Cash

by Hildreth, Scott

  I pressed the stud finder to the wall at the bed’s side. A standard sheet of sheetrock registered on the digital screen.

  I jumped onto the bed and pressed the tool to the wall behind the headboard. The screen registered that there was three inches of wood behind the wall. I moved it over three feet. The same thing registered.

  My heart raced.

  I moved over five feet and checked again.

  According to the readout, three inches of wood was concealed behind the freshly painted sheetrock. The scanner couldn’t discern three inches of tightly-packed money from three inches of wood.

  My hope was that he’d hidden everything behind the wall.

  “Grab some hammers and as many saws as you can carry,” I said excitedly. “Everything’s behind this sheetrock.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Baker asked.

  I tossed the stud finder to Baker.

  “Watch this.” I thrust my fist into the sheetrock. Instead of plowing through it completely, it penetrated the sheetrock and stopped. Again, and again, I punched, until I could grasp the loosened piece.

  I pulled it away from the wall, leaving a six-inch irregular shaped opening in the wall. Immediately behind it was a sheet of cellophane.

  I glanced over my shoulder and grinned.

  “What is it?” Baker asked.

  “It’s my new house on the beach,” I said with a smile.

  I pulled my knife from my pocket and excitedly slit the cellophane. After pulling it open and peering inside, I pumped my fist in the air.

  “Hundred-dollar bills, mothafuckas!” I shouted. “The wall’s full of ‘em.”

  Baker hopped onto the bed and began frantically pulling sheetrock off the wall. Behind each section, cellophane-wrapped money looked back at him.

  “Fuck,” he said. “This is going to be huge.”

  He looked at me. “Good thinking, Cash.”

  “I had to make up for a bad month,” I said.

  Baker chuckled and slapped his hand against my shoulder. “This ought to do it.”

  Like men possessed, two of us swung sledgehammers while the other two ripped sheetrock from the walls. An hour later, we had so much money removed from the walls that I questioned how much of it could fit in Ghost’s SUV.

  The room looked like a demolition crew of a home makeover show had gone nuts in it. Bare wall studs stood where the bed’s headboard once was, and the floor was littered with chunks of sheetrock. The entire room was covered in a film of white dust.

  I kicked the stack of money. “How much do you think this is?”

  “Four point five cubic feet per million,” Tito said. “For hundred-dollar bills.”

  I waved my hands over the mound of money. “How many cubic feet is this?”

  He shrugged. “Sixty. Maybe eighty.”

  Baker looked at Tito. “Twenty million?”

  Tito nodded and then studied the massive pile of money. “Back of the SUV will hold thirty-five cubic feet. We’re either going to have to leave some of it or steal one of his vehicles.”

  “We’re not stealing a car,” Baker said. “That’s a guarantee of getting caught.”

  “I’ll steal one of ‘em,” I said.

  “No, you won’t,” Baker said. “We’ll either load it up, or we’ll make two trips.”

  “It’s six hours round trip,” I reminded him. “It’ll be morning before we can get back here.”

  Baker looked at the money, and then shook his head. “Fuck.”

  “Wrap it in a blanket, and put it on top,” Tito said. “Like one of those Thule cargo boxes.”

  “Good idea,” Baker said.

  “We’ll look like we’re haulin’ coke,” I said with a laugh. “Cop sees a blanket-wrapped package on top, sealed up nice with duct tape, and we’re getting got for sure.”

  Baker sighed. “Good point.”

  “The back of the SUV holds thirty-five cubic feet,” Goose said. “That leaves twenty-five. At five a piece, we can carry that on our laps. It’s less than a sack of groceries.”

  “Fill the back of the SUV,” Baker said. “Whatever’s left, we’ll wrap in bedsheets and carry out. Every man gets a load.”

  In fifteen minutes, we had four hundred pounds of hundred-dollar bills in the SUV, and each of us had a lap full of money.

  As Ghost drove the three-hour trip back to San Diego, the men laughed, joked, and talked of how they were going to spend their cut after Baker split it up.

  Oddly, I wasn’t as thrilled as the rest of the men. I knew, regardless of what my cut was, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it fully even if I got the house on the beach.

  Because I’d be living in it alone.

  THIRTY-ONE - Kimberly

  I didn’t recognize the phone number, but I picked up the phone nonetheless. Hoping that it wasn’t Cash calling from one of his friend’s phones, I raised it to my ear.

  “This is Kimberly.”

  “Kimberly, this is John. I’m going to need you to stop by the office at your best earliest convenience.”

  “John? I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. John who?”

  “John Fillmore with Fillmore and Ruffin, Kimberly. It’s regarding your account.”

  I hadn’t left my home in nearly two weeks and had no intention of doing so. At least not yet. I looked like hell, felt worse, and feared I couldn’t drive without having an accident. Whatever news he had regarding the status of my retirement account could wait until I was in a better psychological state.

  “I’m kind of sick,” I said. “Can we get together sometime next week?”

  “I’m afraid we need to do it sooner than next week.”

  “Can we discuss it over the phone?”

  “I’m afraid not. I can’t express the importance of this meeting, Kimberly. If there’s a way, we need to get together today.”

  The tone of his voice led me to believe something was terribly wrong. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do you mean? How can it not be?”

  “We can discuss matters further when you’re here. When can I expect you?”

  “Can you give me two hours?”

  “I’ll see you at two,” he said.

  I looked at the phone’s screen. He was right. It was noon, and I hadn’t so much as showered or had a bite to eat. I let out a sigh, nodded, and then agreed.

  “I’ll see you at two.”

  * * *

  I sat on the couch and blubbered. As if I didn’t already have enough reasons to cry, I now had another. I wished Cash was with me, so he could hold me and tell me everything would be alright.

  But I knew I’d never see him again.

  And, it wasn’t going to be alright.

  Without the interest income from my investment account, losing Cash would be the least of my worries. I cried until I was out of tears. Then, I cried some more. I cried until my stomach heaved, and continued crying until I made myself sick.

  While I sat on the bathroom floor and dry-heaved into the toilet bowl, the doorbell rang. I knew it wouldn’t be Jennifer or Cash, because they both knocked on the door. I dismissed it, knowing there was no one on earth that I was interested in seeing.

  While I tried to convince myself to stand, it rang again. Frustrated – and at wits end – I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the door, prepared to give whoever was invading my moment of sorrow a piece of my mind.

  I yanked the door open.

  The young woman standing on my porch looked familiar, but in my current state of mind, I couldn’t name her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t--”

  “Andy,” she said. “We met at Goose’s.”

  I forced a crooked smile. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her face washed with worry.

  I wiped my nose with the washcloth I was holding. “I’ve been better, thank you.”

  She raised her hand to he
r mouth, and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m sorry, but you look like hell.” She pulled a bottle of wine from her purse and held it between us. “Can I come in?”

  “I’ve been sick. I don’t think…” I stammered.

  “You look like you could use someone to talk to,” she said. “How about a few minutes over a glass of wine?”

  She was right, I did need someone to talk to, but not about what she was hoping to talk about. There was only one reason for her to be visiting, and I wasn’t prepared to talk about Cash. I did, however, plan on telling her about my financial woes, and a glass if wine sounded like a great idea.

  I moved to the side. “Please. Come in.”

  She stepped inside and looked around. “I love your home. It’s beautiful.”

  I glanced in the living room. A mental sigh escaped me. My blanket and pillow remained on the couch, right where they’d been for the last month. I had yet to sleep in my bedroom since Cash left.

  I couldn’t bring myself to.

  I gestured toward the pile of bedding and turned toward the kitchen. “I had a slumber party last night.”

  “Looks like a big group,” she said with a laugh.

  She followed me into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. After joining me at the table, she looked me over.

  “When was the last time you ate?” she asked.

  I coughed a dry laugh. “What night was the barbeque?”

  She gave me a side-eyed look. “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve eaten a little.”

  “You don’t look like it. Do you want me to make you something?”

  “I can’t eat. Not right now.”

  “Want to talk?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said. “I do.”

  She raised her wine glass. “Start wherever you’d like.”

  “Some son-of-a-bitch hacked into my account and stole my money. I’m flat broke.”

  “Wait? What?” she gasped. “What money?”

  “My money,” I said through my teeth. “All my money.”

  I told her of the money, the mysterious accounts, and of there not being a name or an account number to find. The more I spoke, the angrier I became. By the time I was finished, I wasn’t crying.

  I was furious.

  “If I find out who did this,” I said through my teeth. “They’ll need a bucket to carry him away in, because I’m going to hack him to pieces.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Do you have a plan to try and retrieve it? To catch the guy?”

  “I’ve got a longshot. I’m going to throw a Hail Mary and hope.”

  I finished my glass of wine and stomped to the kitchen to pour another. After realizing that we’d finished the bottle she brought with her, I opened the door to my wine fridge.

  Empty.

  I opened cabinet doors, looked in the refrigerator, and double checked the wine fridge.

  In the last month, I’d somehow consumed every ounce of alcohol in my home.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a laugh. “It looks like I’ve been raided. Probably my neighbor.”

  “Were you done with your story?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” I said. “I’m too mad to talk about it anymore.”

  She stood and turned to face me. “I’ve met my fair share of assholes in my life. I could tell you stories of cheating, physical abuse, and everything in between. Instead, I’m going to tell you about men who are better than that. Well, not men, but one man.”

  I started to interrupt her, but she took a quick breath and continued.

  “Cash is a good man. No differently than any of the rest of us, he’s made a few mistakes. According to you, he made one at the barbeque. According to Baker, he didn’t. I guess it depends on how you look at it and who you ask. He’s apologized to Reno, and Reno’s apologized to him. There’s not much to worry about.”

  “That’s not really what this is all about,” I explained. “That threat of violence might one day expose itself to someone who could hurt him or kill him. Losing him is something I can’t chance. As long as he’s doing what he’s doing, that threat is all too real.”

  “Believe me,” she said. “He’s nothing but a Teddy Bear unless someone does something to threaten those he loves.”

  “I know. I’ve seen that side of him. That’s the man I fell in love with. The Teddy Bear.”

  Her brows raised. “You’re not willing to give him another chance?”

  “I’m not willing to risk losing him permanently. Because of him beating up the wrong person. You have no idea how much pain I’m in. I can’t go through this again.”

  “Believe me, I know the pain you’re in. I’ve been in it myself,” she said. “He beat up two people who he felt were threatening you. Because he loves you. You don’t love him enough to forgive him for it?”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  She shook her head. “He does not.”

  “Why did you come?” I asked. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I don’t want you to walk away from what is probably a once-in-a-lifetime chance at love. And, I need some company. When they’re out doing their biker thing, I get lonely. I could use a good friend, and I think you’re awesome.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s just. I’m afraid I can’t handle another loss. I lost my parents and losing him would kill me. I care too much for him already. You might know about pain, but you have no idea how bad it hurts when something like that happens. The pain’s intolerable.”

  “Wanna bet?” she asked.

  I was confused. “Wanna bet, what?”

  “My father cheated on my mother. My mother shot him. She died in prison.” She arched an eyebrow. “What else you got to talk about?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “You uhhm. Seriously? Your parents?”

  “It’s true. She shot him, he died, and she went to prison. I went and lived with my aunt.” She gestured toward the living room. “How long you going to sleep on the couch? What? Does the bed smell like him? Can’t stand to sleep in it? Yeah, been there, done that, too.”

  I stared back at her with an open mouth.

  “You and I are a lot alike,” she said. “Wanna tell me stories about the kids at school that called you names because you’re biracial? Well, guess what? Me, too. My mother was Brazilian. They called me a ‘Spic, a nigger, a Puerto Rican, and some of them called me a Gook. Hell, you and I have a lot we can talk about.”

  It wasn’t any one thing that she said. It was everything, combined. Cash, my money, my parents, her parents, losing Cash, loving Cash. It just became all too much. I pressed my back against the counter and lowered myself to the floor.

  Within a few seconds, I was crying.

  “I love him so much,” I blubbered.

  She sat down at my side and put her arm around me. After crying on her shoulder for a while, the tears subsided.

  “How about this?” she asked. “When they go out and do things we’re not allowed to know anything about, you can hold me, and I can hold you. Together, we’ll get through it. Just like military wives.”

  I wiped my face on my forearm and then looked at her. “Are you afraid that one day Baker might not come home?”

  “It gnaws at me every day,” she said. “Here are my choices: I can either be miserable, or I can be with him. There isn’t another option. He’s the one, and he’s the only. Maybe you should ask yourself the question.”

  “What question?”

  “What are you willing to do for love?”

  THIRTY-TWO - Cash

  I twisted the throttle tight and veered into the lane that didn’t exist. Splitting traffic on the freeways of Southern California required a keen eye, a steady set of hands, and a tremendous amount of balls.

  With one lane of cars six inches from my left hand, and the other lane six inches from my right, I blew through the traffic jam at eighty miles an hour, splitting
the two lanes in the middle. Most states didn’t allow splitting traffic, as it was too dangerous. It was legal in California, of all places, which made no sense whatsoever – their freeways were far more congested than any other state.

  One wrong move on anyone’s part, and I’d have to be scooped up with a shovel.

  I didn’t care. I had places to be, people to see, and problems to resolve.

  Since Kimberly asked me to leave, it seemed I’d thrown caution to the wind. I wasn’t suicidal by any means, but I placed little value on my life. That much was certain.

  With my eyes fixed on the vehicles positioned a quarter of a mile ahead, I shot through the non-existent lane hoping that whoever was at my side didn’t toss one of their doors open to get a breath of fresh air or spit the saliva from their chewing tobacco out onto the freeway.

  In fifteen minutes I’d traveled the twenty miles without incident and had only five to go. With flashing lights ahead, I released the throttle and coasted to the end of the line of stationary traffic.

  Two police motorcycles, an ambulance, and a wrecker marked the spot of the accident. As I crept past, I noticed a plastic sheet covering a body, a sure sign that someone’s clock had ticked its last tock. Beside the body, the remnants of a motorcycle were scattered beneath a tractor trailer.

  May God be with you, my brother.

  As I cleared the accident, I twisted the throttle as tight as I could. In and out of traffic I weaved, making the last five miles pass in the blink of an eye. One exit later, and I was entering La Mesa.

  The mile of access road passed in seconds, leaving me with nothing but two blocks to travel.

  My heart began to race.

  Nervously, I crept the remaining distance at a speed so slow I was surprised I didn’t tip over. Before I could see the house out of my left eye’s peripheral, the familiar smell of the flowers caused my nostrils to flare. I grinned to myself, drew a long breath, and closed my eyes – but only for a second.

  I killed the engine long before I pulled into the drive and coasted to a stop in silence.

  I hoped she’d agree with my terms. If not, I’d live with a life of pain. If she did, I wondered if things would be the way we left them, start back from the very beginning, or somewhere in between. Whichever it might be, I was willing to accept it, if she accepted my terms.