The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  The pain in his head spiked higher with every second of this ballet. He had to make a move soon.

  Derek’s eyes shined bright as he moved forward. Curtis’s kidney screamed. His leg was dead weight. He sucked in a lungful of air and threw a desperate straight-arm at Derek’s face. Derek slipped it, catching it high on the shoulder. Curtis slid to the side, banging a hook into Derek’s ribs. Derek grunted and dropped his arms. Moving inside Derek’s guard, Curtis threw two more gut punches, then put his weight into a sweeping uppercut. The punch connected flush under Derek’s chin.

  Derek reeled backward and fell, scrambling to get back to his feet. That uppercut rocked him. Instinct told Curtis to move in and throw a knee, a punch or an elbow into Derek’s face before he could stand. To make him hurt. But he held off. He could hurt Derek. He could make him bleed. But, after throwing that volley of punches, he knew he couldn’t finish him. He strung those punches textbook, and all it did was rattle Derek. And the effort ratcheted the pain in Curtis’s head to a blinding level. Whatever he threw, Derek would take. Eventually, Derek would wear him down. It was gonna take more than a punch or a knee. If he was going to stop him, it had to be an all or nothing move.

  He waited. He timed it. Derek was almost on his feet when Curtis dipped his hips and stepped in, driving his shoulder into Derek’s waist and lifting him. He ran toward the front of the room with Derek on his shoulder. The pain in his head screamed as he hit full speed, bent at the knees and jumped.

  Time crawled as he arced through the air. He glimpsed Johnny Tong on the floor, covering up as Fitz and Sonny pounded him. He braced himself, feeling the impact of the hardwood floor add to the force of his shoulder driving into Derek’s ribcage. A whoosh of air escaped Derek’s lungs. He felt Derek’s ribs crack. Stars popped in his head as he rolled off, tried to stand, dropped to a knee and held his forehead, watching Derek ball into the fetal position.

  “Nice, Curtis! Sonny, get the gold!” yelled Fitz.

  He felt a slap on the back.

  “You messed him up good,” said Sonny, showing a bloody smile before moving toward the safe.

  Curtis stood. The room rolled under his feet and he dropped to a knee again. It was over. Sonny was bagging the gold. They’d be out of here in a minute, drive back to Sonny’s house and sort out the mess between him and Fitz. But no matter what happened, Julia was on his side. They’d go to Lewiston together. If Sonny came, it would be all the better.

  Then Johnny Tong yelled, pulling free from Fitz. He ran across the room toward Sonny. Curtis reached out to grab Johnny’s leg. He had him for a moment, but couldn’t hold him. Johnny pulled free and rushed Sonny, who had his head in the safe. Johnny kicked the safe door. It slammed on Sonny’s head. When it swung open, Sonny fell backwards on the floor. He didn’t move. Not an inch.

  Johnny looked in the safe. “There ain’t nothing in—” was all he managed before Fitz brought an acetylene tank down on his skull. Fitz dropped the tank and bent over Sonny. The door to the safe was open. It was empty.

  “Shit,” said Fitz, wiping a swollen eye. He lifted Sonny over his shoulder and walked stiff-legged across the room. “Open the door,” he shouted. “We gotta get him to the hospital.”

  Curtis braced a hand on the floor and stood. He kicked Derek in the ribs on his way toward the door. Derek rolled over and groaned. He thought about dropping a tank on his face, but there wasn’t time. He opened the door for Fitz and gathered the tanks and tools, following Fitz out of the church. He loaded the equipment in the Bronco, hearing Fitz struggle with Sonny’s dead weight, straining to put him in the backseat.

  The dome light illuminated Sonny’s face. His eyes were open, but didn’t move. Curtis watched Sonny’s chest rise and fall. He stepped away as Fitz started the Bronco and rolled down his window. A gust of wind rattled leaves and shook the trees up and down the street.

  “Get in,” yelled Fitz.

  Curtis walked backwards toward the church. “You take him. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Fitz squinted into the gusting wind, one eye nearly swollen shut and his face reddening as he pointed at Curtis. “You talked Sonny into this, asshole.” He slapped the side of his door. “Get over here, Monroe.”

  Curtis shook his head. “I gotta take care of something. Just take him to the hospital.” He watched Fitz grit his teeth.

  “This is your fault,” yelled Fitz. “If Sonny dies, it’s on you.”

  “Just go!” screamed Curtis, watching Fitz put the Bronco in gear and squeal away. He turned and ran. The pain in his head was epic. A red-hot spike drove deeper into his sinus with each pounding step of his run.

  There was no gold.

  Sonny was hurt bad.

  Fitz was out for his blood.

  He had to make it right.

  The wind gusts picked up as he sprinted by the church and ran down a dark side street to his motorcycle.

  He kickstarted his bike and it rumbled to life. He pulled into the street. Julia was waiting for him. They were leaving without the gold, but he’d make this right. There was no telling where Barry was, but he’d send him a message, and those old crooks Duck and Artie would be the messengers. They’d been in on this from the beginning. They tried to set up Fitz and Sonny. They were involved the night that Fitz’s dad got killed. Something told him they stunk to high heaven. Sonny wasn’t the only person going to the hospital tonight.

  The ride to The Red Fox went by in a blur. A driving wind threw needles of rain into his face. He poured on the gas, flying through the rain.

  He parked on the sidewalk in front of The Red Fox. The bar was packed. Duck stared at him, holding a cigarette, sitting alone at the table by the front window. Curtis shook the rain out of his hair and walked over.

  “I know you,” said Duck, pulling a chair away from the table. “Have a drink and keep an old man company.”

  Curtis stood over Duck, watching him pull a twenty from his wallet. “Let me get you a beer,” Duck said, waving the bill at the bartender. Curtis kept his expression flat as Duck winked at him and said, “I love beer, but it gives me gas something awful.”

  The bartender walked from behind the bar and put a bottle on the table. Curtis watched the bartender reach for Duck’s twenty. It was a filthy, muddy twenty with something written on the back.

  Curtis grabbed the bartender’s wrist and twisted it. “F U Tombs” was printed in black magic marker on the back of the bill. He glanced at Duck, who grinned as he tapped his cigarette in an ashtray. This was one of the bills from Big Blue. The bartender pulled his hand away, rubbing his wrist. Curtis grabbed Duck. “We gotta talk,” he said, lifting him to his feet.

  Curtis pulled Duck through the crowd toward the back of the bar. He stared straight ahead as Duck prattled on.

  “Aren’t you Mickey’s son? How is he? Always wished I could help him.”

  “You know, the bartender is following us. You better be careful, Mike can get riled up.”

  “Slow down son, I’m an old man.”

  There was no line in front of the men’s room. A miracle for a late Friday night. Curtis kicked the door open, pulled Duck in with him and slid the deadbolt. He faced Duck, looking him up and down.

  “I’m no queer, if that’s what this is about,” said Duck.

  Curtis noticed the closed door on the toilet stall. He banged on it.

  “I’m taking a dump here. How ’bout a little courtesy?”

  “Artie! It’s that Monroe kid. He pulled me in—”

  Curtis kicked the stall door open. Artie sat on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. His eyes opened wide as Curtis grabbed the sides of the stall and lifted off his feet, kicking him in the face. Artie’s head snapped back and cracked against the wall behind the toilet. He slumped forward, his head hanging between his knees. Curtis shut the door.

  “You have my attention,” said Duck, his eyes flat.

  Curtis stepped toward Duck and poked him in the chest. “Where’d you get t
hat twenty with the writing on it?”

  Someone banged on the locked door and yelled, “You okay in there Duck?”

  Duck looked at Curtis. “Is that what this is about? The money I found?”

  The pounding on the door started up again. Curtis stared at Duck. “Tell him you’ll be right out.”

  Duck licked his lips, his gaze shifting between the door and Curtis. “It’s okay, Mike. Just helping Artie wipe his ass,” he said. “Bring more toilet paper if we’re not out in a minute.” He waited a beat before looking at Curtis and whispering, “If I was you, I’d leave before that minute is up.”

  “Where’d you get that money?” said Curtis.

  A small rivulet of blood ran from under the toilet stall toward the drain by Duck’s feet. Duck looked down and stepped away from the blood.

  “I found it at Fox Glenn Park, washed up on the bank of that creek where I went to meet your halfwit friend, Sonny.” He shook his head. “You know, this isn’t going to go well for you or your friends. In all the years I’ve known your father, he never acted like this. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it, but I’ll do something, count on it. Your conduct bothers me.”

  Curtis turned his back on Duck. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Things bother me too,” he said, then looked at Duck. “But my conduct? I gotta say, that’s one thing I don’t worry about.”

  “Well, this isn’t something I’ll forget. I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something—”

  The fist in Duck’s mouth shut him up. Blood spurted from his lip as his head snapped back into the mirror behind the sink. His knees buckled and his face bounced off the edge of the sink. He fell on the floor and rolled through Artie’s blood trickling into the drain. Curtis grabbed the back of Duck’s neck.

  “Couple things to remember about my conduct,” Curtis said. “If people hurt my friends, I hurt people back.”

  He smeared Duck’s face in the blood on the floor. Duck lifted his face, gasping, blood staining a shock of white hair above his forehead. His hands slipped in the blood as he tried to get up. Curtis stepped on the back of his neck.

  “You and that pal of yours are involved with Barry,” he said, pushing down and listening to Duck wheeze. “Sonny’s in the hospital ’cause of you and you had something to do with Terry Fitzsimmons getting burned up.” He took his foot off Duck’s neck. “You tell Barry he better hope Sonny pulls through or I’ll be back for him, you, your pal and every other piece of shit in Barry’s crew.”

  He opened the men’s room door and looked back. “And by the way, there was no gold in that safe. You guys need to check your information next time you plan one of your half-ass jobs.”

  As Curtis stepped out of the men’s room the bartender was on his way through the crowd, holding a bat. Curtis met him halfway through the crowd and jabbed his thumb toward the men’s room.

  “I think they’re gonna need more toilet paper in there.”

  He patted the bartender’s shoulder and pushed through the crowd to the front door.

  The Quick Stop convenience store next door had the trash bag, batteries, and flashlight he needed. He held the bag of supplies as he rode away.

  Squalls of rain and wind soaked him as he drove to Fox Glenn Park. He followed the biking trail and parked next to the stream where Sonny met Duck and Artie. If Duck found money in this stream, Big Blue had to be close.

  The rain, wind and dark blinded him as he slid batteries into the flashlight and turned it on. The light cut a path through the night as he climbed down the bank, holding a fifty-gallon trash bag. He lost his footing and slid through the weeds and mud, plunging waist-deep into the current. The cold took his breath away. He fought his way upstream, water roaring by on all sides. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When he finally focused, he felt sick.

  Bills of every denomination were in the water. Fifties, fives, tens and twenties rushed by on either side. It was a stream of money, lost forever as it raced by. He grabbed what he could, shoving wet handfuls of cash in the garbage bag, struggling for every step. Rain pounded the surface of the stream until he wasn’t sure if it was falling from the sky or boiling straight up into the air from the flooded stream. It suffocated him, blinded him, filled his mouth and clogged his nostrils. He huffed and snorted for air, sweeping his hand blindly through the water, fishing soggy bills from the rising current. The money was all that mattered, and he kept his head down, snatching what he could. A wall of water plowed over him. He went under, holding the flashlight and garbage bag overhead, gasping as he popped up and grabbed an overhanging tree limb to keep from being swept downstream.

  He held onto the limb as he caught his breath. It was a wet, raging hell, but he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. This was his money, and it was all slipping away. He let go of the limb, leaned into the current and pushed on.

  The stream widened, becoming rocky and shallow as he moved forward, dragging the garbage bag behind him. Cliffs overshadowed him on either side. Money swirled around his legs and he grabbed the bills that were in reach. A ceiling of vines and leaves thickened overhead, blocking the worst of the rain.

  He played the light across the stream. Cash was scattered from one side of the bank to the other. It clung to rocks, floated and bobbed underwater and papered the banks. He stuck the flashlight under his arm and shoved the garbage bag in his teeth, using both hands to gather his money. His lower back ached. He straightened. The beam of light cut through the darkness and fell on Big Blue up ahead, shattered on a pile of rocks below the bridge. Curtis splashed his way upstream. Bundles of rubber-banded bills covered the rocks around the broken trophy marlin.

  When he left, the two cracked halves of Big Blue were empty. He’d bagged everything he could, but the bulk of his money was lost. Out of the original thirty thousand, he hoped he’d recovered five. If it was less, he wouldn’t be surprised. He slung the garbage bag over his shoulder, teeth chattering as he started his long trek downstream.

  The rain fell in torrents. The water raged, shoving the back of his legs, threatening to sweep him off his feet. He stepped in a deep hole and went under. The current shot him downstream, but he kept calm, holding his breath and stiffening in a plank position. His heels caught river bottom and the current shoved him upright. He let the water knife around his waist as he shined the light over whitewater in every direction.

  Exhausted, he held the flashlight and bag over his head, edging toward the bank. He slipped. The water took his legs out. He went under again, dropping the flashlight and pulling the trash bag against his chest. The current spun him head over heel. He opened his eyes underwater. The weak glow of his flashlight flashed above him, then disappeared in the swirling current. He closed his eyes and squeezed his bag of money, holding it in a death grip.

  A whine filled his head. He needed air. His back slammed against a boulder. He broke the surface and gasped. Fueled by adrenaline, he clawed at the boulder. The bag of money covered his hand in slick plastic, but nothing could make him let go of the money. He gripped the boulder through the plastic and held on.

  Peering through the dark and the relentless rain, he could see that the bank was only ten feet away. If he could make it there, he could climb out of this wet raging hell. A wave washed over the boulder. His grip slipped, but he held on. He had his money. All he had to do now was climb out of this river and he’d have his new life with Julia.

  He used the last of his strength to climb onto the boulder. He reached up for a last handhold when the plastic bag covering his hand slipped on the wet, mossy rock. Falling backwards, he inhaled sharply and plunged into the water. The river sucked him under.

  It was dark underwater. The sound of the water surging, rain pounding and wind howling became a singular noise. A thick roar, surrounding him as he rolled over and over, holding his money. At some point he’d hit a boulder or a tree trunk and break the surface. It had to happen. He just had to hold his breath long enough.

  The back of his
head smacked a rock with a crunch of flesh and an explosion of light. He went limp, focusing all his strength into his grip on the money. The water had him in its grasp, a hurricane blowing a leaf. Rocks pounded him. Sticks jabbed him. He tumbled and tossed and felt none of it, holding his bag tight, floating in the light filling his head. He was leaving Tombs. Any moment now he’d pop out of the water and be on his way.

  The whitewater spun him, slamming his head into another rock. An intense, blinding flash wiped his mind clean and he breathed in involuntarily, cold water filling his lungs. The bag of money slipped from his grasp. He sank into the calm depths of the river. He closed his eyes, listening as the roar of the river transformed into the rumble of his motorcycle.

  He was driving to the apartments with the bag of money. The sky and all things under it glowed. The trees. The street. The grass. Everything. Sparkling jewels of rain fell as he pulled into the parking lot. A downed tree limb was under Julia’s balcony. He pulled next to it, watching the leaves on the fallen limb tremble in the soft rain. The light on Julia’s balcony flicked on. She walked out and leaned over the balcony rail. He cut the engine on his motorcycle and lifted the bag of money.

  “You did it, Curtis!” she yelled, and then somehow she was behind him, sitting on his motorcycle with her arms wrapped around his chest. He shoved the money in his saddle bag and pulled out of the parking lot. They would be in Lewiston by morning. Everything was working out just as he planned. Julia’s grip around his chest tightened.

  “This is the best day of my life,” she said, kissing the back of his neck.

  “Ease up, I can’t breathe,” he said. The glow from the street, the trees, the grass, and everything else brightened. He drove into the blinding glare as Julia’s embrace became a relentless pressure, crushing his chest. It felt like his heart was going to explode, but it didn’t matter. Julia was with him.

  He drove down the road into the white glare, opening the throttle full bore. The money was in his saddle bag. Julia was with him. He was leaving Tombs.