The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  An hour later she was done. She stepped back. It was an exact drawing of the painting on the wall. A perfect replica of the perspective and dimension, showing a woman sitting on a beach dune, watching the sun rise over the ocean.

  Julia closed her eyes, rocking on her feet, then looked at the canvas and started drawing again. The painting on the wall wasn’t her guide anymore. Now she drew from an image in her head. The long hair. The wide shoulders. His hands braced in the sand behind him, sitting next to her, watching the rising sun with her. If Curtis could have a plan, she could have a plan. She just needed someone to believe in her. Someone to lean on. And whether he knew it or not, Curtis was that person.

  She sketched Curtis, worrying the details, enjoying the process of remembering his face and hands and body. It took longer than drawing the replica of the painting, but she lost herself in the work, focusing on transferring her memories of his body and posture and attitude to the canvas. And when she finally leaned back and put the pencil down, she knew she had it. She looked in the direction of Curtis’s apartment and then back at her drawing.

  The figure sitting in the sand next to the girl was shirtless. Only the side of his face was visible. But somehow she’d captured more than a compilation of muscle bunched across shoulders and arms, long hair and a profile of his face. She stared at the drawing. She’d transferred some of Curtis into that drawing. Easygoing. Confident. And dangerous. He was someone she wanted by her side. She looked across her apartment, staring at the wall she shared with him, and tapped the pencil in her palm.

  “I’ll make us breakfast tomorrow,” she thought. “You’ll tell me what you’re going to do with your life. And then I’ll tell you that I want to leave. And we’ll take it from there.”

  She picked up her brush and put blobs of paint on her palette. Black, blue, yellow, gray, purple, orange. She started painting the sky.

  It seemed like minutes had passed when she finally stopped. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It had been two hours. She examined her work. Her and Curtis on the dune. The sun rising over the water. The dark night clouds infused with the coming light of day. She took a deep breath, a sense of calm settling over her. She dabbed touches of dark blue, purple and gray on a cloud, then switched to white, orange and yellow.

  It was exactly the kind of painting she wanted.

  Mixing darks and lights always made her feel good.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fitz zipped up and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands, wiped them on the front of his jeans and walked out of the bathroom.

  It was quiet as a church, or more to the point, quiet as a church basement. He smiled. It hadn’t changed a bit since high school. The same yellow-tinged walls from the legions of smokers that filled the seats for Wednesday night bingo. The same dim fluorescent lighting over rows and rows of folding tables and chairs. He remembered manning a blackjack table down here once for a casino night fundraiser to help pay off the new gym. Thank God those days were over. The priests and nuns were a pain in the ass, always in his face, accusing him of stealing this or that. Who was gonna miss thirty or forty bucks from a casino night? He wiped his hands on his pants, a distant memory of Sister Nativa’s voice echoing in his head.

  “You’ll never amount to anything if you keep up the nonsense, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”

  He snorted out a laugh, turned and started up the stairs that led to the vestibule of the church. Halfway up the stairs he stopped at a landing. The stained glass window on his right was at ground level. He got up on tiptoe and looked at the window latch. This would be easy.

  He turned the window latch and pushed the window open. A blast of thick summer air broke over his face. He stuck his head in the open window. It would be a tight fit, but he could get his shoulders through. If he could get his shoulders through, he’d get the torch and tanks through. But he needed a box or something to step on once he crawled through the window.

  He dragged the trash can from the bathroom under the window, stepped back and looked it over. It would work. He grinned and reached in his back pocket, pulling out a screwdriver. Now all he had to do was unscrew the window latch.

  He stepped on top of the trashcan and worked on the latch. He froze, hearing footsteps approaching. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. Who the hell was going to church at seven on a Thursday night?

  He pocketed the screwdriver and climbed off the trashcan. The side door opened near the top of the stairs. Father Salvatore stepped into view and looked down at him.

  “Can I help you?” said Father Sal.

  Fitz smiled as he climbed the stairs. “Hi, Father,” he said, shaking Father Salvatore’s hand as he reached the top.

  Father Salvatore narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “I went to school here,” said Fitz. “Jackie Fitzsimmons.”

  “That’s right,” said Father Salvatore. He went quiet for a moment, nodding, then refocused his attention on Fitz. “And what brings you to church tonight?”

  “I needed to light a candle.”

  “Is it something you want to talk about?”

  “No, Father.” Fitz shrugged. “Just need to light a candle and say a prayer.”

  Father Salvatore clapped Fitz on the shoulder. “Not to rush you, but I have a couple things to take care of and then I’m locking up for the night. You’ll need to be quick.”

  Fitz followed Father Salvatore into the church. He crossed himself with holy water and followed Father Salvatore toward the altar. He touched a knee to the floor and then walked toward the rows of candles set up in front of the Virgin Mary. Father Salvatore removed a gold tablecloth from the altar and slung it over his shoulder.

  “You ready for the big mass this Sunday?” said Fitz, lighting the end of a long, thin, beeswax candle. Father Salvatore picked up two pots of lilies from the altar. His mouth tightened as he carried them.

  “Yes. We’re all ready for the one hundred year jubilee,” he said, carrying the lilies into a back hall.

  Fitz lit a blue votive candle, knelt in front of the Virgin Mary statue, crossed himself, said a Hail Mary, crossed himself again and got to his feet. Father Salvatore walked by and grabbed another armful of flowers, carrying them into the back hall. There had to be fifty pots around the altar. If Father Salvatore was clearing all the flowers off the altar, he’d be moving pots for another twenty minutes. Fitz touched the screwdriver in his pocket, watching Father Salvatore walk toward the altar and pick up more potted lilies.

  “I’m heading out, Father. Good luck with the hundred year thing.”

  “You too, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Father Salvatore. “Have a good night.”

  Fitz slid the screwdriver out of his pocket as he made his way through the vestibule.

  Standing on top of the trashcan, he loosened the screw on the window latch until it was barely hanging on. He closed the window and pushed the latch closed, looking over his handiwork. No one would notice. He jumped off the trashcan. All he’d have to do is push on that window tomorrow night. The latch would fall off and he’d be inside.

  He walked out the side door. The heat wrapped around him immediately. He looked back at the window he’d jerry rigged. The stained glass showed a scene of Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane while his apostles slept. He walked to his Bronco, opened the driver’s side door and looked back at the church.

  This was gonna be easy pickings.

  He pulled away, cranking the volume on his radio. He pounded both hands on the steering wheel.

  One more night, baby. That gold was gonna be his tomorrow night.

  He whooped.

  Barry and his crew would be sleeping while he drove away with the gold. No one had their shit together, like him.

  He punched the steering wheel and laughed.

  No one.

  Chapter Twenty

  Curtis rolled off his bed, grabbed the aluminum baseball bat under his bed and pulled it out. He jumped to his feet, ready to skull the guy standing
in his room. The man raised his hands.

  “Curtis. Take it easy. It’s me.”

  Curtis squinted at the figure, then looked at the clock on his nightstand. He pointed the business end of the bat at the man.

  “Dad? It’s after two in the morning. How’d you get in?”

  Curtis’s father tipped his head at the bat. “You want to put that away?”

  Curtis slid the bat under the bed. He reached for the light on his nightstand.

  “Keep it off,” said his father.

  The bed squeaked as Curtis sat and rubbed his face. His head hurt.

  “What do you want?” Curtis asked, watching his father stroll through the room, running his hand over the dusty, bare tops of both dressers before making his way to the nightstand next to Curtis. The weak red light from the clock radio reflected off his face, showing his gray, matted beard and ponytail. The ponytail was new. Maybe an attempt to clean himself up. Curtis watched his father drum his fingers next to a glass of water on the nightstand.

  “Look at this place,” said Curtis’s father. “No pictures. No wrestling trophies. No nothing. It’s like you’re not even here.”

  “I know,” said Curtis. He lifted the glass of water off the nightstand and took a sip. His head really hurt. He put the glass down and squeezed his eyes shut. “So whatta you want?”

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that his father had backed into the shadows by his closet. Curtis could just make out his father lowering his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “So you’re leaving,” said his father.

  “Yeah.”

  “On account of me?”

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Wish I’d done better for you and Fitz.”

  “I know,” said Curtis.

  “I feel like it all slipped away. We had everything. And then that thing with Terry happened. It all went to hell so fast. I couldn’t stop it.”

  Curtis got to his feet. “It’s two in the morning,” he said. “Can we do this another time?”

  He heard his father sigh and take his hands out of his pockets, punching a fist into an open palm. “I’m sorry, but it keeps coming back to me. I’m drinking with Duck and Artie and next thing I know they’re putting me in a cab. Then I wake up and see Terry all burned to hell, a can of gas tipped over by my foot. I can’t get it out of my head.”

  Curtis moved to grab his dad and get him out of here. He could relive his mistakes for the millionth time somewhere else. And then Curtis stopped. He stepped back and sat on the foot of his bed. His dad had never told him or, as far as he knew, anyone else about that night. Drank himself into a stupor, but never really talked it through. Curtis looked at the clock. It was two-thirteen in the morning, the day before he’d leave Tombs for good. If his dad wanted to tell him about it, he’d listen. It might be the last time he ever saw him.

  “Hey, Dad,” Curtis said, watching his dad pace. “Let’s go in the other room. We can talk better in there.”

  “You sure?” said his father. He looked at Curtis, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Curtis walked over and put a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, leading him out of the bedroom.

  Curtis sat his dad on the couch in the living room and gave him a can of beer. He dragged a chair out of the kitchen and sat facing his dad. The overhead kitchen light spread a dim illumination into the living room. His dad poured half a can of beer down his throat and settled back on the couch.

  “So what’s up?” said Curtis, cracking his beer open.

  His dad downed the rest of his beer and held up the empty. “I’m gonna get another one, okay?”

  Curtis watched his dad tromp into the kitchen. He could hear the fridge door open and close. His father came back with one can tucked under his arm and another in hand. He sat down, opened a beer and swallowed half of it and burped. He eyed Curtis.

  “I’m here to talk about you leaving.”

  “What about it?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a drunk,” said Curtis. “You might tell people that don’t need to know.”

  His dad took a deep breath and exhaled. “Can’t argue with that.” He took a long pull on his beer and looked toward the sliding glass door. The night was clear and quiet. “I wish things were different,” he said.

  “You already said that,” said Curtis.

  “I did?” his dad said, looking into the night. “I can’t think straight. Tried to stay sober today after you told me you were leaving. I wanted to talk to you without being drunk. Guess it messed up my head. Seems to happen a lot lately, me forgetting things.”

  Curtis watched his dad take another long drink.

  “I needed to say a couple things,” his dad said, clearing his throat. He held his can toward Curtis. “One is, I love you. Might not seem like it, but I do. And Fitz, too. He’s had it tough. Tougher than you know. The other thing is, I know why you’re leaving. Can’t be easy living here with me around.” He tapped his beer can. “People must always be talking about what a lousy bum I am.”

  “Not if they want to keep their teeth,” Curtis said. His dad smiled and shook his head.

  “But I am a bum,” his dad said. “You know what I do most days? I go in the square and feed the pigeons. Sit there and think about when you were little and me and your mom were together. Me and Terry were hitting our stride toward the end there. We could’ve run this town.”

  “You think so?” said Curtis, watching his dad sit up.

  “Sure,” said his dad. “Barry was neck deep with lawyers, fighting to stay out of prison. Me and Terry started pulling solo jobs while Barry was out of commission. No one else had the balls or the brains we had.”

  Curtis watched his dad’s chest expand. He filled out before Curtis’s eyes, becoming the hard-ass, sharp-minded man who used to swing into the house singing and carrying on with Terry, flashing money and filling the house with laughter, giving Mom a playful swat on the ass as he danced with her through the kitchen.

  “That must have put a target on your back, getting out in front like that,” he said.

  “You have no idea,” said his dad, laughing. “But with Barry out of the mix, we hooked up with Duck and Artie. Back in their day, they were something. They told us what safes to scope out, who we needed to keep an eye on. They kept us clean. We were lucky to have them.” He shook his head. “Didn’t come cheap, though. They started asking for thirty percent of the take. Fifteen is a normal finders fee. Thirty is out of line. So we had to shut down the relationship. They weren’t happy, but they understood. Those old guys always used their heads. And you could trust them.” He pointed at Curtis. “Work with people you trust, like we did. If you work with solid guys, you’ll never regret it.”

  Curtis swigged his beer. Duck and Artie. The old guys were a never-ending surprise. They were hooked in with Barry on the gold heist. They had inside knowledge of a set-up that was supposed to put Fitz and Sonny in prison. They had a history with his dad and Terry. And they did it all without anyone the wiser. He nodded at his dad.

  “I’ll remember that, Dad,” he said, thinking how smart Duck and Artie had to be to keep such a low profile all these years. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to dig in on the old guys. But someone else would have to do it. He was leaving. Keeping tabs on those old codgers would have to be someone else’s job.

  He noticed a tremor in his dad’s hands. The hard focus the first beer gave him was starting to fall apart. Based on history, it wouldn’t be long before he became incoherent. This father-son walk down memory lane was just about done.

  “I guess that’s all I got,” his dad said. “Partner with the right people. And get a good woman, like your mom.” His dad lifted his beer, spilling it on the couch. He wiped his dirty sleeve over the wet spot, downed the rest of his beer, put the can on the floor and got to his feet. Curtis st
ood with him.

  “So here’s the point,” his dad said. “Everybody wants things. Money, booze, gambling, sex.” He put his hands on Curtis’s bare shoulders. “None of it matters. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I know what you need. Somebody to build a life with. Someone to spend a life with. Like I did with your mom before I blew it to hell. All the rest is crap. Money doesn’t kiss you in the morning and make your eggs. Booze don’t rub your back after a long day. Point is, if you have a good woman and good friends, you got it all.”

  Curtis watched his dad walk over to the television and reach up, pulling the photo of him, Sonny, Fitz and the blue marlin off the wall. His dad walked back and took Curtis’s beer out of his hand.

  “These are your friends,” his dad said, waving the photo. He drank Curtis’s beer in one steady gulp and set the empty can on the carpet. He shoved the photo into Curtis’s hands. “Keep your friends and find a girl. You do that, you’ll make me proud,” he said, squeezing Curtis’s shoulder.

  Curtis held his father’s gaze. “Okay Dad,” he said, feeling the grip on his shoulder weaken and slide down to his hand.

  His dad opened the sliding glass door and walked out on the balcony. He wagged his finger at Curtis. “Take care of yourself. Don’t screw up, like me.”

  Curtis picked up the empty beer can from the carpet. When he straightened, his dad was gone. He walked out on the balcony, noticing a screwdriver on the patio. He toed the screwdriver, knowing his dad used it to pop the lock. His dad’s voice filled the night. Curtis looked over the railing, listening to his dad sing as he walked across the parking lot.

  Curtis went inside and closed the door. He held the photo of him, Sonny and Fitz with Big Blue as he walked toward the kitchen. Fitz scowling. Sonny laughing. Big Blue hanging by his tail, waiting to get stuffed.