "By the time they put in the call and the sheriff turns around, Collins'll have run out of time to pay that loan."

  "But it won't go through tonight," Gallagher said. "As I understand it."

  "I'm not having the entire crew turn back now. You know how much this operation costs?"

  "Well yes, I am Project Manager," Gallagher said.

  "So why are we still having this conversation?" Welch said.

  "Okay Mr Welch," Gallagher said. "I'll tell the boys."

  "Good," Welch said. "And call me if there are any more developments."

  "Yes, Mr Welch," Gallagher said.

  Welch hung up on the other end of the call. Gallagher picked up the loud hailer. He paused as the sheriff got back in her cruiser. She pulled a three-point turn in the road and drove off along the highway. He waited for her to clear the convoy and spoke into the loud hailer. "Listen boys, we're moving a few hundred yards. Everyone follow me . . . And the guys driving the semis, leave space for a left turn into the ranch entrance up there."

  The crews seemed to get the message. Gallagher threw his chair and the loud hailer in the backseat of the Buick and climbed behind the wheel. He led the convoy in through the entrance to the Collins ranch. He parked up a quarter of a mile up the road. The convoy broke up from a single file line to a gathering of vehicles either side of the dirt road to the farmhouse in the distance. Hell, Gallagher, thought, with any luck, Collins wouldn't e
ven look out of his window and notice.

  Yet as the last of the trucks and earth movers parked up, Gallagher noticed a blue Ford pickup on its way from the farmhouse.

  "Shit," Gallagher said to himself. He grabbed his white hard hat off the passenger seat and climbed out of the Buick. He pushed the hat on his head, buttoned up his shirt collar and adjusted his tie.

  He wanted to look as official as possible. Like he meant business. He walked to the front of his car and waved to the pickup. The truck pulled up close. A man got out, looking a lot like a farmer. Gallagher assumed it had to be Collins.

  He was still thinking of what to say when Collins greeted him with a smile and the offer of a handshake. "Hi, I'm the owner here. How you boys doing?"

  Gallagher shook his hand. Collins had a grip that could crush walnuts, but he seemed genuinely pleased to see them.

  "You all from Mainline Oil?"

  "Yeah, we were just--"

  "It's okay," Collins said. "You don't need to explain. Time's almost up, right?"

  "I'm afraid so, Mr Collins."

  "Don't sweat it," Collins said. "No hard feelings."

  "Oh, well great," Gallagher said, thumbing towards the assembled crew. "Do you mind if we park here for the time being? It's better than us blocking the highway."

  "Sure," Collins said. "Make yourselves at home. You need anything, come and knock on the house."

  "Oh, I think we've got everything we need," Gallagher said. "But thank you. We appreciate it."

  Collins smiled and shook Gallagher's hand again. "Take it easy now," he said.

  "Back to packing?" Gallagher said.

  "Back to packing," Collins said, walking towards his pickup.

  "Well likewise, if you need a hand with anything heavy," Gallagher said. "We've got some strong boys out here in the crew."

  Collins nodded and jumped back in his truck. As he turned the truck around and headed back to the farmhouse, Gallagher scratched his head and laughed. He couldn't get over the man's reaction. Here he was, losing his ranch, an invading army parked on his land and the guy was happy as a dog with its nose in a bowl. Whatever the guy was smoking, Gallagher wanted some. He breathed a sigh of relief, the end of the wait—and start of the project in sight. He took out his phone and dialled Welch's number.