Cash Braddock

by Ashley Bartlett

  Two minutes later, my phone rang.

  “He’s getting on the freeway. And it’s definitely him behind the wheel,” Henry said.

  “So I’m going in?”

  “Now or never.”

  “I’ll call when I’m done.” I hung up and tucked the phone in my pocket. I grabbed the envelope of photos. It was eight o’clock. Not dusk yet, which blew. But it was after everyone had gotten home from work. In a neighborhood like this, everyone was inside abusing their air conditioning. The people outside weren’t crass enough to sit out front; they were all out back by the pool. I didn’t see a single person as I crossed the street and marched up to Jerome’s house.

  I bypassed the front door. No chance it was unlocked so I didn’t bother. The gate in the fence had a very convenient string looped over. I pulled it and the latch opened. I slid through and made sure the gate closed behind me.

  The backyard was unremarkable. A cement patio, a couple of chairs. Next to the sliding glass door there was a single pot containing an impeccable gardenia. The flowers were a creamy white, the color of freshly churned butter.

  I stared up at the house. There was a second floor about half the size of the first. The roof of the first floor ran around two-thirds of the house. I could easily climb onto it, but doing so would make me visible to the entire neighborhood, including anyone in their backyard. If I did that I’d have to wait for it to get dark, and I didn’t want to sit in this sad, bare backyard any longer than necessary.

  I walked to the side of the house. The windows were about a foot out of my reach. I went back to the other side. There was only one window and it was right at my level. It was locked. The other windows at the back of the house were high up. On a whim, I tried the sliding glass door. It opened. Jerome was an idiot. Or I was. Who would be dumb enough to break into a drug dealer’s house?

  I did a quick survey of the house. It was three levels, but not three stories. The bottom floor had a six-foot split between two levels. Not uncommon for the eighties. The lowest level had a living room and a game room, complete with two full size arcade games. I tucked the first photo into the corner of the Ms. Pac-Man screen. The middle level had a kitchen, family room, and dining room turned sleazy bar. Seriously, Jerome had installed a full bar. This guy’s head was so far up his ass.

  I walked behind the polished bar and tried to think like Jerome. I reached under the bar and found a shotgun hanging just out of sight. Classic, I guess. The pretty mirror and booze bottles behind me didn’t offer much. I searched the cigar boxes stacked on one end of the bar and found cigars. The other end of the bar held a Victorian era cash register. I pushed a couple of buttons, but nothing happened. Not really surprising. It looked broken. And even Jerome wouldn’t be dumb enough to keep his money in a cash register. I lifted up and shifted the various tins and jars stacked by the register. Then I tried to push the register to one side. It moved. Easily. I lifted it and found that it was hollow.

  There was a wooden box underneath, not unlike the cigar boxes. Inside was the bag of drugs his boys had taken from Nate along with the ecstasy we had sold him. There was another bag of ecstasy and what looked like Oxy. A slim box underneath everything held a bajillion tabs of acid.

  I pocketed the drugs they had taken from Nate and poured the Oxy into one of his fancy ass Scotch tumblers. I propped a copy of the photo against the glass and arranged the rest of the drugs around it. Jerome had quite a selection of booze. There was an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on the top shelf of his display. I cracked the seal and poured a generous amount into the tumbler of Oxy. The pills swirled and settled nicely on the bottom of the glass.

  The kitchen was unremarkable. Three kinds of beer in the fridge and an array of condiments. Olives. A green block of cheese that wasn’t supposed to be green. On the outside of the fridge there was a reminder card for the dentist and a few photos. I added a new photo to the collection and moved on.

  Upstairs, I found Jerome’s bedroom, a guest room, and an office. I stuck a photo in the mirror in the master bathroom. Under the sink was a massive box of condoms. At least two of the three hundred condoms were still in the box. The box was almost expired. I rooted around in the drawers until I found a safety pin. I left the condoms on the counter with a photo safety pinned to the top. He would have to guess if I had used the pin on the condoms. Guessing games were fun. I was sure Jerome would thank me for all this fun.

  In the closet, I found the mother lode. Jerome’s shoes were on a rack, but there was a stack of shoeboxes on the floor next to them. The bottom shoebox was filled with neat stacks of cash. I did a quick and dirty count. Thirty grand. Because that was a good place to hide thirty thousand dollars. In a shoebox in your closet. It was super hidden. I pulled out the box, upended it on Jerome’s perfectly made bed. I took out the amount that his friends had stolen from Nate and wrote a receipt on the back of another photo. I turned that one face down so he would be sure to read it.

  The closet in the guest room held a large shelving unit. Guns were shelved according to size. Handguns on the top down to assault rifles and shotguns on the bottom. Boxes upon boxes of ammunition were stacked along the side of each shelf according to caliber. This shit was why people judged drug dealers. Well, that and the drug dealing. But who the fuck needed twenty guns just chillin’ in a closet? One would generally do the job. Any more than that was excessive. Personally, one was excessive, but whatever.

  I scooped up boxes of ammunition and carried them into Jerome’s room. It took me quite a few trips to carry it all. Methodically, I opened each box, poured out the bullets, and filled the pockets of all his carefully hung jeans, shirts, jackets. When I ran out of pockets, I started filling his shoes. It took longer than I would have liked, but imagining Jerome trying to find all the bullets and sort them by caliber made me happy. I wondered if he would take the time to replace them in their stark, sad boxes. I hoped so. Life was about the little joys. I tucked a photo in one of the filled pockets.

  The boxes, I brought back to the guest room and left littered on the floor. I tossed a photo down among the chaos.

  Jerome’s office was messy, lived in. His desk was a cheap, particleboard monstrosity. I was amazed that he had taken the time and money to install a full bar in his dining room, but couldn’t bother with a decent desk. A mass of cords was piled next to his laptop. Unimpressive stacks of paper covered the rest of the surface. Old cable offers, bills from the nursing home, part of his car lease agreement, takeout menus, pizza coupons.

  The detritus suggested that a lot of time was spent here. There were discarded sneakers on the floor and sweatshirts tossed onto the couch. Coffee rings were on every piece of paper on the desk. The carpet was worn between the door and desk, the desk and closet. Why would Jerome invest so much in the facade and completely ignore his private, comfortable space?

  I opened the closet expecting either an answer or another cache. Instead I found winter clothes, a couple of old photo albums, and extra linens. I dug into the linens and coats and found nothing. This appeared to be actual storage.

  I settled for placing one photo on the keyboard of his laptop. I closed the screen to hide it. The last photo, I laid on the floor in the entryway.

  I checked my phone for good measure. No updates from Henry.

  Still cruising?

  I waited for a response. I didn’t want to walk out and find Jerome leaning against my car with Henry hog-tied in the trunk.

  Yep. You finished?

  I exited through the front door and left it unlocked. My work here was done. The sun was finally dropping below the horizon. The already quiet neighborhood was zombie movie silent. My walk to the car was thankfully uneventful. I waited to write Henry back until my engine was started. Not that I was paranoid or anything.

  All clear. You can head home.

  Cool. Solid work today.

  He was right. We had done solid work. Maybe our work was a little different than normal people, but we still w
orked hard. Today deserved a drink. And a pretty lady. I decided to call Laurel when I got home. I had promised her a visit to the farm, after all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I spent most of my day anticipating. Laurel had said she was available Thursday for our farm tour. It was only Tuesday. It had been only a matter of hours since I left Jerome super fun presents. I knew that sometime during the night he had returned home. I wondered if he had found all the photos. I had a feeling that he found most of them, but the remainder would pop up in the next week or two. I wondered what his reaction had been. Part of me was quite pleased with my work. Part of me was very concerned about his reaction.

  It was a very conflicted anticipation. Waiting to see a girl. Hoping I didn’t see a boy.

  It didn’t help that it was hot and getting hotter. We were a day into a projected two-week heat wave. Nickels had chosen her spot on the cool hardwood and had informed me that she wasn’t moving, touching wasn’t allowed, and she didn’t want to play. The power company was already sending emails suggesting ways to stay cool and save energy. Most of the emails suggested that blackouts were imminent. I unplugged the TV and computer.

  My phone vibrated. It could have been anything. I checked the screen. Andy.

  Remember when I was little and we made slushies?

  Yeah? I did a mental review of my kitchen. There was ice, which was an important ingredient of slushies, but I didn’t have much else.

  I’ve got watermelon. You got lime?

  I went into the kitchen and sorted through the fruit bowl on the table. Fruit bowl was probably generous. I had an orange and a handful of limes. That would do.

  I’ve got some.

  She wrote back immediately. I walked to the store cuz watermelon. But this watermelon is heavy and I don’t want to walk eight more blocks.

  I laughed. Andy was a strange kid. The store was ten blocks away. It was 104 degrees. I was amazed she had made it as far as she had.

  Cross streets?

  19th and P.

  On my way.

  I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed out. It took me five minutes to get to her. She was sitting on the curb with a massive watermelon in her lap, playing on her cell phone. I pulled into the bike lane and rolled down my window.

  “Hey, little girl. Want some candy?”

  Andy looked up and started laughing. “Gosh, I don’t know. Will you give me a ride? This city is scary and strange.”

  “Christ, why does your mother let you out alone?”

  Andy stood and hefted her watermelon. “I think she has some misguided ideas about me developing independence.”

  “Not too bright, your mother. I’ll have to talk with her about putting a tracker on you.”

  Andy climbed into the front seat. She tried to put on her seat belt and failed due to the watermelon. I took it from her and set it in the backseat.

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. So were you planning on sharing your watermelon slushie with me or are you using me for my car?” I pulled back into traffic.

  “I didn’t really think that far ahead. I mean, I forgot to check if we have limes before I left the house, so that’s a problem. I mostly just knew I needed a watermelon.”

  “You’re going places, tiger. I can feel it.”

  “I know.”

  When we got back home, Andy followed me in and set her watermelon on the table. I pulled the blender from under the counter and plugged it in. We got to work cutting up the melon and juicing limes. I let Andy run the blender while I got the massive margarita glasses off the top shelf of the cabinet. I’d never been a margarita person. Really, I’d never been a mixed drink person. But the glasses dated back to when Andy was younger and drinking out of fun glasses made everything fun.

  She did a less than expert job of pouring the drinks. Pink slush dotted the counter and dripped down her knuckles. She licked her hand and gave me a sticky glass. I ignored the mess and took my drink. We adjourned to the living room. Andy put on her playlist of the week and flopped into the comfy chair. I took the couch. We bitched about the heat and relived Andy’s childhood.

  “So what’s up with the chick?” Andy asked.

  “Living vicariously?”

  “I’m young and single. Don’t hate on me.” She gave me an arrogant look.

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s going well, I think.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not big on talking about herself.”

  “Because you’re such a big talker.”

  “Noted. But she talks less than me, so that’s saying something. She was over here a couple days ago and I just found out that she works in a lawyer’s office. I mean, we’ve been seeing each other a couple of weeks and I just found out what she does?”

  “Which is super important because you’re really into money and material things?” Andy was far too observant.

  “I get you. I’m just saying, that’s normal conversation. She doesn’t talk about herself. It’s weird. I feel like she’s holding something back.”

  “I think you’re paranoid. And haven’t had an adult relationship since I was in middle school. Except maybe with my mother, which is awkward.”

  It was sad that she was right. How sad was it that Andy had never seen me in a romantic relationship? Great example. “I think you’re nosy and cheeky and should stop analyzing me.”

  Andy shrugged and hit me with an epic amount of not giving a fuck. “I think these drinks are fantastic.”

  “It’s true. We are very talented.”

  “We should be chefs.”

  “Chefs who make drinks?” I asked.

  “It’s a thing.”

  I grinned at her. I loved this kid. Not that I was going to tell her that. “So what about you, heartbreaker?”

  “No hearts broken this week. But next week is full of possibilities.”

  “And life plans?”

  “Totally. This week, I’m telling adults that I want to be a doctor, but really I want to be a ninja. Or Harrison Ford.”

  “Han Solo Harrison Ford or Indiana Jones Harrison Ford?”

  “Both.” Andy sipped her drink. “I’m young and naïve.”

  “I like your ideals, kid. You’re going places.”

  When Robin got home from work an hour later, she found us asleep in the living room. The power had gone out and come back on at least once. The receiver wasn’t playing music anymore, just flashing the wrong time.

  “So glad you two are accomplishing something with your summer.”

  I sat up and blinked at her. “It’s too hot to accomplish things.”

  Andy continued sleeping.

  “I can see that.” Robin grinned and shook her head.

  “But I convinced her to go to the Crocker with me.” I moved my feet so Robin could sit down.

  “That’s good. Because she really doesn’t get enough culture.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you complaining that your child is too exposed to culture?”

  She sighed. “I suppose taking her to an art museum is a good thing.” We grinned at each other. We were hilarious. “Anyway, I better wake up the beast. We have dinner with my mom and sister tonight.”

  I grimaced. “Have fun with that.”

  “Oh, it will be super fun. Linda hasn’t seen Andy’s new haircut. I’m sure it will be demeaning for everyone.”

  “You are a patient woman.”

  Robin stood. “Not really. If she oversteps, we will leave. I’m done pretending that her hateful rhetoric is anything except hateful.” She shook Andy’s shoulder. “Hey, bud. Wake up.”

  “It’s too hot to wake up.” Andy covered her eyes.

  “We have dinner with Grandma tonight.”

  Andy dropped her hand and scooted so she was almost sitting. “Cool.”

  “And Aunt Linda.”

  Andy groaned, dropped back down, and covered her eyes. “Nope.”

  “How about this. If she says anything abou
t your haircut, or clothing, or Jesus,” Robin ticked off points on her fingers, “then we can leave.”

  “What about you being an independent lady?” Andy pried up another of Robin’s fingers. “Or how my father is a deadbeat?” She pried up another.

  “Isn’t your mom independent and your dad kind of a deadbeat?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but Aunt Linda says it like independence is bad. And she somehow makes it Mom’s fault that Dad is a deadbeat.”

  “Now, Anderson. That’s not fair.” Robin was using her condescending mom voice. “Last time, she suggested that it was your fault that your dad is a deadbeat.”

  Andy and I started laughing. “See? It’s your fault,” I said.

  “You’re right. Somehow my gayness at two years old made my dad a flake.”

  “Solid logic,” I said.

  “Let’s get going, troublemaker.”

  Andy groaned and pushed herself out of her chair. Robin led the way to the door. Andy made a show of not wanting to follow her.

  I gathered our discarded margarita glasses and went to clean up the kitchen. When that was done, I debated resetting the clocks, but I knew the chances were high that the power would go again, so I didn’t bother. I checked my phone and found a series of messages from Nate.

  I think I figured out the gay boy housewife issue.

  And I got you a present. We’re going out tonight.

  I’ll be there at three a.m.

  Well, that was interesting. Three a.m.? I decided to call Nate.

  “Hey,” Nate answered the phone.

  “Explain.”

  “It’s actually really obvious. Gay boy isn’t cutting back. He is buying from someone else.”

  I sat at the table. Nate sounded like he was settling in for a long explanation. “Yeah, but how? Who? No one knows my customer base. You don’t even know where half my customers live.”

  “Jerome, of course. His guys followed me. Chances are decent they followed you. It’s not rocket surgery.”

  “Rocket surgery?”

  “Brain science?” Nate giggled. He was so pleased with himself.

  “So we’re going to follow Jerome? At three a.m.?”