The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  Chapter Seventeen

  Curtis rubbed his knees, wishing he could stand to stretch his legs. But his knees could take it a little longer. At least until the two guys at the bar finished whispering and laughing.

  “Look at him,” one of the guys said. “Wave back at him, Artie. That Sonny is dumber than a burned match.”

  “I’m waving, I’m waving,” Artie chuckled. “Bye-bye Sonny. Maybe we’ll visit you and the Fitzsimmons boy at Tombs Correctional. We’ll bring you a carton of cigarettes.”

  Curtis clenched his jaw. It was those old guys, Duck and Artie, talking like Sonny and Fitz were going to prison. It might not be a bad idea to stand up, grab them by their wrinkled necks and ask what they were talking about. Nah. It would be better to slip out of here and think things through before making a move. The barmaid walked over with two rum and cokes and set them on the bar over Curtis’s head.

  He heard the glasses slide across the bar. One of the old men said, “Thanks, honey,” and the barmaid took his money. If she could give these old farts their change and get them out of here, Curtis could leave without being seen and tell Sonny what he’d heard. But the stupid barmaid just stood there, turning the bill over, her face scrunched.

  “Where did you get this from?” she said.

  She dangled the bill. Curtis stared at it. It was a wrinkled, filthy fifty with a corner ripped off.

  Artie laughed. “Dug it up from my backyard. Us old guys don’t trust banks.”

  A piece of dirt fell off the bill as the barmaid waved it before putting it in the register. She handed the old guys their change. Curtis rocked on his heels. His knees were aching. Coins rattled on the bar. In another five seconds Duck and Artie would go to their table and start playing cards. Then he could pull Sonny outside to talk. These old guys couldn’t see him hanging with Sonny right before the gold heist. They’d tell Barry. It would be better if they never knew he was here.

  “Is that keg ready yet? What’s taking you so long?”

  Curtis looked up at the barmaid. Dumb blonde. He stood and pushed her out of the way, keeping his head down as he walked the length of the bar. “Let’s go,” he said, moving fast as he pointed at Sonny.

  One of the old guys yelled, “Hey! Hold up son, come here!” as he walked out the back door.

  The heat punched him in the face. He jogged along the patio’s fence and ducked around the corner. If one of the old guys popped his head out, he’d take off and catch up with Sonny later. The back door opened and Sonny walked out, shading his eyes as he walked down the steps.

  “Over here!” Curtis hissed. He grabbed Sonny’s shoulder. “Shut up and follow me,” he said, running toward the drive-thru next door.

  Curtis pulled Sonny inside the drive-thru bay. It was thick with exhaust from an idling car. An older, heavyset lady carried a case of beer to the car. She took the driver’s money and eyed Curtis.

  “A pack of smokes and a six of whatever’s cheap,” said Curtis.

  “I got it,” said Sonny, pulling out his wallet. He nodded at the lady. “And a pack of smokes for me too.”

  The car edged by Curtis and Sonny. The lady took Sonny’s money and waddled away to get the cigarettes and beer. Curtis grabbed Sonny’s arm and nodded at The Red Fox. An old guy with thick white hair walked along the back fence, looking in every direction.

  “What’s the problem?” said Sonny. “That’s Duck. He’s so old he probably forgot where the bathroom is.”

  “Shh,” said Curtis. “Just watch.”

  A stooped, bald-headed man with a gray moustache walked into view, coming from around the front of The Red Fox. He met Duck behind the fenced patio. The bald-headed man raised his hands, gesturing at nothing in particular, then shrugged. Curtis pulled Sonny into the drive-thru bay.

  “So Duck and Artie are walking around. So what?” said Sonny.

  Curtis stepped aside as the heavyset woman came over with two packs of cigarettes and a six-pack of beer. She gave Sonny his change and made a beeline for her air-conditioned booth. “You can’t smoke in here,” she said, then stepped into the booth and closed the door.

  Curtis set the six-pack between his feet. Sonny lit a cigarette.

  “Listen,” said Curtis. “I heard those old guys talking about you and Fitz.”

  Sonny took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Duck and Artie? They gave me the whole security layout on the church this morning. They were pretty cool about it. They ain’t a problem.”

  “If you think going to prison ain’t a problem, you’re right,” said Curtis. He touched the side of his nose, feeling the pressure from all the heat and humidity. The exhaust fumes in the drive-thru and Sonny’s dumb ass weren’t helping matters either.

  “Whatta you mean, prison?” said Sonny.

  “The place where guys cornhole other guys. You know, bars over the windows and orange jumpsuits. That sound familiar?” said Curtis.

  “That’s what they said? That I’m going where guys cornhole other guys?”

  Curtis pulled a cigarette from Sonny’s open pack. He lit it and blew out smoke, shaking his head. “No. They said, ‘Bye-bye, Sonny. We’ll bring you and Fitz cigarettes when you’re in prison.’” Curtis took another drag. “They talked like you and Fitz were being set up.”

  Sonny stepped around the side of the bay to look at Duck and Artie. “I’ll set their teeth up on the ground. Those old farts.”

  Curtis pulled Sonny back in the bay. “Don’t let them see you. They’ll tell Barry they saw us together.” He punched Sonny in the chest. “Barry’ll skin us alive if he gets a whiff of what we’re up to. Got it?” He waited for Sonny to nod before tilting his head in the direction of Duck and Artie. “So what did they say about the job?”

  “They went over the security cameras and the alarms.”

  “And?”

  “And they said the Bishop’s coming tomorrow with the gold. They said the cameras are all digital, but the high school principal and her secretary are leaving around three or four. They’ll have a recording of us, but if we wear hoodies and keep our faces off camera, we’re golden. And if we use the door off the parking lot, we’ll only run into two cameras. If we bag ‘em they’ll only have a couple seconds of footage.”

  “I checked that back door,” said Curtis. “It’s gonna be no problem. It’ll take less than a minute to get in.”

  Sonny nodded and grinned, smoke leaking from his mouth. “Then we’re ready to go.”

  “What about the alarms?” asked Curtis.

  Sonny smacked Curtis in the chest. “Check this out. Duck and Artie have been walking Father Salvatore to morning mass, watching him punch in the security code after he unlocks the door. They gave me the code. We’re not gonna have to mess with the alarms.”

  “How we turning that gold around? Barry got a buyer?”

  “They said Barry will take care of it, but listen, man—we can do it ourselves. I looked it up on the internet. We can melt it down with an acetylene torch. We’ll have to get something called a crucible and some molds, but we can melt it down and then dump it at pawn shops, coin shops, jewelry shops, wherever. I called around. Everybody is buying gold. They’re like leprechauns out there, running around trying to get their hands on it. It’s crazy. Barry said we’re looking at a quarter mil.”

  Curtis took a drag on his cigarette, dropped it and stepped on it. He wiped his face. It was a steam bath in here. He pulled out a roll of mints, gave one to Sonny and popped one in his mouth. “See if those old guys are still out there,” he said.

  Sonny poked his head around the corner. “They must have gone back inside.”

  Curtis picked up his six-pack and stepped outside with Sonny. “We have to be careful,” he said.

  “I know,” said Sonny.

  “If anybody sees us together we’ll get our asses handed to us,” said Curtis. “But if we keep our heads down we’ll be long gone before they know what happened.”

  “They’re g
onna be pissed,” said Sonny, a huge grin on his face.

  “Yeah, they are,” Curtis continued. “Which is why we gotta lay low until tomorrow night. You talk to nobody. No texts, calls, voicemails, emails—nothing. We talk face-to-face or not at all. I’ll be on my bike at the corner of Karlson and Dougwood tomorrow night at eleven, packed and ready. Get your mom’s van and bring the tools. We’ll knock the whole thing out in an hour.”

  Sonny nodded, the stupid grin plastered on his face. “You know where we’re going yet? Like Mexico or what?”

  Curtis walked toward The Red Fox with Sonny. “I’ll fill you in when we’re on our way out of town.”

  “Hey, Duck and Artie said no guns,” said Sonny. “Said it adds eight years to your sentence if you get caught, but I don’t know. You think we should take one?”

  Curtis looked at Sonny. “It ain’t a hold-up, is it?”

  “No,” said Sonny.

  “Then don’t bring one,” said Curtis. He bumped fists with Sonny and pointed behind him. “I’m in the bank parking lot.”

  “I’m parked up front,” said Sonny.

  Curtis jabbed Sonny’s chest. “Go home. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t do nothing. Got it?”

  Sonny nodded. “I gotta talk to Fitz so he thinks everything’s on the level for Saturday night, but after that, I’ll lock myself in my room.”

  Curtis punched him the shoulder. “See you Friday night. Corner of Dougwood and Karlson at eleven. Don’t be late.” He walked toward his motorcycle holding his six-pack. “And have your stuff packed. Once we’re done, we’re outta here.”

  Curtis’s ride home took five minutes. He parked his bike and carried his six-pack into the shaded stairwell of the Sunset Boulevard Apartments. Beer foamed on his hand as he cracked a can, drinking while he walked up the steps. He put the rest of the six-pack went in the fridge next to a calcified box of baking soda, pressed the cold beer against his forehead and went out on his balcony. It was too damn hot. He sat on his aluminum beach chair with his cold beer. The Tombs water tower and abandoned warehouses spread out under his gaze. He put the can between his legs and wiped his face.

  There was nothing to do now but wait.

  He looked down at the parking lot. Julia’s parking space was empty. Too bad. Now would be a good time to talk with her. He played with the pull tab on his can. The whole idea of breaking away and starting a new life jazzed her. He saw it in her eyes. She looked crazy happy. He sipped his beer, imagining what she’d do if he asked her to go. Her head would explode. That would be worth the price of admission. That would—

  His smile died. Julia wasn’t part of the plan. Sonny would flip out.

  He stood, gripped the railing and looked over Tombs.

  Sonny wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was Julia. She had her own life. The whole idea was a pipedream.

  He hefted his can. About half the beer was left, and it was starting to get warm. Julia’s car whipped into the parking lot. He leaned over the railing as she stepped out of her car.

  “Hey Julia,” he yelled. She shaded her eyes and looked up. He held up his can. “You want to come over? I got cold beer.”

  She walked toward his balcony, blocking the sun with one hand.

  “I can’t. I just had the worst afternoon. All I want is to take a shower and lie down,” she said.

  “Just one?” said Curtis, hanging over the rail.

  “I really can’t,” she said, then grinned. “What about tomorrow morning?”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m free for breakfast.”

  “I don’t know if I’m gonna be around,” he yelled, watching her duck into the stairwell.

  She poked her head around the corner.

  “Well, if you are, come over at seven,” she said, then waved and disappeared into the stairwell.

  Curtis downed the rest of his beer, crushed the can and headed inside. He walked into the kitchen, pulled out a pad of paper and sat down, scratching out a list of what he needed to pack. He stopped writing and laughed.

  “Seven o’clock?” he thought. “She’s crazy.”

  He crossed off a few items on his list, thought better of it, cursed and ripped the paper off the pad. He balled it up and tossed it on the floor, shaking his head.

  He started writing again, grinning.

  “Sonny will be pissed if she says she wants to come, but screw him.”

  He wrote, “Breakfast with Julia,” on the paper and circled it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Julia pulled her keys out of her purse and looked at Curtis’s front door ten feet down the hall. It was fun messing with him. Even with everything unraveling around her—the fight with James and now having to find a new job—Curtis cleared her head. She liked seeing him up there on his balcony, drinking beer and smiling his goofy smile, acting like it didn’t matter that he’d been beaten bloody two weeks ago.

  Or maybe he wasn’t acting. He lived in the moment. She unlocked her door, went inside and closed it, wiggling the doorknob to make sure it was locked.

  She looked at her apartment, letting out a shaky breath. After Curtis roughed James up, she doubted he’d ever come back, but she could feel his presence. She closed her eyes.

  “Relax,” she thought. “He’s gone and he’s not coming back.”

  She opened her eyes.

  Father Salvatore’s advice to find a new job had been all she could think of on her ride home, but it took a back seat to the sense that James was still here. A breeze pushed through the balcony’s sliding glass door, the sheer white drapes billowing toward the couch. Nothing was out of place. The carpet had a couple of discolored spots, but that was the only sign of last night’s struggle with James. She walked into her living room and put her purse on the couch.

  She checked every inch of every room. Finally satisfied no one was here, she went into the bathroom, locked the door, stripped and turned on the shower.

  She brushed her teeth while the water heated up, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. It was because of one bad night of not sleeping. Nothing to worry about. She stepped in the shower. The hot water felt good. After washing her hair, she sat in the tub, closed her eyes and let the hot water run over her face.

  Curtis was leaving. Good for him. He said he’d been saving money for years, and that he was going to buy a boat and start a charter fishing business. He had a plan, and he was going to do it. She hung her head, letting the hot water fall on the back of her head and neck, watching suds wash down the drain.

  Tension melted from her neck and shoulders. She could picture Curtis’s face as he told her he was leaving. Curtis didn’t smile much, but when he did, he changed. All the baggage about his family and whatever was going on with his friends melted away. She wrung the shampoo out of her hair. It would be nice to feel like that. Just once. Maybe having a plan was all it took. Not a job. A plan.

  If he could do it, maybe she could. Nothing was holding her back. This apartment had a month-to-month lease. Her car, crappy as it was, ran okay and was paid off. Her job was soon to be gone. And now that James knew where she lived, it made sense to move on. Even though Curtis put a beating on him, he wasn’t the kind of guy who would leave her alone. He’d take his time. James would wait for his chance.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t wait.

  She raised her head, remembering how the living room drapes moved in the breeze. The sliding glass door on the balcony was open. James could get in. He could be slipping through the open door right now. Her heart triphammered. She stood and opened the shower curtain. Water sprayed on the tile floor. She stepped out of the tub and slipped.

  Her ribs banged against the sink as she scrambled to stay on her feet, knocking the soap dispenser on the floor, then the toothpaste. She got her feet under her and gripped the front of the sink with both hands. Breathing hard, she straightened and looked in the mirror. Her hair dripped. The dark circles stared back. She put her face in her hands and cried.
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  The coffee table wasn’t comfortable, but it was the best seat Julia could find for staring at her painting hanging above the couch. She was spent. That cry did it. Fifteen minutes of hard core, pull-everything-out-of-you bawling had emptied her to the point where she had nothing left. But she felt okay. Not perfect, but okay. She looked over her painting. She’d been to the ocean a few times. Her uncle owned a cottage in Maine when she was little. Back when her mom and dad were still alive, they’d all go up for a week during the summer. It was beautiful, with a rocky beach. She remembered how the smell of saltwater filled the air and how the waves hushed and pulled at the shoreline, washing foam over the small smooth stones that clicked and rolled in the surf.

  She pushed the coffee table out of the way and shoved the couch until it was at a ninety-degree angle to the wall. Then she stood back, holding her bath towel tight around her. The carpet was clear in front of the painting. She walked to her bedroom, threw her towel on the bed and got dressed, pulling on a pair of paint-splattered jeans and an old tee-shirt with a red upraised fist screened on the chest. It took a few trips back-and-forth from her bedroom to set everything up. She dragged a sheet out first, spreading it on the floor in front of the painting, and then brought out her easel, paints, and canvas. She hadn’t painted in a year, but it was time. She wanted to paint the beach scene hanging above her couch again. And she wanted it to be exactly the same.

  Except for one thing.

  She put her tackle box filled with tubes of paint and brushes on the coffee table and opened it. She poked around, finding a pencil and began sharpening it with an Exacto knife.

  Her hand moved in sure, graceful strokes on the blank canvas. Barefoot, she moved around the canvas, comparing her scale and perspective against the painting on the wall. She remembered her high school art teacher, Mr. Dominick, saying she was the best natural artist he’d ever seen. She smiled, wishing Mr. Dominick could see her now. Since high school, she’d studied every art book she could find and worked on her technique until she’d become fast and flawless. The pencil scratched over the canvas and she felt all her years of study and practice coming together, her eye transferring the painting on the wall to the canvas line-by-line.