The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  Curtis dropped his cigarette and ground it in the dirt. He walked across the drive to the stairs leading to the deck. The deck creaked as he stepped to the sliding glass door and pulled it open.

  “Mona, it’s me,” he said, walking in.

  Sonny’s dog, Bruno, came over, wagging his tail while he sniffed Curtis’s crotch. Curtis rubbed his ears. Bruno sighed, walked over to his rug and curled up on the floor.

  Curtis scanned the kitchen with its fifties-style pink and black tiles. One of the wooden cabinets above the sink was open and a half-full glass of water was next to the sink. He looked at the television flickering in the living room. A weatherman talked about a storm that would break the heat and humidity at the end of the week. He moved toward the living room and looked down the hallway. Sonny’s bedroom door was open, but the light was off. Mrs. Bomba’s bedroom door was closed. Light leaked from under the bathroom door. The toilet flushed. He heard a faucet turn on, then off. The door opened.

  “Hey, Mona. Sonny called me. I thought I’d—”

  Mona came at him swinging.

  “Get out of here. Get out!” she screamed, windmilling punches at his face and chest.

  He caught the punches on his forearms and shoulders and backed into the living room. Bruno barked, adding to the mayhem, all hackles and teeth. Curtis caught Mona’s wrists and held on.

  “Take it easy,” he said.

  It was the way she relaxed—even lowering her head— that made him think she was through. He let go of her wrists and caught a hard punch in the jaw. Stars popped all around him.

  “What the hell, Mona?” he said, rubbing his jaw. “What’s your problem?”

  Bruno switched from barking to growling. Mona glared at Bruno and pointed at the couch. “Lay down.”

  Curtis kept an eye on Mona, waiting for another sucker punch as Bruno whined and trotted to the couch. She was still in the dress from earlier tonight, but barefoot. The dress hung loose. Her black hair was wild. Mascara was smeared under her eyes.

  “Have you been crying?” he said.

  She pointed at the sliding glass door. “Get out.”

  “As soon as I get my fish,” he said. “Sonny told me to come by and pick it up.”

  Mona smiled. Her black eyes sparkled.

  “Your fish, huh?” she said.

  She put a hand on his chest, pushed him out of the way and walked to the couch. He saw the back of her dress was ripped all the way up the zipper.

  “Go on. Get your fish,” she said, plopping on the couch. She put her bare feet on Bruno’s back. “Take your time.”

  Curtis rubbed his jaw. There were two moves that would work with Mona right now. Groveling for forgiveness until they ended up naked on the couch, or fighting until they ended up naked on the couch.

  “Fine. I’ll go get it. Thanks for the punch in the mouth,” he said, turning and walking to the door to the garage. He clomped down the stairs. Mona could get naked on her own tonight. He wasn’t here to get laid.

  Big Blue wasn’t in the garage. He ignored Mona as she smirked at him while he checked the coat closet and the living room closet.

  “Find it yet?” she said.

  He walked out of the living room and went bedroom-to-bedroom. He finished with Sonny’s room. He looked everywhere, even under Sonny’s bed. Lots of tennis shoes under there—Sonny was a freak when it came to shoes—but no trophy marlin. Curtis sat on Sonny’s bed. There was no sign of Big Blue. Then he stood and walked to Sonny’s closet, remembering the crawl space they used as a club house back in tenth grade. He kneeled at the back of the closet, pulled out the service panel, flicked his lighter and crawled through the wall.

  There were candles, an old bong and some empty beer cans back there—remnants of their high school years—but no trophy marlin stuffed full of cash. He brushed the cobwebs from his hair and walked out of Sonny’s room. Mona was still on the couch, watching television, rubbing Bruno’s neck with her toes. Curtis grabbed her foot. Bruno growled.

  “Stop it,” said Mona, poking Bruno.

  “Sonny said my fish was in the garage or his room,” said Curtis. “Did he move it?”

  “You’re such a liar,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mona looked at him sidelong, then went back to watching television.

  “Sonny said it’s in his room or the garage, huh? Did he forget where he put it?”

  Curtis hesitated. “I thought he said—”

  “You’re such a fucking liar,” said Mona. She sat up and braced her hands behind her. “I’m not telling you where it is, so why don’t you just leave?” She cocked her head. “And don’t come back until you can apologize for leaving me in that bathroom like a dog, asshole.” She laid on the couch and curled her knees to her chest. “Remember to close the door all the way on your way out. My mom will be pissed if you let bugs in the house.”

  Curtis gripped the back of the couch. Mona knew he didn’t have a clue about where Big Blue was hidden. He grabbed her ankle, squeezing it.

  “If you don’t want to tell me where it is, that’s fine.”

  Mona ignored him. Bruno rose and circled, sighing as he curled on top of her feet.

  Curtis trailed a finger up her leg. She looked over her shoulder, watching his finger.

  “I don’t blame you if you’re mad, but if you feel like it, tell Sonny to give me a call,” he said. “I like you and always will, but we’re like gas and a match. Fuck, fuck, fuck, boom. It ain’t good for me or you. Maybe someday it’ll be different, but that’s the way it is. I’m sorry.” He walked away as she sat up.

  It took an extra shove to get the sliding glass door shut. Mona yelled his name. He bounded down the steps and jogged across the driveway into the street. He was on his motorcycle and moving as he heard Mona yell for him from the deck. The night air wafted over his face as pulled away from the curb. He popped the clutch, squealing the tires.

  The engine whined as he sped down the dark street. The wind squeezed tears from his eyes. He poured on the gas until mailboxes flew by in a blur.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fitz got up from his chair at Barry’s kitchen table and reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey on the kitchen counter. “I think we can really do some things here, Barry,” he said, pouring himself a drink. He sat and scooped a handful of ice cubes out of the stainless steel ice bucket in the middle of the table. Little penguins stamped into the ice bucket caught his eye. “Hey, I like the penguins,” he said, moving his gaze across Johnny Tong, Derek Ryder, Sonny, and Barry as he sat.

  Barry was elbow-to-elbow with him, dressed in a suit and tie, but he looked tired and heavy-lidded to Fitz, like he’d already put a big dent in a bottle somewhere. Derek and Johnny were putting on a big silent act, but Fitz didn’t care. It gave him a chance to talk. He shot Barry a glance. The guy had to appreciate someone who didn’t mind taking charge.

  The ice in Fitz’s glass rattled as he took a slug of bourbon. He watched Barry wipe a dribble of water off the table with a dishtowel and sit back, holding the towel in his lap. Fitz closed his eyes and shook his long, curly hair.

  “Whew! That’s what I’m talking about. Appreciate the booze, Barry.”

  Barry gripped Fitz’s forearm.

  “Don’t call me Barry. I’m Mr. Schiff. And pour a drink for Johnny.”

  Johnny held out his tumbler.

  Fitz poured two fingers in it and set the bottle on the table.

  “So, like I was saying,” he said, voice loud as he spun the cap on the bottle, “I think we can really do some—”

  “Now pour one for Derek,” said Barry, tapping the table.

  Fitz looked across the table. Derek’s face was blank. He pointed at Derek.

  “You want a drink?”

  Barry tapped the table again.

  “Just pour. It doesn’t matter if he wants it. I want him to have it.”

  “Okay by me,” said Fitz, reaching across the table. Derek�
��s glass was just out of reach. Derek didn’t move. “Little help,” said Fitz, clicking his fingers.

  Sonny slid Derek’s glass into Fitz’s hand.

  Fitz stared at Derek as he poured the bourbon.

  “Gonna need some ice with that,” said Derek.

  Fitz’s eyes darkened. A dribble of bourbon spilled on his hand as he looked at Derek. “You want ice, it’s right there,” he said, lifting his chin at the ice bucket.

  “Put ice in his glass,” said Barry.

  “He can get his own. His hand ain’t broken—yet,” said Fitz, staring at Derek.

  Derek knocked into the table as he jumped to his feet. Ice and bourbon sloshed out of everyone’s glasses. Fitz was halfway out of his seat when Barry raised his voice.

  “Your daddy didn’t listen very well either.”

  Johnny Tong grunted, holding in laughter.

  Fitz felt his face flush, but he ignored Johnny and kept an eye on Derek. In his peripheral vision, Fitz could see Sonny looking down, scratching his nose. If things went south, he was gonna be no help at all with the way he was moping around. Fitz turned to Barry.

  “What did you say about my dad?”

  Barry took a sip of water, put his glass down and wiped his hands on the towel in his lap, drying every finger separately.

  “Sit down.” he said.

  Fitz sat and scooted his chair against the table, making as much noise as possible.

  “Your daddy thought he was a bad ass,” said Barry, drying his left index finger, then his left middle finger. “But the thing with a bad ass is—” He looked up. “They don’t use their head. Like your dad. I told him his best friend was screwing your mom. I told him I could take care of it. But no. He was a bad ass.” Barry went back to drying his hand. “Didn’t turn out very well. Your dad burned up. Your mom left. And you, well, everyone in town knows what happened to you. Poor little Jackie Fitzsimmons. Had to get himself a new daddy, who, by the way, was the same guy that screwed his mother and killed his father.”

  “You better watch your mouth,” said Fitz.

  Barry finished drying his hands. He folded the towel and put it in his lap. His chair creaked as he rocked back, smoothed his tie and folded his hands over his stomach. “So here’s the thing. I don’t care what happened to you. I don’t care if you have mommy and daddy issues. More importantly, I don’t care what you think ‘we’ can do together. What I care about is—are you like your dad, or can you listen? Are you smart or are you a bad ass? That’s all that matters. You owe me quite a bit of money, but I’m practical. If you can’t listen, I can’t use you.”

  Barry grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey, pouring it into his glass. Ice cubes crunched as he took a handful from the ice bucket and dropped them in his drink. “This is a serious job,” he continued. “A lot of gold is on the line.” The ice cubes bobbed and clinked as he tilted his glass at Fitz. “They’re using that old coffee can of a safe at Sacred Heart. All the Bishop’s Catholic voodoo is going in there. Staff. Chalice. All the mumbo jumbo. It’ll be about ten pounds of gold. But if you shit the bed on this, they’ll put that gold in an armored car with a twenty-four hour guard. We’ll never get our hands on it.”

  “Ten pounds don’t sound like much. How much we get for that?” said Fitz.

  Barry tipped his glass back and forth, listening to the soft clink of the ice cubes. “If you do things your way, you’ll screw the whole job. And if that happens, you’ll need more than a new daddy. You’ll need a new set of teeth. A new pair of hands. New balls. A new cock. It won’t feel good. I can guarantee that.”

  Barry sipped his drink.

  Fitz’s vision flooded red. He glanced around the table. Johnny and Derek had their eyes square on him. Sonny, on the other hand, had his chin in his chest and both hands on his stomach. Fitz grabbed his drink, measuring the tumbler’s weight, thinking Johnny was the best bet for catching the glass in his teeth. That would even the odds. And then it would be up to Sonny to hold off Derek while he punched Barry’s face in. It could work, but something felt wrong, and he knew what that something was.

  Curtis.

  Curtis would swallow Barry’s shit and smile like he’d been served a cold beer. Fitz gulped his drink. Yeah, Curtis would let Barry’s bullshit slide. There was no money in going after Barry. Fitz put his glass down. There would be time for taking Barry down later.

  Fitz’s voice cracked—showing ass wasn’t natural— as he said, “Okay. No problem. I can listen. Count on it.”

  “Mr. Schiff.”

  Fitz frowned. “What?”

  Barry cocked his head, then repeated, “Mr. Schiff. Say, ‘Count on it, Mr. Schiff.’”

  Fitz bit his bottom lip, a breath away from saying, ‘Fuck you’ when Sonny farted with a loud, ripping sound. The sight of Sonny, face pale, mouthing the word ‘damn’ wiped Fitz’s mind clean. Barry stared at Sonny.

  “Are we in kindergarten here?” said Barry.

  “Too much draft beer,” said Sonny, holding his stomach. “Sorry. I gotta use the bathroom.”

  Fitz watched Sonny walk into the front hall.

  “First door on the right,” said Barry, standing as Sonny opened a closet. “No! The other one! The first door!”

  Sonny ducked into the bathroom.

  Barry dropped in his seat and shook his head. His brow furrowed. “And remember to turn on the fan,” he yelled, adding under his breath, “Wonder if he needs me to tell him to wipe his ass, too.”

  Fitz chewed on the corner of his mouth to keep from laughing. Fucking Sonny. Farting. Guy was always doing this kind of shit. He glanced at Johnny Tong and Derek, hoping they’d sober him up. That only made it worse. Derek was looking down at the table, shoulders shaking. Johnny held his glass in front of his mouth. Little snuffles of laughter escaped as he squeezed his eyes shut.

  Barry raised his voice. “Cut it out.”

  Derek sat back, wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. Johnny drank his bourbon.

  Barry wiped his hands on the towel in his lap. “I don’t see anything funny about somebody shitting his pants at my dinner table.”

  Johnny gagged and sprayed a mouthful of bourbon across the table into Barry’s face.

  Fitz turned toward Barry. A drop of bourbon slid down Barry’s chin, hanging for a moment before it dripped on the table. Barry’s face balled up, his teeth clenching.

  “You need a paper towel or something?” said Fitz.

  Barry picked up his glass of bourbon and swung it. Fitz could hear the crack against his temple, the heavy base of the glass a hammer shot to his skull. He fell out of his chair. Everything was sideways. He pawed at the floor, bourbon and water burning his eyes and dripping off his face as looked up at Barry standing over him.

  “Say my name when you talk to me, bad ass. How hard is it to say, ‘You need me to get you a paper towel, Mr. Schiff?’ Is that hard? Or how about, ‘Can my friend fart, Mr. Schiff?’ That’s not hard. That’s not hard at all.”

  Someone grabbed him under the arms and lifted him to his feet. The world spun. He couldn’t get his legs under him.

  “C’mon, Fitz. Sit down. You weigh a ton.”

  That was Sonny’s voice. Fitz tried to talk. He couldn’t get a word out. Every thought, every action, slurred and blurred. Sonny dropped him into a chair at the kitchen table. His butt slipped from under him. He clutched the arms of the chair and held tight, fighting to stay in his seat. He looked around. Barry’s face materialized and then smeared, the features shifting in and out of focus. The whole room strobed. And there were lots of voices now. Could have been yelling mixed in there, or maybe that was just the way sound had begun to filter in and out. Loud and soft. Soft and loud. Reality had a heartbeat.

  He saw Sonny grab an envelope from Barry. Sonny’s voice came out of a well, then turned crystal clear. Fitz concentrated, listening to Sonny.

  “I’ll read it. We can do it, Mr. Schiff.”

  “This Saturday. Three days from now. I know, Mr. S
chiff.”

  “He’ll be fine, Mr. Schiff.”

  “I’ll stay away from the draft beer, Mr. Schiff.”

  “We’ll take care of it. We’ll wait on your call, Mr. Schiff.”

  Sonny pulled Fitz to his feet. This time his legs stayed under him. Sonny rifled through his pockets, finding the keys to the Bronco.

  “Let’s go, Fitz. I’ll drive you home.”

  As Sonny walked him into the front hall, Fitz grabbed the wall. He shrugged Sonny’s hand off his shoulder and turned, looking at Barry, Johnny and Derek. A headache wound through his skull. He swallowed, trying to work up some spit before talking. These guys needed to know he wasn’t someone to be messed with. The shot he took to the head was lucky and they shouldn’t count on being lucky again.

  Hard as he tried, he couldn’t work his mouth. He felt unplugged, like he was being worked by a hand up his ass. He opened his mouth.

  “You guys… you guys are…”

  He bent over. Puke splashed on the floor. Sonny pulled him away. He dragged his feet, tasting bourbon and bile in his mouth as Sonny led him toward the front door.

  “Those guys were lucky,” he slurred.

  The sound of Sonny mumbling, “Just walk Fitz,” was far away. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other as he leaned on Sonny.

  Chapter Twelve

  Curtis parked his bike behind a giant dead ash tree and walked down the side of the road toward Barry’s gravel driveway. All the ash trees were dying from some kind of Asian beetle, but it didn’t matter. Other trees would take their place.

  The front of Barry’s drive was landscaped beautifully. It had a red brick mailbox, a split rail fence, bushes, boulders and clay pots brimming with flowers that probably matched every color in the popsicle box. It looked welcoming. Curtis imagined the mailman whistling as he dropped mail off, unaware that he could be cut up and buried in the boxes he delivered if he pissed Barry off.