Cash

by Hildreth, Scott

  “I don’t,” I said, even though I had a hunch.

  My ex-husband was a finance major by trade, and an ex video-gamer who had been a computer nerd since we were kids. He had the ability to write computer code and worked for Meryl Lynch.

  I had serious doubts about his ability to hack into a computer and steal my money, but then again, it sounded like he used passwords and log in information to do half the work.

  “I still can’t believe this shit,” Jennifer said. “If this dick-brain gets caught, I say you let Dolla Bill loose on his ass.”

  I shot her a glare. “Stop.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

  “Found the IP address of the computer used for the initial transfer,” Tito said. “Wasn’t easy. This guy’s no novice.”

  I jumped from my seat.

  He raised his hand without looking up from the screen. “Not yet. Stay where you are.”

  I paced the living room floor.

  Tito’s fingers slid across the keyboard without making a sound. Sixty seconds later, he grinned from ear-to-ear.

  “Got the physical address of the computer used for that transfer,” he announced. “This guy’s a dumb fuck.”

  I stopped in my tracks. My heart climbed into my throat. “What. What is it?” I stammered.

  “Number eighteen south Camino Shores, La Jolla,” he said. “Sounds familiar?”

  My entire body tensed. Then, I felt dizzy.

  Cash stood. “Sounds like a high dollar neighborhood.”

  “It is,” Tito said. “According to the county, the home appraises for twelve million.”

  “You know the address?” Cash asked.

  I steadied myself against the wall and nodded.

  He clapped his hands together. “Put up your toys, Tito.”

  “He’s not there right now,” I muttered. “He’s at work.”

  “You know this fucker?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It’s my ex.”

  “Marvin?” he asked snidely. “He lives in a twelve-million-dollar house?”

  It was our old home. Instead of explaining, I simply looked at Cash and shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “I ain’t looking to get in another jam with you over something, so I guess I need to ask.” He raised his clenched fists to chest height. “Can I whip this motherfucker’s ass?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But only after you get my money back.”

  He grinned. “What time does he get home?”

  “Seven-ish. Maybe seven thirty.”

  He looked at his watch. “That’ll be just about enough time to round up the fellas and get inside.”

  “The home’s got an alarm,” I said. “You won’t be able to get in.”

  Cash’s mouth twisted into a smirk. He looked at Tito. “Text a nine-one-one to the fellas. Tell ‘em to meet at that taco place off the eight-oh-five. The one with that big platter.”

  “Does he have any guns in the house?” Tito asked.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Does he carry one?”

  “No.”

  Tito nodded and then began to type a text.

  Cash kissed me lightly. “See you when this is over.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “And don’t believe a word he tells you. He’s a pathological liar.”

  “He won’t lie to me,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because,” he said with a sly grin. “I’ll take my lie detector test with me.”

  “Oh. Wow. I’m glad you’ve got one of those.”

  “Me, too,” he said with a wink. “Never leave home without it.”

  THIRTY-SIX - Cash

  Short of the absence of gold-framed pictures, the home in La Jolla had a high resemblance to the home we robbed in Encino. With each of us positioned in a different location throughout the vast space, we waited for Marvin to get home from work.

  “Coming up the drive now,” Tito announced from the kitchen.

  I relaxed against the burgundy velour of the chair I’d chosen, rubbing my forearms against the soft fabric of the wooden arm’s pads. “I’m ready.”

  “Someone got the bedroom, to force him back to Cash?” Baker asked.

  “Got it,” Ghost said.

  “We good, Tito?” Baker shouted.

  “Pulling in the garage,” Tito shouted in response.

  “I’ve got the mudroom entrance,” Goose said.

  I glanced at Reno, who was seated across from me. “Ready, Brother?”

  He simply nodded once.

  Standing beside the entrance that led from the living room to the kitchen, Baker’s focus was on Tito, but his hand was raised high in the air.

  Five extended fingers turned to four, then three, then two, then one. His clenched fist was in perfect timing with the sound of the door opening.

  The alarm beeped, no differently than if it were armed normally. Tito had disabled all interior motion, sound, and glass sensors, leaving only the door sensors and exterior cameras enabled.

  The sound of Marvin disarming the alarm was followed by the heels of his shoes clacking against the hardwood floor of the entrance.

  My location in the living room had a view of the kitchen, the corridor that led to the downstairs bedroom, and of the stairs that went to the upstairs bedrooms. In our initial survey of the home, we’d learned that his bedroom was downstairs.

  With my pistol clenched firmly in my hand, I waited for the sound of his footsteps to stop – an indication he’d stepped onto the carpet.

  Click clack.

  Click clack.

  Click clack.

  Silence.

  I drew a shallow breath and raised my pistol as the back side of him came into view. Without noticing the two men that sat in his living room, he turned toward the hallway that led to his bedroom.

  “Where you going, Marvin?” I asked, my voice low and filled with bass.

  He did what most everyone did when they were scared out of their wits.

  He jumped three feet in the air, screamed, and took off on a dead run toward his bedroom.

  Ghost stepped in front of him. “Afraid not, motherfucker.”

  A shrill shriek shot from his lungs, and he turned and ran straight toward where Reno and I were seated.

  I trained my pistol on his chest and shook my head. “There’s nowhere to go, Marv.”

  He either didn’t believe me, or he didn’t hear me. With his feet six inches above the floor and his legs working overtime, he scurried around the corner – out of view and toward the garage – hoping to make his escape.

  The unmistakable sound of him coughing up his guts let me know the MC’s new muscle had stopped him with a thunderous body punch.

  “Kid hits like a mule, don’t he?” I asked into the open room, knowing he was incapable of responding.

  As the sound of Marvin coughing and attempting to catch his breath echoed throughout the wooden walled home, I stood and walked into the kitchen.

  Dressed in a pair of gray slacks, a bright blue dress shirt, and a dark blue tie, Marvin was rolling from side to side on the kitchen floor, clutching his gut.

  I stepped on his shoulder, pinning him in place. “Remember me?” I asked.

  His gaze met mine. Then, his eyes darted to Tito. Then, Baker. Eventually, they came full circle, meeting mine again.

  “Where’s the money Marvin?”

  He swallowed hard. “What…what money?”

  “A man would think I’d enjoy the freedom I’ve been given for this little escapade, but I’m so far out of the mood, it isn’t funny.” I lifted my pistol and looked at it admiringly. “You see that thing screwed to the end of the barrel, Marvin?”

  He looked at the pistol but didn’t respond.

  “It’s a silencer,” I said. “It lets me fire this damned thing without making much noise to speak of. Hell, it’s not much louder than opening a door.”

  His eyes darted from the pistol to me.


  The weapon was a twenty-two-caliber pistol. The choice of assassins, murderers, or anyone hoping to kill someone silently with a head-shot, the gun was useless for much else. Shooting Marvin in the head would kill him in an instant. Placing one of the small bullets anywhere else would do nothing more than hurt like sheer hell, bleed, and maybe require a little surgery.

  “I’m going to ask a question,” I explained, my tone without an ounce of emotion. “You can choose to answer, or you can lay there and act stupid. If you do the stupid thing, well, I’ll shoot you. That’s a promise, Marvin. I’m a man of my word, so you can bank on that. I will shoot you.”

  He looked at me like I’d explained everything in Swahili.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “I uh. I’m not...” he stammered.

  “You’re not what?” I asked. “Ready?”

  He looked at Tito, and then at me. “I don’t understand what you’re after.”

  I pointed the barrel at his thigh. “Where’s Kimberly’s money?”

  His mouth opened, but he didn’t respond. At least not quick enough to save his leg.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  Thwack!

  An instant after the bullet bore into his thigh, he clutched his leg. His eyes went bug-eyed.

  “You shot me!” he bellowed.

  “Don’t act like I didn’t warn you, Marv.”

  Tito tied a tourniquet on his leg and stuffed a kitchen rag in his mouth.

  I looked at him and out a sigh. “We’re going to do this again. I’ll ask the question. Then, you can either do that dumb thing you’re so good at, or you can choose to respond. Ready?”

  He nodded eagerly.

  Reno leaned over, pulled the rag from Mavin’s mouth, and pointed his pistol at the leg I’d already shot.

  “We’ll both shoot you this time,” Reno warned.

  “Where’s Kimberly’s money?” I asked.

  “There’s a safe,” he blurted. “It’s…there’s a BMW on the far side of the garage. It doesn’t… it doesn’t run. Move it, and there’s a floor safe under it. I’ll give you the combination, but not all of it’s hers. The money. Some of it’s…”

  Reno stuffed the rag into Marvin’s mouth before he could finish speaking.

  Without provocation, Tito and Goose turned toward the garage. After pushing the old-school BMW out of the way, Tito was in the safe within a matter of minutes.

  He began handing Goose stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  Incapable of seeing in the safe, I tried to see over Tito’s shoulder. “What’s in there? Is it all there?”

  “There’s stacks of ten-thousand-dollar bundles of hundred-dollar bills,” he said.

  “How much was on that spreadsheet?” I asked. “From the investment place?”

  “Her account had two million, three hundred sixty thousand, and change.”

  I edged Goose out of the way and peered over Tito’s shoulder and into the safe. Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollars bills lined the interior of the large safe.

  “Jesus.” My eyes bulged at the sight. “How much does he have in there?”

  “Hard saying,” Tito responded.

  After piling the ten-thousand-dollar bundles into stacks of ten, we counted the hundred-thousand-dollar bundles. Thirty-one bundles equated to three-point-one million dollars, or roughly six hundred and forty thousand more than Marvin had taken from Kimberly.

  “You fellas load up the money and head out,” I said. “I’ll get this mess cleaned up with Marv.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere unless everyone goes,” Baker said from behind me. He nodded toward the open safe. “How much was in there?”

  “Three-point-one mil,” Tito said. “Roughly seven-hundred-forty more than was taken.”

  “My take of the extra cash goes to the girl,” Reno said.

  “Ditto,” Ghost said.

  “Give her mine, too,” Goose said.

  “Mine, too,” Tito chimed.

  “We follow the rules,” Baker said. “Club takes the club’s cut. She can have what’s left. It’ll be more than she had in the beginning.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “The rules are the rules.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Reno and I worked out the details regarding Marvin’s future. The process went much easier than expected, allowing us to reach an agreement that he’d never show his face anywhere near me, the club, or Kimberly again.

  If he did, his life would promptly cease to exist.

  It may have been the ten pounds of plastic explosives that Reno rigged to the inside of the safe – before we welded it shut – that convinced Marv to agree so promptly.

  Personally, I’d always believe it was my charm that coerced him. Either that, or my groovy new haircut.

  THIRTY-SEVEN - Kimberly

  The road was narrow, and not at all what I’d become accustomed to. The motorcycle dodged right and left unexpectedly, yanking the handlebars from side to side without warning. Every few feet, the tire would drop off into a pot-hole, causing me to fly out of the seat.

  It was, however, much better than riding in a cage.

  The trip would have taken three solid days in a car. On the bike, it took two. My willingness to ride was equal to Cash’s, and we’d ridden almost seven hundred miles a day to get there. Our early morning “crack of dawn” start assured us we’d arrive before nightfall, and we were doing just that.

  Barely.

  As the sun was setting, we pulled up the long, narrow drive. At the low speed we were traveling, the low rumble from the exhaust gave little warning of our arrival.

  “You didn’t tell her anything?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  “Not a word. It’s how I roll.”

  “I can’t wait to meet the woman who is okay with that,” I said with a laugh.

  Surrounded by large trees, green grass, and acres upon acres of rolling hills, the home looked like a typical farmhouse out of the movies. A front porch – complete with two swings – ran the entire width of the front of the home.

  When we were a hundred or so yards from the front of the home, woman stepped onto the porch with a gun in her arms.

  “That’s her,” Cash said.

  “Holy crap. She’s not going to shoot us, is she?”

  “I hope not,” he said with a laugh.

  Despite the condition of the crappy road, he sped up. Half the distance to the porch, the woman musty have recognized him. She leaned the gun against the door’s frame and rushed to down the steps.

  By the time she reached the drive, we were coming to a stop.

  Her skin was pale with a tinge of redness to it. She was tall and thin, like Cash. Her hair was long, white, and draped over her shoulder in a long braid. The dress she wore was white with faded blue flowers and had pockets in the front. Adorable was the only word I could use to describe her.

  She outstretched her arms and flapped her hands up and down excitedly. “Get that thing off your head and let me have a look at you,” she said, in a thick Irish accent.

  As Cash put down the kickstand, I took off my helmet.

  “Oh, my word. He was right, you’re beautiful.” She continued to flap her hands. “Climb off that motorbike and come here.”

  “Nice to see you, ma,” Cash said sarcastically. “And, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s a motorcycle, not a motorbike.”

  “It’s a feckin’ motorbike,” she snapped. “Always will be.”

  I stepped off the motorcycle, almost falling in the process. “Sorry, my legs fell asleep.”

  She shot cash a glare. “You didn’t let her stretch her legs, did ya?”

  “She didn’t want to.”

  “If he didn’t already tell you, my name’s Erin.” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Kimberly.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a smothering hug. When she released me, she leaned away and looked me over. “I can tell you this, he doesn’t deserve you, Kimberly. He was the o
rneriest child that ever graced this countryside, and don’t let him tell you differently. I hope he’s in heaven two hours before the devil knows he’s dead. Did he tell you lies to get you a courtin’? He must have, because you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not deservin’.”

  “Lies.” I laughed. “I hope not.”

  She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and turned toward the porch. “Come in, I’ll tell you the truth about him. He might be riding home alone.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Cash stood at the rear of his motorcycle, wearing a smile like I’d never seen.

  He cleared his throat. “I said, Nice to see you, ma.”

  “I heard ya when you said it the first time.” She waved her hand in his direction without so much as turning around. “I saw you eight months ago. It sores my eyes to look at ya.”

  She led me to the kitchen and poured me a cup of tea while Cash unpacked our things. Before Cash so much as stepped through the doorway, she’d taken me on a tour of the home.

  She pointed into the downstairs bedroom. Posters of motorcycles were pinned to the walls, and the few places that were free of posters were covered with stuffed fish.

  “Was this his room?”

  “The only room on this floor. Did he tell you why he moved into it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So that manky slag Ashley could slip through the window,” she said. “She broke his heart, that one.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I said. “Manky slag.”

  “She’s calling her a dirty whore,” Cash said from behind me.

  “I was being proper,” Erin said.

  “You were talkin’ shit, ma. She did not break my heart.”

  “I’ll put that bar of soap in your mouth, Brock Cashton, and don’t think I won’t. You might be thirty-one, but your still my son.”

  “Sorry, ma.”

  I laughed to myself at the thought of Cash not cussing.

  We went to the kitchen and sat at the table, Cash on one side of her, and me on the other. With her arms outstretched, she held each of our hands. Her eyes drifted back and forth, between us.

  “What?” Cash asked.

  “You’d make beautiful babies.” She looked at Cash. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”