by Nace Phlaux
> Be strong, son. How else you gonna be my sugar daddy?
What you know about programming? I got all these managers in my face talking about codes and queries and servers and such, and I don’t know what a one of them is saying. Then I got this call from the temp agency telling me I could earn an extra boost to my pay if I ran queries and spreadsheets for them too. I don’t even know where to learn this ish, but if it pays then wth, right?
> > Boy... I got a dime to my name and a bag of Doritos I found in the
> > lunch room to sustain me between now and Friday. You can lick the
> > cheese dust from my fingers, but otherwise, you on your own.
>
> I’mma bring leftovers from work to your place, and you’re not gonna
> complain about it. Call it doing me and the boys a favor. Any leftover meat
I got paid today, so how about I take you out? My sister’s been saying that Haunted House movie with the Wayans is all right. You, me, movie, dinner. You gotta cover breakfast tho.
Thanks,
Manny Quinn
Assoc. Mgr – Physician Validation
t: +1 (215) 680-3747
41 University Dr.
Newtown, PA 18940
www.episync.biz
Please consider the environment before printing this email.
Eddie 5
When I swung by the shop afterwards and saw your wife, it took all my willpower not to jump the counter and pop her head like a zit. Whenever I see the girl, I try to keep somewhere in the back of my mind the early days of your relationship—when you were courting her, I guess you could call it. You remember back then? Dad had just died, and I was sleeping here every night. I didn’t know it at the time, but those were the last days of living at VoP.
The bits and pieces I recall are mostly of us smoking and drinking and getting through our issues. And by that I mean, of course, walking Dad’s treasured possessions up to the turnpike and watching as tractor trailers plowed through and over them. My favorite was the stereo since I hated that goddamned relic. Not so much for the machine itself but because he tuned it to a rock station in 1974 and hadn’t touched the dial since. After all that time, the station still plays the same ten Led Zeppelin songs over and over.
I know this because you wound up replacing it with your own and turned it to the same station. As time passed, you got into the groove of the garage being yours. A lot of pictures and signs around the place stayed the same, but the placement of the toolboxes or where replacement bulbs were kept and so on gradually shifted to your liking. I’d work at the steel during the day and come back to find a little something here or there had changed from being Dad’s ancient dust-covered widget to the new and improved but exactly the same widget. ‘Cept now there was a receipt with your name on it.
Then I come here one night expecting more carousing as usual, and here you are getting your finest out of the closet like you’re going to another funeral. “I met a girl,” you tell me. “I was walking out of Oxford Valley by the old Woolworth’s, and I heard this crying and sniffling going on.” Her dad had died not too long before, and she saw something or other that made her think of him. Next thing you know, she’s breaking down in her front seat, and you’re asking her if she’s all right. And then you’re asking if she’d like to go out to dinner.
When I walked into the shop after the Mill Street incident, though, the girl was sweet as a peach like we were best friends. She even did that “Hey, you” thing girls always do, making you question for the rest of the day whether they’re playing coy or they honestly forgot your name. It didn’t dawn on me until later that that’s what paying your bills does to a person. I’m not even sure what she does for a living. Used to be a receptionist for a doctor, right? She still doing that or is she just working the shop’s front desk? Either way, she let me know you were in the garage, so I let myself into the back.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but while I was spinning the taller toolbox around and tacking up the map, I came across one of Dad’s Saint Christopher medals from when Ma tried to get him into the church. It was worth a shot to try to market it, I guess. Even that CarSense dealership sticks bibles in their glove compartments. But the metal’s been within arm’s reach ever since.
Richter called it my stim, mostly to be an ass. He caught me with it in my hand, using my thumb to rub over the letters “Saint Christopher Protect Us” over and over. According to him, autistic kids have a tell when they’re stressed, and doctors call it their stim—like stimulation, I guess. It distracts me from wanting a smoke or a drink or anything that, you know, might be considered fun.
That night—after we picked our target and the tools we’d need—I’ve got the news on as background music and something to blankly stare out while I’m drinking. And what’s the big story? An ATM theft in Bucks County. But it’s not us from the previous Tuesday. No, it’s a new one that happened earlier in the day. And this time, it’s in broad daylight, and the news’ve got plenty of videos and cellphone pics of the whole thing. The Mazzaro boys being inspirational. Who’da thunk, right?
And I’ll be damned if the car in the blurry photos doesn’t look familiar. They didn’t get a clear shot of the driver, but as soon as I saw that Town Car, I knew who to bet on. And riding shotgun was clear as day—Ort. A bandana covered most of his face, but I’ve been drinking and working with that asshole long enough to recognize him.
The news said they drove through the front of Pantry, that 7-11 knockoff across from McCafferty’s Kia dealership, and forced the clerk to help steal the ATM in the back. From the looks of the video, the clerk made a break for it, but Ort chased him down and beat him with the first thing he could get his hands on—a quart of oil. The clerk was in critical condition in whatever Delaware Valley Hospital’s calling themselves these days, but he’s probably all right by now.
If the cops grabbed Cragle, he’d go down without saying a word—might’ve even appreciated the hideout from his exes. But he couldn’t’ve picked a worse partner. Ort wouldn’t know how to keep his trap shut and he’d take everyone down with him to get a plea bargain. My vodka-soaked brain decided I’d have to be the one to save them from themselves by cleaning up Ort’s inevitable mess. I knew I was sober enough to drive ‘cause I was sober enough to realize the irony of it all.
I didn’t know any way to find Cragle, but I’d been to Ort’s place—over in Blueridge by Truman High School—enough times to find it. I parked my truck on the next street over and walked right through the neighborhood and into his backyard like I owned the place. He’s got this half-assed house that’s always under construction. He’ll get sloshed and ham out a renovation project for one room or another and give up on it after a few days.
The weird thing about the place is the lawn. The house is nothing but unpainted plywood and drywall, but the front yard’s immaculate with this real intricate layout of stone, different grasses, and shrubs. Couldn’t finish a wall to save his life, but give the man a beer and sod, and he’ll work up something real nice. The backyard’s a complete shithole, though, which I hoped meant nobody’d look at it as I went back and tried the backdoor. Sure enough, he left it unlocked.
Max, his black lab, being the ever-faithful guard dog, ran up with his tail wagging and nudged my hand with his snout. I went to the kitchen and replaced the half-finished bowl of beer Ort had left with water from the sink. Looking around the place, it was just a matter of finding a space that wasn’t covered in beer bottles. That spot turned out to be the fireplace in the living room.
I recognized the makeshift cover across the hearth as the door from one of the old cabinets All-Lite had before they did a complete makeover a few years back. Unlike the rest of the place, the exposed bricks had a distinctive lack of crap piled on it, and when I pulled the door away, I expected to have to crawl inside with a flashlight to examine the chimney. Ort made it even easier by leaving a plastic grocery store bag filled with money, his banda
na, and a pair of gloves right there in the center of the pit.
After hunting for a marker, paper, and tape, I left an unsigned note hanging in the fireplace warning Ort not to repeat his mistakes. But as I headed to the backdoor with the goods, the dog whined and nudge my hands again, and right then I got myself a dog. Max walked next to me to my truck and stayed sprawled out on my backseat as I ran into Acme for dog food and supplies. Once we were back in my place, he found himself a nice pile of clothes in the bedroom to sleep on, and that’s been his spot ever since.
* * *
The night of the bank heist, Hayleigh seemed especially on edge. So much so that I wondered whether you’d told her what we had planned for the evening. I was surprised she was even home when I got there, and then she just kept buzzing around the house saying “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute. You can get to whatever you men do in a minute without me bothering you.”
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked her if everything was all right. “A rando woman called and said the book club was scratched tonight, but K-Kira wouldn’t do that. So I’m running over to her place to make sure she’s okay.” She was practically shaking as she held up a tube of lipstick to her lips, and as I watched the scene, she glanced over and grimaced.
But now do you see why I was acting like I was that night? You looked at me like I was crazy when I told you to stop using your turn signals, but I still swear the car ahead of us was following us by watching them. And after all the crap that bitch and her cronies had done already, I was getting a little paranoid about everyone around us.
To be honest with you, Bri, I was even getting paranoid about you. I mean, c’mon. As we planned the heist and as we got the van and our gear ready, not once did you say anything about all the missing gear or the leftover scraps of the ATM. The whole time we’re driving to the Wells Fargo and ripping the big ATM out like a tree stump, I just kept giving you these little glances, watching for any sign you would bring up what I figured was the elephant in the room.
And then I thought, hell, it’s gotta come up when we’re back in the lumber yard. But you stayed silent as we hacked and torched through to the cash, not even saying a word when I grabbed all the cash and stuck it in my bag without splitting any. I guess now you see why I wanted to get everything cleaned up right away. Even without the stolen evidence hanging over our heads, we shouldn’t have kept one of the big machines from a well-known bank sitting around gathering dust.
You know I’m no hippie shouting about saving our kind Mother Earth, but I don’t usually go out of my way to trash the place up either. We both come from the days when pitching bags of McDonalds trash out your car window was normal, but even me, I’m recycling my beer bottles as we’re chatting here. But your wife? She’s the uppity go-green motherfucker. So that ATM festering at the bottom of a Tullytown lake? Well, I like to think of that as probably the subtlest “Kiss my ass” to her I can muster.
* * *
The morning show on Fox wound up talking about us the next day, making cracks about the lower class and Obama and so on. The government didn’t screw over my bank account, and they weren’t driving customers away from your shop. What caused your place to lose business was beyond me, but it was slowly dawning on me what may’ve happened with my money. If the mousy girl was queen of the temps and temps had access to my complex’s billing…
Well, it all seems so obvious now, but it’d be embarrassing if I told you how long I took to connect it all. The question was how intentional was it? Was it directed specifically at me or did I happen to get caught in some strange network? I pondered that as I ate breakfast and stared through the TV set at Violetwood Café. The sound of someone sitting on the stool next to me finally woke me up. The girl. The scents of bacon and burning coffee had masked her cloud of smoke.
“We good now, princess?” I asked her. I don’t think I ever looked her in the face during that conversation, only her reflection in the mirror behind the café’s counter. She was rocking the mousy look again. Probably swung by to stalk me before her shift at the agency. As the waitress came out from the kitchen, the girl asked if she could trust the coffee. “Not in this life or the next.”
“Just orange juice,” she said as the waitress got close enough. She silently watched the Fox morning crew make their final judgment on our previous night’s shenanigans before turning their interests to another obnoxious topic, not saying anything until she received her drink and we were basically alone. “There’s still the matter of delivery, Mr. Mazzaro.” She slid over a piece of paper with the word “Sheraton” and a room number.
“Sheraton’s security ain’t half bad. You have the key card to get me in?”
“You’re a resourceful man,” she said between sips of her drink. “I have faith you’ll make it work. Along with this.” She turned to her opposite side and, judging from the sound, rustled through a bag, pulling out and sliding over to me a bright pink tote with Hello Kitty painted on the side. “Use this for the delivery. It really brings out your eyes.”
“And then?”
“And then I thought we could talk about you working with us. I’m in need of a project manager for a warehouse on Wheeler Way, and you’d be perfect for the position.” Digging her hand into her faux pea coat, she pulled out a cigarette and a lighter and stuck the cig behind an ear. The lighter she used to start a rhythmless drumbeat on the counter.
Thinking of Getsinger and the nightmare he replaced at All-Lite, I replied, “Project manager’s a bit beneath me.”
“Watch it now, Eddie. My husband was a project manager,” she says and taps the counter hard.
“Aren’t you a little young to be married?”
“Aren’t you a little old not to be?” she goes and tilts her head, giving me this wide smartass grin in the mirror. Bitch. “Give it some thought, Eddie. You know where to find me,” she says and chugs the rest of her juice. And you know what the asshole does next? She leans over, grabs a piece of toast from my plate, and heads to the door, slinging a solid black book bag over her shoulder.
“I meant your side of the bargain, princess,” I’m saying as she’s walking out. “When do I get my stuff?” Practically shouting at this point, and the waitress comes out from the back to see what the noise is. The mousy girl, as she’s going, she takes out the cigarette from her ear and sticks it in her mouth, lighting it up just as she reached the exit. The scent of the smoke pushed back into the café when she opened the door and the wind came in, stinking up the place. Whole thing just seemed like a shitty move is all I’m saying.
And I’m sitting there staring out the windows of the café, just completely mystified by whatever the hell is going on lately and this car crawls past. And who’s that in the driver’s seat, staring a hole through the glass and what I assumed was my head, but this real ugly gaunt kid? When I caught the enormous Adam’s apple on him, the memory of parking next to him at the complex clicked, which made me think of the smoke and church-scented girl I walked past that night.
My mind raced ‘til my head hurt, but I had to stash away the thoughts for later. I took the cash in the pink tote up to the hotel and made my way to the lounge on the second floor. The steel had our Christmas party there a few years back, and a bunch of us had gotten rooms for the night upstairs. I won’t go into detail, but let’s say mistakes were made. The hotel strongly suggested we look for another venue the next year. That was our last full-blown company-sponsored holiday party.
I grabbed myself a cup of coffee from the continental breakfast buffet and as many croissants and bagels as I could carry and waited until I saw someone headed for the elevator. Once we met up by the button, I tried to awkwardly free my hands to reach toward my jacket pocket, and sure enough, the guy said he had it and asked what floor. “Seven,” I said, and boom, I was in.
The pastries got tossed as soon as the elevator left me, but I kept the coffee in my grip. I already knew what kind of people the girl associated herself with, so I though
t I’d have to be ready for whatever may’ve answered the door. A good scalding would help me flee, I figured. As I got up to the room, I could hear one of those judge shows blasting from the TV set. I gave the door a good pounding and stepped back, centering myself in the peephole’s view.
The set went silent, and I waited while I assume I was being looked over. When the door clicked and eased open, I clenched the cup, but who answered the door was just some gray-haired lady. She looked like any one of the older women you’d find on the All-Lite production floor, except in pajamas and with a wave of that hotel shampoo scent blasting from her room. I was expecting something deadly and found a showering grandma instead, poised defensively with a fist up by her face.
“I ain’t one for rapin’,” she goes.
I double-checked the paper from the girl to make sure I had the right room and held out the tote. “I think this is for you, darlin’,” I said to her. “Nothing in my orders about any rapin’.”
Well, she looks at me all skeptical-like and takes it. “This from Christy?” Christy. So I finally knew the girl’s name. The woman—keep in mind the scene: This isn’t a tiny grandma by any means. Think of one of those field hockey girls from high school all grown up, tall as me if not taller, and standing in a hotel’s hallway in her jammies in front of a stranger. Defensive and tense. And then she opens this bag in front of me, cash spilling to the floor, and she just collapses on her knees.
“Merry belated, sweetheart,” I say and head for the door to the steps.
When I got back to my place, a sticker on my door said a package had been delivered to me but was too big or heavy to leave at the door or put in my mailbox. Down in the office, they’d changed all the temps again, but this time for the better. A young Asian girl—I’d guess Filipino—was working the desk with crooked teeth but a tiny body you could swing around a room easy enough. Fill the office with ten more of that and I wouldn’t’ve felt so bad about my bank account.