The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  “Mr. Jones, I’m hoping you might be able to help us solve a problem,” said Duck, leaning back in his seat.

  “Who should I talk to here, Ryder?” said Cracker, shifting his gaze from Duck to the businessman. “Which of these boys is in charge?”

  Derek glanced at Duck.

  Cracker nodded and turned toward Duck. “So tell me, Mr. Duck, what do you need?”

  “It’s Duck, not Mr. Duck,” said Duck, exasperated. He looked at Derek. “Is this guy for real? Acts like he doesn’t have a brain in his head. I thought you said he could take care of our situation.”

  “He can,” said Derek. “Just tell him and he’ll—”

  Cracker let out a sharp whistle, stopping the conversation. He stared at Duck. “Mr. Duck, if your situation involves shaking hands, introducing ourselves, sitting at a table and making a big production out of this, then I’m not your man. But if you have money you’re willing to give me to hurt or beat a man to death, then we can talk. Now which of these situations are we dealing with?”

  Duck sputtered, then pointed at Barry. “You tell him,” he said.

  Cracker turned to the businessman.

  “Can you find and kill a man for us, Mr. Jones?” said Barry.

  “Don’t know yet,” said Cracker. “Depends on what man and how much you’re paying.” Cracker felt the big island boy Mr. Duck called “Johnny” grab his shoulder. He knew it wasn’t out of the norm to have a tough like Johnny hanging around to protect the boss, but old Johnny here had put hands on him twice. He was getting way too familiar.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” said Johnny. “Your bullshit is wearing thin.”

  Cracker turned. “You best take your hands off me. Had a daddy that used to put hands on me. Didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.”

  “You don’t listen too good. Now sit down,” said Johnny, shoving him.

  Cracker stumbled. He stared at Johnny, walked over to him, looked him up and down, then head kicked him to the floor. Johnny fell like he’d been axed. Cracker bent over him.

  “Told you I don’t like hands on me,” he said, then turned to the businessman. “So who’s this man you want dead?”

  Barry looked at Johnny, out cold on the floor. He shifted his gaze to Cracker.

  “His name’s Curtis Monroe,” said Barry.

  “You sure you want him dead? How ‘bout I just beat him up a little?”

  Barry looked at Duck.

  “Dead,” said Duck, touching his split lip.

  Cracker nodded at Duck. “And why’s that? He the one that opened your lip?”

  “That’s none of your business,” said Duck, his voice rising. “I just want him in the ground. He’s a pain in my ass and he’s bad for business.”

  Cracker shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. You want him dead, he’s dead. Just seems kinda childish to kill a man for splitting your lip and giving you two black eyes. Maybe you deserved it.”

  Duck’s face reddened and his nostrils flared. “If you’re not interested, you know where the door is. We can always find someone else looking for an easy payday.”

  “Can’t be too easy if you had Derek call me,” said Cracker. He turned toward the businessman. “So what’s it pay?”

  “Ten thousand,” said Barry.

  “Ten if you deliver him dead,” added Duck. “Twenty-five if you let me watch. Only payable after he’s dead.”

  “I think I can live with twenty-five,” said Cracker. “Anything special I need to know about this Monroe boy?”

  “He ain’t a quitter,” said Derek, putting a hand over his ribs.

  “He do that to you?” said Cracker, nodding at Derek’s ribs.

  Derek nodded. “I was beating the crap out of him. Next thing I know, I’m on my back. Busted ribs.”

  “Well, I guess everybody gets lucky,” said Cracker.

  “He sure did,” said Derek.

  “I meant you,” said Cracker. “If I’d cracked your ribs, I’d have gone to work on you, and you’d look a damn sight worse than you do now. That Monroe boy must be sweet on you.”

  Derek’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “So,” said Cracker. “I need to know where this Monroe boy lives, drinks, eats, who is friends are, where his family lives—things like that.”

  “Derek will put that together for you,” said Barry. “He’ll be your contact.”

  Cracker turned to leave. “Alright then,” he said. “Get my twenty-five thousand ready. I’ll call Derek here when I have Monroe. You can watch me kill him.” He looked at Derek. “Shouldn’t take long, so keep your phone on.”

  Cracker bent down and rubbed Johnny’s chest until Johnny stirred. He helped Johnny to his feet. “You awake?” he said, standing Johnny up and holding his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

  “Yeah,” slurred Johnny.

  “Good,” said Cracker. He looked at Duck, Barry and Derek. “I’ll see the rest of you boys later,” he said, then punched Johnny behind the ear. Johnny dropped in a heap. Cracker stepped on Johnny’s hand as he walked out, snapping one of his fingers.

  He walked out the front door into the afternoon sun. He could hear the boys inside talking to that Johnny fella, trying to wake him up. They sounded upset. Cracker spread his arms and looked into the sky.

  It felt good to be alive.

  Cracker sat in his truck outside the old, abandoned General Motors plant he found on the outskirts of Tombs. There were surveillance cameras set up around the property, so he couldn’t just cut through the fence and walk in, but there was a sign with a realty company’s phone number. After calling the realty office, Cracker waited in front of the main gate under a surveillance camera. The sign above the gate read, “This premises is under twenty-four hour surveillance. Trespassers will be prosecuted.”

  The half hour it took for the realtor to show up gave Cracker time to call Derek and find out Curtis Monroe’s address and the names of his friends. Then he ate a protein bar and thought things over. Twenty-five grand to kill this Monroe fella in front of Mr. Duck was a good payday, but he needed a place to fight him where Mr. Duck and that businessman could enjoy the show. This old GM plant would be perfect. He just hoped Curtis was a respectable fighter. It was no fun fighting someone who rolled over. But by the looks of Derek, Curtis Monroe might put up a good fight. But, even if he could whoop ass, one thing was certain—he wouldn’t be anything like those boys back in China. Those Orientals knew how to fight. Broken knee, broken elbow—it didn’t matter, they kept coming. Took a broken neck to get their attention.

  Cracker finished eating his protein bar. He wiped his hands, watching a car drive up alongside his truck. Yeah, after he tracked Monroe down, he’d find out if he was the real deal. Only one of them would walk away breathing. That was the law of the jungle and he was a law abiding man when it came to the jungle.

  He got out of his truck and walked up to the woman getting out of her car.

  The woman talked a mile a minute as they walked towards the empty factory, rattling on about leasing and build-out options on the vacant space. They stepped inside and he waited while she found the lights. It smelled like metal shavings and oil in here. The huge overhead lights clicked on. The place was clean. It reminded Cracker of an aircraft hangar he’d once fought in down in Mississippi. Wide open space with a ceiling that was over two stories high. The building was huge, but he saw what he was looking for immediately. He walked toward a black two-story cage in the middle of the empty factory, walking around it until he found the wire mesh door. He stepped into the cage as the realtor clicked along on her high heels behind him, talking breathlessly because she had twenty or so pounds to lose and was trying to keep up.

  “This is the tool crib,” she said, following Cracker into the cage. “It’s a great space for storing tools or equipment. The footprint is four hundred square feet, all of which is caged top to bottom with reinforced, black-vinyl-coated steel chain link.” She grabbed the door and rattl
ed it. “Once you put a lock on the door, your valuables will be very safe.”

  Cracker looked over the space. Nothing but caged-in concrete floor. A good spot to fight to the death. He looked at the realtor. “So are there surveillance cameras inside here?”

  “There are, but they aren’t functioning right now. If you’d like, I can set you up with a local security company that can hook them up. Shouldn’t take long at all.”

  “I’ll let you know on that,” he said. “So how do I get back in here to show my boss this space? He’s looking for a hundred thousand square feet.”

  The realtor smiled. “You can call to set up an appointment any time.”

  Cracker shook his head. “My boss is a son of a bitch. If he can’t get in the minute he wants in, he will walk and someone else will get a hundred thousand square feet of their empty factory leased while yours sits empty. Best bet is to give me a key.”

  The realtor sighed. “I can’t do that. It’s against policy.”

  Cracker walked out of the tool crib, leaving the realtor behind.

  “Mr. Jones?” she said, her voice rising as she ran after him. Cracker stopped walking, letting her catch up. “I can’t give you a key,” she huffed.” But I can leave one at the office for you to pick up whenever you want. Would that work?”

  “Don’t think that will,” said Cracker. “But there’s other space in town, so don’t worry yourself. I appreciate your time.”

  The realtor hissed through clenched teeth. “God, I can get in trouble for this,” she said, taking a key off her key ring and pulling a business card out of her purse. “Here’s a key, but please get it back to me as soon as your boss has seen the property. Can you promise me you’ll do that Mr. Jones?”

  “I can,” said Cracker, taking the key and her business card. “I’ll get my man in here post haste and drop it off with your receptionist as soon as our business is consummated.”

  The realtor smiled. “I hope he likes it,” she said.

  “He will,” said Cracker, pulling out the piece of paper with Curtis’s last known address. “He’s gonna love it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Curtis parked Angel’s convertible sixty-eight Camaro a few parking lots over from his apartment building. The car was covered in gray primer, so it wouldn’t attract attention, but if anyone did try to tail him, the car could outrun most anything, which was one of the reasons Angel agreed to let Curtis use it.

  Curtis cut the ignition. Angel was real clear. He thought looking for Julia was dumb, but he handed over the keys after Curtis agreed to heist the Grandma Moses paintings.

  “If someone sees you,” he said. “Do not come back here. If someone catches you, tell them you stole the car from me. Do not, I repeat, do not involve me in your problems or I will personally kick your ass.”

  Curtis had done his best to calm Angel’s fears, thanking him and telling him he’d be right back after checking Julia’s apartment.

  It was a lie, but the less Angel knew, the less he’d worry.

  Curtis scanned the parking lot, looking for any suspicious cars or people. Everything looked normal for a Monday afternoon. There were a few cars from retirees and young mothers, but that was it. He got out of the car and strolled across the blacktop, making his way toward the dark stairwell that led to Julia’s apartment. The walk was out in the open, which made him nervous. He looked up at Julia’s balcony. It was empty. None of the other balconies had people in them either. Everything looked clear, but—

  He jumped as a long-haired shirtless teenage boy flew out of the stairwell on a skateboard, wheels clacking over the cracks in the parking lot asphalt. Curtis took a moment to gather himself. Stupid kid. He climbed the stairs toward Julia’s apartment.

  Julia’s apartment door was closed, but there was splintered wood on the door frame. His dad could’ve broken in, trying to get some information on Julia, but that didn’t seem right. What did seem right was this—if his homeless bum of a father had figured out that he and Julia were together, someone else did too. Maybe Barry’s crew found her and they were working her over right now, trying to pry out some info on where to find him.

  Curtis took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself. Anything was possible, but he had to keep a level head. He pushed her door open a crack and listened. Nothing. It was a dead zone in there. He slipped inside and closed the door.

  There were no signs of life. No bowls or plates in the sink. No magazine or newspaper on the living room coffee table. No shoes on the floor. The only difference was a big painting on an easel in the living room. Curtis walked over to it. It must’ve been the painting Julia had covered up when they had breakfast. He smiled. It showed Julia and him on a beach, holding hands while they watched the sun rise over the ocean. He could almost feel her hand in his and smell the salt in the air and hear the seagulls cries as they flew above the water. He traced a finger over Julia’s face, remembering.

  Her dark hair.

  Her brown eyes.

  Her smile.

  The way her body felt when he held her.

  How she smelled.

  He sighed, scanning the apartment. One thing was certain—she was gone. She waited for him and he never came. He’d have to track her down.

  “Sorry, Julia,” he said, touching the painting once more before walking out of her apartment.

  He closed her door and turned to leave when he caught a glimpse of his old apartment. He hadn’t planned on checking it. There was nothing in his apartment he needed and there was a real danger that someone from Barry’s crew was inside, waiting for him. But his door was jimmied the same as Julia’s. He walked over and touched the splintered door frame. The same person had broken into his apartment and Julia’s. That pissed him off. He took a step back from his door, seething at the idea that some scumbag from Barry’s crew busted into Julia’s apartment because of him. He kicked his door open.

  The place was ransacked. Every drawer and door was wide open. Every piece of clothing, every dish, and every spoon and utensil was tossed on the floor. Curtis cursed, looking at the mess. He kicked a pile of books out of the way and walked into the living room toward the balcony. There was a note taped on his television screen. He pulled it off and sat on his couch, reading it.

  Curtis Monroe,

  An old fella by the name of Mr. Duck has asked me to put you down. I’m guessing it has something to do with you roughing up Mr. Duck and his associates. This Mr. Duck thinks an awful lot of himself, which is good enough reason for him to take a whipping from you, but business is business, and my business is taking you out. In addition to being forthright and honest, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m a man of honor and will provide you with a fair fight. I will not shoot you or cut you or try to kill you in any other manner than hand-to-hand. If you walk out alive, good for you. If you don’t, I get paid, which is good for me. Seeing as how we both have skin in this game, I am of the opinion that we should not beat around the bush. In order to speed the process, I’m asking you to visit any local bar at your earliest convenience and tell the bartender you are waiting for me, Joe Cracker Jones. I will pick you up and take you to a suitable location where we can fight until one of us slips quietly away to our everlasting reward. I urge you to not drink before I pick you up as you will need to have all your faculties when you face me. There is nothing I hate worse than a sloppy fighter, and I will make you pay dearly should you indulge yourself before you and I are formally introduced. Of course, I know it’s normal for a man to determine that a fight of this kind is not ideal. A man may even believe he can somehow sidestep the issue. I urge you to not travel this path, as I have begun checking around to locate and talk to your friends, family and associates. I will also be putting your photo into the hands of quite a few people in town. Mark my words, I will find you. I will also be back in this apartment from time to time, checking to see if you have paid a visit and read this note. Please understand that I will know if you have been here
, and that every minute you are not coming to me after reading this note is another minute that I will be coming to you. Take me at my word when I say that if you make me find you, people you know and love will be killed. I look forward to meeting you at your earliest convenience.

  Have a Nice Day -

  Joe Cracker Jones

  Curtis read the note twice. He looked around the apartment at the mess and then looked out the balcony’s sliding glass door into the summer afternoon. Sunshine. Green grass. Trees rustling in a breeze. He stood and walked over to the television, taping the note back on the screen, but wasn’t sure that he’d taped it exactly where it had been. He took it off, tried sticking it on a couple different spots, then crumpled it and threw it on the floor.

  He walked to Angel’s car, fighting the urge to run. He got in Angel’s car and started it, scanning the parking lot. Nothing but a few cars baking in the sun. He cranked the air conditioner, feeling off balance.

  When Barry’s crew were looking to hurt or kill him, he rolled with it. He’d dealt with bad guys his whole life. This Cracker guy, however, was plain crazy. A fight to the death? Who did that? And saying he’d kill people Curtis knew and loved unless they fought? It was evidence, for God’s sake. The cops could pick the guy up just for writing it.

  “But he knows I won’t call the cops,” he said, pulling out of the apartment complex. “Or he doesn’t care. The guy’s mental.”

  It took a few extra minutes driving back streets toward downtown, but he finally made it to the hospital. He kept his head down as he walked to the information desk to ask where he could find Sonny Bomba. Then he bypassed the elevator, went to the stairwell and walked up to the third floor.

  He stopped at the nurses station to check the clock. Visiting hours were over in ten minutes. He hurried down the hall, stepped into a room and saw Sonny lying in a bed. Or what was left of him.

  Curtis pulled a chair next to the bed and held Sonny’s warm lifeless hand. Sonny didn’t move, but he was breathing on his own. He patted Sonny’s hand.