The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  He smiled at how his long hair was plastered down in the photo, wet with beer as he stood in front of Big Blue, one hand on the marlin’s stomach. He put the photo on the kitchen counter and gathered the empty beer cans from the sink, dumping them in the trash can, then walked back to look at the photo. He tapped a finger on Fitz’s face. Son-of-a-bitch was always in a foul mood, but he took shit from no one who messed with his boys. And Sonny—he was always there. Not the smartest guy, but all heart.

  A dog barked outside. Curtis looked toward his sliding glass door, then picked up the photo and walked across the kitchen. For a drunken bum, his dad made sense tonight. Friends were important.

  He opened the lid to the trash can, dropped the photo in the trash, closed the lid and turned off the kitchen light. The floorboards squeaked as he walked to his bedroom, his mind hardening with every step. But friends also beat him to a pulp. Maybe Sonny would stick with him after they stole the gold, but if he let Fitz take a cheap shot once, he might do it again. New friends wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  He got in bed and stared at the ceiling. The girl thing his dad talked about, however, was another matter. Julia was okay. She took care of him, fed him, hung out with him, fished with him and drank with him. And she handled herself well. That James guy was three times her size, but she put him down and tied him up when he got out of line. Julia was all the best of Fitz and Sonny rolled into one.

  He looked at his clock. It was two-thirty. He closed his eyes, conjuring an image of Julia. Back at the river, with her clothes all wet and her dark hair dripping water on her face.

  He smiled. His dad might be right for once. Get a girl and stick with her.

  He rolled on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, remembering how it felt to share Julia’s bed last night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The bright red cardinal sat on the peak of the brown utility shed at the back of the parking lot. Its head twitched back and forth. A touch of cool hung in the air, leftover from the night. Julia sipped coffee on her balcony, watching the bird. Bugs whirred above the wet grass in front of the shed, pinpoints of light in the morning sun. The cardinal caught a moth and flew back to its perch. Julia put her mug on the coffee table she’d dragged out on the balcony. She edged around the table on her way back inside. With the coffee table and the two metal folding chairs on the balcony, there wasn’t much room, but it didn’t matter. Curtis was coming over to eat breakfast, not dance.

  She stopped in the living room to look at the painting she was working on. It needed to be covered before Curtis got here. He’d get the wrong idea and think she was a stalker. She draped a dropcloth over the painting and walked into the kitchen.

  She put a cast iron skillet, an aluminum pan and a spatula on the stove and went to the refrigerator, gathering eggs, milk, bacon and butter. She wasn’t stalking Curtis, he just represented light at the end of the tunnel. The painting would remind her of what was possible. No more crappy jobs. No more self-important men like James. She wanted a good life. That’s what the painting was—a belief in a better life.

  She turned on the radio and listened to a weather report as she put the food on the counter. It was going to be in the mid-nineties. The humidity would put the heat index around one hundred by the afternoon. She whisked eggs, then put the whisk down and looked at her watch. It was after seven. She walked out of her apartment, went down the hall and knocked on Curtis’s door.

  He opened the door wearing a pair of shorts. She looked at her watch.

  “You forget about breakfast?”

  “You’re lucky I’m answering the door,” he said, yawning.

  “C’mon over,” she said, punching him in the chest. She left her door open as she went in the kitchen and turned on the burners. Bacon hissed in the skillet. She melted butter in a stainless steel pan and poured in the whisked eggs, glancing at Curtis as he came in, pulling on a tee-shirt. She shook her head. Too bad. He looked good without it.

  “We can have Mimosa’s if you want,” she said. “There’s a bottle of champagne and some orange juice in the fridge.” She wrinkled her nose. “The champagne’s from last New Year’s. Hope it’s still good.”

  “It’s an eight dollar bottle,” said Curtis, peeling off the price sticker before putting the champagne on the counter. “I don’t think it was ever good.”

  Julie sipped the Mimosa Curtis made her as she put together two plates. She carried them out to the balcony. Curtis took a seat and held out his glass.

  “Thanks for having me,” he said.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, taking a sip before putting down her glass.

  Curtis tilted his head toward the painting covered by a dropcloth in the living room. “What’s going on there?”

  “Just something I’m working on,” she said, eating a forkful of eggs. “It’s not done, so don’t even think about looking at it.”

  He smiled. “The sensitive artist.”

  “So when are you leaving?” she said. “What’s the plan?”

  He put down a piece of bacon, wiped his hands and leaned back. “Remember that big fish that used to hang on my wall? People pay a lot of money to catch trophies like that.”

  “I remember,” she said. “What happened to it?”

  Curtis swigged his drink. “That’s not the point. What I want to do is run a fishing charter for people looking to catch trophies like that. Been saving for years. I can’t swing the cost of a boat for fishing the ocean, so I’m going north instead. I’m gonna run charters for salmon and steelhead.”

  “How’d you save the money?” she asked.

  “Just kept chipping away at it.”

  She leaned back and looked over the railing. The sun was rising over the tops of the warehouses and factories. The water tower glowed in the morning light.

  “So what happened yesterday?” he asked. “You looked wiped out when you got home.”

  She shrugged. “The whole thing with James and my new schedule at work caught up to me.” She turned to Curtis. “But you’re getting out. That must feel great.”

  “It does,” he said.

  “Are you going to miss this?” she said, tilting her glass toward the water tower.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been trying to get out of here for years.”

  “What about friends and family? It’s gotta be hard leaving them.”

  He laughed. “Let me tell you something,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m not gonna miss anything about this place. When I leave, I’m not looking back.”

  She put eggs on her toast and folded it in half. “How do you know you’ll like it?” she said, taking a bite.

  “I like to fish,” he said. “I like people that like to fish. What’s that old saying, ‘Do something you like and—’”

  “‘You’ll never work a day in your life,’” she said.

  Curtis smiled. “Exactly.” He picked up his last piece of bacon and took a bite, pointing at her with the remaining half. “So what about you? How long you sticking around?”

  She pushed her plate to the side. “If I had somewhere to go, something to do, I’d jump at it.”

  She watched Curtis eat the last of his bacon.

  “It’s gonna be a hot one today,” he said.

  “Been hot all summer,” she said, drinking the last of her Mimosa.

  “It’s gonna be cold where I’m going.”

  “Wouldn’t bother me,” she said. She turned and pointed at the utility shed. The cardinal was back, sitting on his perch at the peak of the roof. “Look at that bird,” she said, feeling Curtis’s hand grip hers.

  “You know, I’m sure they have apartments as crappy as yours where I’m going,” he said. “And there’s gotta be a job as bad as the one you’re working. You could come.”

  She laughed. “A crappy apartment and a bad job in a different town. Why didn’t I think of that?” She felt his grip tighten.

  “It might be good for you.” He waited a beat. “An
d me.”

  She cocked her head, staring at him. “You’re asking me to come?”

  “Yeah.”

  She picked up her glass. It was empty. She put it on the table. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Neither do I, but who cares?”

  She pulled his hand toward her, running her thumb over his knuckles. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tonight. After midnight.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Lewiston, New York,” he said. “Small town on the Canadian border. It’s quiet.” He locked his gaze on her. “We could get lost up there.”

  He let go of her hand. She watched him pick up the plates and silverware.

  “What do I have to do?” she said.

  “You just have to be ready tonight when I drive up,” he said, putting the silverware on the stacked plates. “Have your car packed. I’ll pull up right under your balcony,” he said, pointing at the parking lot. “You hop in your car and we’ll hit the road.”

  He lifted the plates. A fork fell, clattering on the table. She reached for it, but Curtis got to it first. He put it in her palm, leaned across the table and kissed her.

  His lips were soft. He held the kiss for a long time. She felt weightless when he stopped.

  “I want you to go,” he whispered. “It’ll be good, Julia. I promise.”

  “After midnight?” she said.

  He nodded.

  She stayed on the balcony, holding the fork and the glasses as Curtis took the plates into the kitchen. He walked to the front door and pointed at her.

  “Tonight, after midnight, okay?” he said.

  She nodded as he walked out the front door. She turned and looked over the railing. The cardinal flew off the shed toward the water tower, disappearing in the sunlight washing over Tombs. She went inside, pulling the dropcloth off her painting. The first layer was dry, but the painting needed small touches of light and shadow to bring the image of Curtis and her to life.

  She spread the dropcloth on the floor and got to work, dabbing white on the waves rolling in from the ocean, creating dancing sparkles of light. Her head felt light, as if the fizz from the champagne was bubbling through her. She licked her lips, tasting Curtis. She’d call Father Sal to let him know she was leaving. And then she use the rest of the day to paint and pack. Her brush clinked against the side of a glass of paint thinner as she swirled the bristles clean.

  Her gaze drifted to the out-of-focus, impressionistic painting hanging on the wall, then back to her unfinished canvas. It took a long time to learn that impressionist technique, covering everything in a soft blur. This painting would be different. She began stippling hints of shadows in the clouds, her brush moving back and forth between the canvas and the palette. This painting wasn’t a blurry representation, or a dream.

  She stopped painting, biting her lip to hold down a smile.

  This was real.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fitz opened the back hatch of his Bronco, then walked to the front of his trailer. He propped the screen door open with a brick. Sweat poured down his face. He lifted his shirt to wipe his face, baring his ribs and stomach, then looked at the equipment piled in the back of his Bronco. Angel had been cool about letting him borrow the cutting torch and tanks, but he’d been real clear—every piece of that equipment had to be safety checked. Oxy-fuel rigs were dangerous, and although Angel had no interest in knowing how the rig was being used, he did not want his equipment tied to a fry job.

  Fitz wiped his face with his shirt again. The air was soup and it was so hot all the kids had gone inside, leaving a strange quiet hanging over the trailer park. And his head was still touchy. The rig weighed a ton. Without Sonny here to help move or check the equipment, it was up to him to do everything.

  Fitz unloaded the harness, the tanks, and the cutting torch from his Bronco, putting everything in the dirt and weeds that passed for his front lawn. He closed the hatch on his Bronco and muscled the equipment into his trailer. Clouds of dust kicked up with every step. He toed the brick away from his screen door and walked into his living room, letting the screen slam shut behind him.

  He sat on the floor and checked the hoses and fittings on the rig. It all looked good. He opened the valve on the oxygen tank, watching the pressure gauge bump up, then turned it off, closing the valve and backing out the regulator screw. He did the same with the acetylene tank, then checked the tip on the cutting torch. Shiny as a new pair of shoes. Fitz toggled the handle on the torch. Smooth as butter. He put the torch down and sat on his couch. Angel kept his equipment in tip-top shape. Fitz’s face went blank, a sense of déjà-vu hitting him.

  Angel kept his equipment in tip-top shape. Where did he hear that before?

  He picked at a fingernail. It was Curtis’s dad. Back when he showed them how to peel a safe he’d used that “tip-top” phrase all the time. Fitz thought back on it, remembering how Mr. Monroe unloaded a safe in Angel’s garage for them to practice on. Sonny took to it. He was a natural. The kid even looked good in the goggles, tearing through the side of the safe like a demon. He had a good time with it. Curtis, on the other hand, was pissy about it. He wanted nothing to do with the torch, but when push came to shove, he did it.

  Fitz laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back on the couch, remembering his first practice session using a torch. They all went to Sonny’s after his lesson and drank beer, talking about how they were gonna take down a safe some day and be rich. Sonny was gonna buy an old ’67 Camaro and work on it until it was cherry. Curtis was gonna get a big boat and dock it at Put-In Bay. And they were all gonna party forever.

  Fitz went to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, cupped his hands and drank. Water dripped off his face as he turned off the faucet and looked over the equipment in his living room. His stomach turned sour.

  “We should be stealing Barry’s gold together,” he said.

  He blew a drop of water off the end of his nose.

  “But Curtis had to screw it all up.”

  He sat on the couch and pulled his cell out. No missed calls or texts. That was normal. Sonny and Curtis never called or texted unless it was an emergency. The police pulled cell phone records all the time. Curtis and Sonny stuck to the code—talk jobs face-to-face, or not at all. But still, Sonny could’ve texted something. Even though they’d just met yesterday to go over the security layout on the church, he could’ve sent a “see you later” or something.

  And frigging Curtis. They’d been in scrapes before, but they still watched each other’s back. Just because Curtis caught a beating didn’t mean he couldn’t call and try to work things out. Fitz walked over to the equipment spread out on his living room. His stomach flopped. He swallowed hard and exhaled.

  “Just gotta take care of my own business for one night,” he thought.

  He patted his cell phone.

  “Maybe I’ll call them after I’m done. Tell them what they missed out on.”

  He went to his bedroom, pulled a red duffel bag out of his closet and started packing, thinking over his plan. He’d lay low with the gold in Vegas. After a couple of months, he’d contact Sonny and tell him to bring Curtis. They’d get back together, except this time he’d have some serious cash. And, most importantly, he’d call the shots.

  He rolled up a leather belt and stuck it in one of his black oxford shoes—then got a towel out of the bathroom and spit shined the oxfords. Buffing the shoes, he felt his chest puff up. This was gonna work. He’d dreamed up fairy tales before, and his bullshit meter was pretty sensitive, but this heist and the money it would bring were real. Fairy tales fell apart this late in the game. This job was a row of dominos waiting to fall.

  He went into his bathroom and grabbed his toothpaste, toothbrush and deodorant. He pointed at the mirror and talked to his reflection:

  “Just walk through it the way you have a million times before. Do your thing and it’ll be fine.”

  * * * *

  It wa
s quiet in Curtis’s apartment. He walked into his bedroom for a final sweep, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. All the dresser drawers were pulled out and the closet door was open. An old blue suit, two white dress shirts and a pair of dark slacks hung in the closet. Those were staying. Wasn’t gonna be much use for a suit out on a boat. The dresser drawers were half filled with underwear, socks, ripped jeans and old, folded work shirts from Angel’s garage. Curtis grabbed one of the work shirts, ripped off the name patch that read, ‘Monroe,’ and stuck the patch in his pocket before shoving the shirt back in the drawer. The landlord would toss these old clothes in the dumpster. That’s where they belonged. He scooped up his keys and a pack of cigarettes from the top of the dresser and walked out to his living room.

  Folded stacks of his clothes were spread out on the carpet. He sat on the floor and packed his motorcycle’s saddle bags. He was tired, but felt good. He touched his nose. The pain was gone. But, as good as he felt, he knew he’d have to take a nap after he finished packing. Sleep would tamp down the thoughts he’d been holding at bay.

  The gold heist.

  Big Blue and his lost thirty grand.

  Julia.

  He shoved a pair of jeans in the saddlebag. That was the big one. Julia.

  A fire engine screamed by his apartment. He picked up a folded white tee shirt and ran his thumb over a faint blood stain. This was the shirt he wore the night Fitz and Sonny beat the crap out of him.

  He threw the shirt toward the trash can in the kitchen, walked out on the balcony and leaned over the railing. The bottle of champagne was still on the coffee table on Julia’s balcony. He lit a cigarette. It would be different having her around, but he was ready for the change. He just had to peel the safe, take the gold, pick her up and they’d be on their way. But he had to have the gold. Without it, he couldn’t buy a boat and she’d think he was another loser dragging her to nowhere.

  Smoke curled from his mouth. A slight pressure pushed behind his eye. He tapped his cigarette on the railing, watching the ash float down to the parking lot. The skinny skateboarding kid ran out of the stairwell with his board. Curtis watched him weave around the parking lot and hit three aerials in a row, nailing all of them, his long hair flying behind him. The kid zipped by, waved and smiled. Curtis gave him a thumbs up. The kid disappeared around the side of the building. Curtis stubbed his cigarette on the rail, dropped the butt in an empty beer can and went inside. The new life with Julia was just in reach, but nothing came easy. It could be mucked up with one stupid move. Someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or just plain bad luck.