The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  She lowered her chin to her chest. Her hands turned clammy and she started to shake.

  It took time before he raped me.

  She stepped away from the door, her breathing shallow as she walked to the kitchen and braced her sweaty, shaking hands on the counter.

  A sense that either her heart or mind was breaking overwhelmed her.

  She looked at the door and focused on Curtis’s knocking. She couldn’t let him see her like this.

  Curtis’s voice hissed.

  “Julia? Open up. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  She could hear Curtis pacing back and forth in front of the door. He did that for a long time. Then she heard his apartment door open and shut with a thud.

  She went limp, barely able to stand.

  She walked back to her bedroom, crawled on her bed and buried her face in the comforter, feeling a small, hard thorn of fear planted solidly in her chest. She reached for a glass on her nightstand and took a drink. Putting the glass back on the nightstand, she looked at her clock radio. Two thirteen. She blinked, trying to make sense of what happened tonight between her and James. And then she thought of Curtis, coming to help her. She looked at the clock again. Two thirty-two. Almost twenty minutes had passed. Her chest tightened and she pressed a hand on her heart. It thumped hard and fast, as if she was running a race.

  “Something’s wrong with me,” she thought.

  She sat up, opened her nightstand and pulled out a rosary. The black beads rattled as she untangled it.

  She held it against her chest and prayed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Something banged against the side of Fitz’s trailer. A chorus of kids shouted. Fitz rubbed his face and sat up, seeing his shoes, pants and shirt spread over his living room floor. A touch of a headache lingered, but a couple aspirin would take care of it.

  He shuffled to the sink in his boxers and looked out the window. The sun was barely up and the summer heat was already building. Freezer cold winters and blast furnace summers with nothing in between. He spit in the sink. Tombs was a bitch. He watched Billy Mortensen, a little punk with a shaved head, skid to a stop under his window and pick something up from the ground. The rest of the trailer park delinquents—nothing but a bunch of hillbillies who didn’t know who their daddies were—jumped up and down, yelling for Billy to hurry up. There had to be fifteen of them out there. He watched Billy rear back, holding a ball wrapped in black electrical tape. Billy’s grunt filtered through the screen as he whipped the ball toward a shirtless, barefoot kid a hundred feet away. Fitz dug crust out of the corner of his eye. They were playing baseball.

  The sun was barely up and these circle-jerk monkeys were already starting their three-ring circus. He leaned toward the window, pressing his nose on the screen, watching Billy Mortensen run toward a makeshift ball diamond.

  Fitz yelled, “Hit my house with that ball again and I’ll beat your ass Billy Mortensen!”

  Fitz had to admit, even though it wasn’t fun waking up to the sound of these grubby kids having a sunrise hoe-down, it was fun watching Billy Mortensen flinch at the sound of his voice, stumble and take a header. He watched Billy sit up, rub his forehead and turn to eyeball him. If the little jack-off had the stones to say something, his bad day was just beginning. Fitz stepped back, opened his fridge and grabbed a can of beer. He cracked it open and took a long pull, looking out the window. The scrape on Billy’s forehead looked nasty. It was gonna leave a mark. Fitz burped.

  “Good. The little pissant will have something to remember me by,” he thought.

  He turned away from the window and lifted the beer to his mouth.

  “Eat me, faggot!”

  Beer spilled as he spun toward Billy’s voice.

  “You shoulda got burned up with your dad!”

  Fitz slammed his beer down and ran for the door. He busted through the screen door, running full tilt around his trailer. As he rounded the corner in his boxers, he saw Billy sprinting across the ball diamond toward the woods. He thought about giving Billy his beating later, but then Billy flipped the bird. The little shit thought he was gonna lip off like that and get away with it. Fitz started running. The effort killed his head, but Billy was getting his beating right now.

  The distance closed fast. Twenty feet narrowed to fifteen and then ten. Fitz humped at top gear, drawing closer to Billy with each stride. He hit the bare dirt the kids were using as an infield and winced as he stepped on a rock left over from when it used to be a gravel parking lot. The Adams brothers who owned the trailer park had scraped a bulldozer over the lot and seeded it two years ago, but the grass had never taken, probably because they’d done a half-assed job of clearing the gravel. The rocks were killing Fitz’s bare feet. He thought he’d fill the Adams boys in on their crappy workmanship later when he dragged them over here by their ears.

  Each step was torture, but he pressed on. The little bastard Mortensen was almost in grabbing distance. He lunged and slapped a hand on Billy’s shoulder. A bolt of pain lanced up his heel as he stepped on a sharp piece of gravel. He pulled lame and Billy squirted out of his grasp. It didn’t take more than a few seconds before Billy was in the woods, flipping the bird one last time before he disappeared in the undergrowth.

  Fitz lifted his foot and examined his heel. He hopped for a bit, checking it out. A bruise was blossoming, but there was no blood. He noticed the rest of the kids were watching him. A bare-chested kid in shorts and a backward turned ball cap stood ten feet away, holding a wooden baseball bat.

  Fitz hobbled over and took the bat.

  “You tell Billy Mortensen I’m gonna bust his ass next time I see him. You hear?” he said.

  The kid nodded.

  Fitz put the bat over his knee and strained to break it. A wave of dizziness stopped him. He put the end of the bat on the ground and touched his forehead. One of the kids watching from a safe distance giggled. A few others joined in. They went silent as Fitz looked up, put the bat over his knee, showed his teeth and grunted. The bat snapped with a splintery crack. He widened his stance, waiting for the wave of dizziness to fade. He pointed the cracked end of the bat at the bare-chested kid.

  “And don’t be playing ball here, waking my ass up in the morning no more,” he said.

  The kid nodded again.

  He tossed the splintered bat on the ground and stalked away. Halfway across the field his vision wobbled, just like it had last night after Barry clocked him with that glass.

  He started walking slow and steady, trying for all the world to make it look like something caught his eye on his trailer and he was checking it out. No reason to give these punk kids more to giggle about. He stepped around the side of his trailer. Out of the kids’ line of sight, he kneeled and put a hand on the ground. The world spun. He waited for it to stop, then bear-shuffled to his front door.

  Inside, he grabbed his shirt off the floor and made straight for the kitchen sink to splash cold water on his face. He wiped his face, blew his nose in his shirt and hung his head. Every time he moved it took a second for the inside of his head to catch up. Felt like he was a step behind his own shadow. He picked up the beer he’d left on the counter. It was warm. He poured it down the sink, got a fresh one and sat on his couch. The beer shushed open.

  “Gotta take it easy,” he thought, taking a sip. “I’m gonna be worthless if we peel that safe and the cops show. Won’t get twenty feet before I fall on my face with my head spinning like this.”

  He touched his temple. It hurt. He pushed his finger into the bruise, letting the pain spread. The pain was nothing. What was something was the dizziness. That was a problem. He mumbled, “Goddammit,” and gave his temple a short knuckle punch, then sucked air between clenched teeth. Now that really hurt. He rubbed his bruised temple.

  “Shady-ass Barry. Hitting me when I wasn’t looking,” he mumbled.

  He leaned forward, drinking his beer.

  “I ain’t gonna be worth a kick in the balls with this he
ad.”

  He poured half the beer down his throat and held the can on his bare thigh. He flexed his hand, listening to the can crinkle and pop.

  “It ain’t enough that I owe Barry ten large because the stupid Indians dropped that series with the White Sox?” he said to the empty room. “Now I gotta call him Mr. Schiff? I’m putting my neck on the line with this gold heist. He should be calling me Mister.”

  He gulped his beer. It was always the same. Nobody gave an inch. He was the one that grew up living with the guy who killed his dad. He was the one doing the heavy lifting on this gold heist. And what did he get for it? A crack in the head for not calling Barry ‘Mr. Schiff.’

  The beer can crunched as he tightened his grip. Everybody was screwing him.

  A wave of dizziness flooded over him. He hung his head between his knees and held the cold beer against his bruised temple.

  “This is bullshit,” he said.

  He ripped the can in half. Beer splashed on his arms and chest. He threw the torn can across the room and paced in front of the couch, running his beer-soaked hands through his hair.

  Barry needed a big hurt. The kind of hurt he’d remember for a long, long time.

  Fitz stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed and he said, “Shit yeah,” as it came clear. Giving Barry a beating would be hard with Johnny Tong and Derek Ryder hanging around. Hurting Barry was a different matter. All he cared about was money. If this gold heist got yanked from him, he’d be hurt worse than a beating. He’d be crazy pissed, with no one to blame but himself. It would drive him nuts.

  Fitz laughed.

  This would be easy. All he had to do was go in Friday night, take the gold and skip town. When Barry found out he’d been played he’d burst a blood vessel. It would be better than a simple beating. It would torment him forever.

  Fitz walked across the room, picked up the torn halves of the beer can and tossed them in the trash under the sink. He stretched out on the couch, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “Yeah. I’ll peel that safe wide open tomorrow night,” he thought. “Sonny usually handles the torch, but I can do it this one time.”

  He closed his eyes, smiling.

  “Barry won’t know what hit him, but he’ll feel it for the rest of his life.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Curtis opened his fridge. There wasn’t much. He scooped up a tin of ham, a jar of olives, a bag of white grapes and put everything on the counter. The tin of ham looked good, but he had plans for it, so it was gonna be olives and grapes. His stomach rumbled. The breakfast of champions.

  He spilled toothpicks on the counter, speared a grape and an olive, ate them and kept eating until they were all gone, then he walked to his bedroom. Not bad. Sweet and salty.

  The shower was scalding hot. He took his time, shaving, washing his hair, brushing his teeth and scrubbing himself raw as he thought over the next two days. He and Sonny were going to be running out of town with a lot of money, but where could they go?

  He shaved, thinking it over.

  It had to be someplace where they could relax and take their time getting rid of the gold. And they had to be able to disappear if someone tracked them down.

  The shower pressure dropped and the water turned cold. He stepped out of the chilly spray. The water in this building was terrible—one person starting a dishwasher blasted anyone taking a shower with cold water. His face went slack.

  Cold water. North. That’s where they needed to go.

  The water turned lukewarm. He rinsed his face. Buffalo would be perfect. If anyone came looking for him and Sonny, they could jump the border to Canada.

  He toweled dry as he went to his bedroom. He laid a clean pair of jeans, a white tee-shirt, and socks on his bed, pulled on his underwear and got on the floor to do pushups. Blood warmed his chest and shoulders after the first twenty-five. He kept pounding them out, feeling the burn seep into his chest and shoulders.

  The place to go was a little town on the Canadian border near Buffalo called Lewiston. It was close to the Lower Niagara River, Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, less than a day’s drive away from Tombs, and the fishing was unbelievable, with salmon, steelhead, smallmouth and walleye—each of which he’d caught on trips up there with his dad when he was a kid. It wasn’t the same as fishing for marlin and tuna, but it would do. The Lower Niagara never froze so he could run a fishing charter year-round. It was close to perfect.

  Pushups forty-five through fifty were hard. He toughed them out, touching his chest to the floor on the last rep. A film of sweat broke over him as he got dressed. He walked into the kitchen, stuck the tin of ham in his pocket, checked his watch and headed down to the parking lot.

  It was eleven o’clock. Sonny had already met with Duck and Artie to find out about Sacred Heart’s security and alarm system.

  He straddled his motorcycle.

  Sonny would be at The Red Fox in an hour. Time to get the show on the road.

  Shimmers of heat rippled off the street as he drove. Before he met with Sonny, he wanted to check on Julia at Sacred Heart. She had to be shook up from last night and she deserved a shoulder to lean on after what she did for him. Plus, he had to admit, she was starting to grow on him.

  But he needed to make one quick stop before seeing her.

  He drove past Sacred Heart and cut through side streets, moving deeper into the city. The stone courtyard of the library blazed in the sun as he braked next to the curbside book drop. He pulled the tin of deviled ham from his pocket and tossed it toward the planter boxes next to the front doors. It clattered on the white stone courtyard.

  The bushes in the planter boxes rustled.

  A dirty, bearded face appeared.

  The bum climbed out of the bushes, picked up the tin of ham and stomped across the courtyard.

  “How many times I gotta tell you?” said the bum. “I don’t need your help. Leave me alone.” He threw the tin of ham at Curtis. “No more beer, food, or whatever else pops into your head. You hear me?”

  The sun stoked a thick, humid heat that boiled and baked everything. The bum, however, seemed unaffected. He walked across the library’s stone courtyard without shoes, wearing a long pair of jeans, a black sweater and a dirty, navy blue suit coat. Layers of clothes seemed to be standard for a lot of the homeless. You had to keep warm at night. But Curtis figured his dad would’ve had more sense.

  Curtis recognized his dad’s sweater. It hung on the hook inside the garage when he was a kid, living in the house with his mom and dad on Bennington Avenue. He remembered his dad wearing that sweater when he went out to shovel snow or work on the car in the dead of winter. And now here his dad was, waving his arms, ranting and raving with heat rising from the courtyard all around him, wearing the same damn sweater. Curtis wanted to yell at him to take it off, clean himself up and act normal. It was hotter than hell for God’s sake. It was embarrassing. But he kept his mouth shut, even as his dad, smelling of days’ old sweat, grabbed his shoulder.

  “How many times have I told you to stay away?” his dad shouted. “Leave me alone. You live your life and I’ll live mine.”

  Curtis looked at his dad. His long hair was gray, matted, and greasy; swept back onto his shoulders. Dirt covered his face and beard, except for the white tracks of crow’s feet next to his eyes.

  A security guard opened the front door of the library. Curtis grabbed his dad’s hand. “Shut up Dad,” he hissed. “The security guard is watching. Keep it up and he’ll kick you outta here.”

  “I hope he does,” his dad shouted. “Hope the cops throw me in jail. At least I’ll have a bed for the night.”

  The security guard stepped into the courtyard. “Is there a problem here?” he said, tapping the walkie talkie on his hip.

  Curtis pushed his dad’s hand off his shoulder. The tin of ham lay in the street next to the curb. He picked it up.

  “No problem,” he said, handing the tin to his dad. “I’m moving out of town tomorrow. Cleaned out my fr
idge and I’m dropping food off for the homeless.”

  He looked at his dad. His dad looked at the dented tin, turning it in his hands. Curtis put his bike in gear and pulled away. It wasn’t the smartest move to tell his dad he was leaving. Barry had his radar on high, looking for anything out of place before the gold heist. If his dad told the wrong people his son was leaving town, it could cause problems. But it was worth the risk to see his dad one last time.

  He motored up a hill toward the towers of Sacred Heart. The massive stone church rose into view as he crested the hill. The last mass he went to was thirteen years ago. That was his mom’s doing. She made Dad go, too—every Sunday. Didn’t matter that he was a thief. According to Mom, he still had to try to be a good person. That was the deal. Or at least it used to be, before everything got blown to hell when Fitz’s dad got torched and Mom found out Dad was cheating. That was when she left, Fitz moved in, and Dad tried to hold it all together, even though everyone in Tombs turned their back on him.

  Curtis stopped at a red light, the steady thrum of his motorcycle vibrating through him. He looked across the intersection at Sacred Heart grade school, a monolith of sandstone and brick bordered by chain link. The high school across the street was a bigger version of the grade school, squatting behind a fenced-in parking lot it shared with the church. The church’s stone steps fanned down to the street, inviting parishioners in.

  Curtis revved his engine. Lots of memories were packed in these two blocks. Nearly half his life. They’d preached the love-one-another and forgive-and-forget bullshit to him his whole life. And then, when it came time to put it to the test, no one offered a hand or even a smile when Dad needed it. Dad had to take a job washing cars, and even that didn’t last. Somebody got to the owner and the owner of the car wash sent Dad packing after a week. Bunch of holier-than-thou hypocrites.

  After the car wash his dad got a bartending job out of town, working it until he and Fitz graduated high school and started working at Angel’s garage. After that, Dad fell off the map, turning into a guy that slept under bushes.