Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  “He had that envelope on him,” she says, testing the lie. “I found it.”

  “And you figured no one would miss it. Guy’s dead or dying, got an envelope full of cash in his pocket, why leave it for some greedy cop? Something like that?”

  “Something like that.” She thinks of the steak knives in the wooden holder on the kitchenette counter. How far away? Eight feet? Ten? Could she get there before he caught up with her? Does he have a gun?

  “Good-enough story,” he says. “But I don’t believe it. I know what was in that car. We both do. More likely you took it all—or most of it—and hid it somewhere. So you’re not such a solid citizen after all.”

  Her palms are slick. She wipes them on her jeans.

  “I admire you, I do,” he says. “You played it cool, didn’t run, knew that would call attention to you. Right move. I would have found you soon enough anyway. So that tells me you’re not stupid. People can get that way when there’s a lot of money involved.”

  He leans forward. “I’ve been sitting here trying to decide what to do when you showed up, best way to go about it. I was thinking maybe hold your hand on the stove, turn up the burner. Hear what you have to say for yourself then.”

  Stay calm, she thinks. If he were going to hurt you, he would have done it already.

  “Part of me wants to put hands on you, pound that pretty face, break a few bones,” he says. “That way, every time you look in the mirror you get a reminder of what you did.”

  He flexes his right hand. She tenses, waiting for him to come at her.

  “But that won’t get me closer to my money, will it? And then people will ask questions, ‘How did your face get so fucked up?’ So maybe we can work something out. I get my money, and you get to keep your face.”

  He puts the cash back in the envelope, slips it in a jacket pocket.

  “The temptation there, how it happened? I can see it. Everybody gets to go a little crazy once in their lives. But your fucking thievery has caused me a lot of aggravation, forced me to do things I didn’t want to. Give me your cell.”

  “Why?”

  Shut up, she thinks. Just do what he says.

  She takes the phone from her vest pocket, sets it on the table. He picks it up, taps keys. A phone chirps, muffled, in his jacket pocket. He puts her phone back on the table, slides it toward her.

  “I’m going to call you at that number tomorrow, and you’re going to answer. Because it’s not just you we’re talking about.”

  She has to swallow before she speaks. “What do you mean?”

  “That motel you work at? I could burn the whole fucking place down with everybody in it. Wouldn’t bother me at all. I’m telling you that so you don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ve got choices. Because you don’t.”

  He stands, and she jerks back in the chair, away from him. He walks past her to the window, looks out through the blinds. “You tell anybody about this?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because that would be a mistake.”

  He turns back to her. “And if you do decide to run? Another mistake. Then I have to start looking, asking around, people you know. I’ll find you. But those other people will get hurt along the way. And that’ll be on you.”

  Don’t say anything. Let him leave.

  “Play this right and you’ll come out okay. Alive, at least, which is the important part. Maybe a little money for your trouble as well, if I’m feeling generous. You made a wrong decision. It happens. But what you took is mine. Don’t ever think different.”

  He unlocks the door, goes out. The carport light flashes on.

  She rushes to the door, locks it. Peering through the blinds, she sees only the Subaru, harshly lit. He’s gone.

  A sour taste rises fast in her throat. She runs to the bathroom, vomits beer and stomach acid into the bowl. She stays on her knees until the dizziness ends.

  When she can stand, she runs water in the sink, drinks from cupped hands, spits, trying to wash away the taste. She can’t stop shaking.

  Her mattress is half off the bed, the box spring and frame pulled away from the wall. The bureau drawers have been taken out, clothes dumped on the floor. The suitcase is open on its side.

  She hears the soft whistle of wind. A draft billows the curtain. The bedroom window is open a crack. She was careless, left it unlocked.

  She pushes up the sash. The storm window is missing. She looks out, sees it leaning against the side of the trailer, next to an overturned recycling bucket. He jimmied the window from its frame, set it there, then pried the inner one open and crawled through. Easy.

  She closes the window, locks it, then sits on the box spring.

  If she hadn’t left the other money here, if he hadn’t found it, he wouldn’t have known.

  Too late.

  SIXTEEN

  J​oette paces, watches her phone on the desk, waiting for it to ring, hoping it doesn’t. Noon, and he still hasn’t called. She lay awake most of the night. Now she can’t sit still.

  The Denali with tinted windows pulls in. She can hear the music inside. Brianna comes out of her room, talks to the driver through his open window. He turns off the engine, gets out, follows her into the office.

  “Joette, this is Keith.”

  He’s tall and skinny, wearing a puffy North Face coat, sagging jeans, a white baseball cap, brim to the side, a diamond earring in his left ear.

  “I told him all about you,” Brianna says. “How cool you’ve been with us.”

  He’s fidgety, shifting from one foot to the other. He hitches up his pants, puts out his left hand, palm down. Joette looks at it, unsure what to do. He drops his hand, makes a peace sign at waist height.

  “I was telling Jo about our plans,” Brianna says. “About getting a place.”

  “Soon as we can,” he says. “Just got to get some things wired first.”

  Brianna puts an arm through his, pulls him close.

  He sniffs, says, “I’m gonna bounce, baby girl.” He nods at Joette. “Good to meet you.” He makes another peace sign at the door.

  They watch him get into the Denali. The music’s pumping as he pulls away.

  “I told you,” Brianna says. “He’s a good guy. He appreciates what you’ve done for us.”

  “I haven’t done much.”

  “I know Singh wanted to put us out. That you talked to him, changed his mind.”

  “He’s just trying to run his business.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t care about us, where we might end up. You do. That means a lot. And I know you’ve got enough to deal with yourself, with your mom and all.”

  The phone buzzes, makes her jump. It vibrates on the desk. She sees the number, knows who it is.

  * * *

  “What are we going to do about this?” he says.

  They’re sitting on a bench on the Asbury Park boardwalk, facing the empty beach, space between them. Her idea to meet here. She called Singh, told him she was sick, hung the CLOSED sign on the front door and locked it behind her.

  The boardwalk kiosks are shuttered for the season, but a year-round restaurant is open behind them, with big windows that look out on the beachfront.

  Nearby, an elderly black man plays an echoey saxophone inside the hollow shell of the old carousel house. She recognizes the tune—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Pigeons flutter in the rafters above him. Everything is crystal clear, her senses sharp with fear.

  “Normal instinct would be to run,” he says. “The fact you didn’t, that you’re here, tells me you understand the situation.”

  On the beach, a dog without a leash runs toward a cluster of seagulls. They squawk, spread out and fly off. The dog barks as they circle overhead.

  “Was there anyone else involved?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Good. Makes things simpler.” He looks out at the waves, massages his knuckles. She can see the spiderweb tattoo.

  “You saw an opportunity, took it,” he
says. “Give you credit for that. Most people wouldn’t have the stones. Almost got away with it too.”

  “I could still go to the police.”

  “You could, but you won’t, or you’d have done it already. And you’re not exactly a bystander in all this, are you?”

  The wind shifts, comes in cold off the water, makes her shiver. She zips the vest higher. “Some of the money got burned. I’m not sure how much.”

  “Don’t start lying to me now. We both know how much was in there. If any of it burned, there would have been something left over—ashes, bits of bills. Enough for someone to figure out there’d been money in the car. State police didn’t find anything.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, it would all be gone. I could have left it in the fire.”

  “You could have.”

  “What was it for?” she says.

  He looks at her, his face impassive.

  “I just want to know, before I give it back,” she says.

  He looks away. “Let’s say it was intended for a purchase that never got made.”

  “Drugs.”

  “It was mine, that’s all you need to know. You disrupted my life, and that pisses me off. Kept me up last night, thinking about it. Maybe that stove burner wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

  She looks back at the restaurant, the diners inside. She could run, scream, get away from him. But it wouldn’t help.

  “You’re a smart woman,” he says. “You didn’t just bury that money somewhere. My bet is you took it to a bank, probably more than one. Spread it around.”

  A jogger thumps by them.

  “So you need to gather it all up, wherever it is, whatever you have to do, and bring it to me. Then maybe I let you keep some. Call it a finder’s fee, a reward for what you did.”

  “How much?”

  “Off the top of my head? I think one of those packs takes care of that. Say ten thousand.”

  “Twenty.”

  He looks at her again. Then he grins, turns away. “Bitch, you are a piece of work.”

  “For my trouble.”

  “Get me my money, then we’ll talk about it.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me afterward?”

  “You don’t. But you don’t have much choice, do you?”

  She’s trying to pretend a calm she doesn’t feel. Her left foot starts to tremble, sneaker tapping on the boards. She can’t make it stop.

  “I’ve done time for some things,” he says. “But I’ve gotten away with a lot more. And if they find you somewhere dead, I’ll get away with that, too. Because I’m betting there’s no one in your life gives a fuck whether you live or die. Am I right?”

  She stares straight ahead.

  “You’re going to call in sick tomorrow,” he says. “And then you’re going to call me. You’ll bring me a list of all the banks you put my money in, and how much in each.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we go for a ride,” he says. “And get it all back.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Make the deal,” Travis says.

  Early morning, and Cosmo looks tired, hungover. Travis sets the canvas bag on his desk. In it are the twenty thousand he got from Darnell and the ten from Jimmy Mac. He kept the eight thousand he found in the woman’s trailer.

  Cosmo opens the bag, looks at the banded packs inside. Travis cleaned up the money as best he could. “That was fast.”

  “I made some moves.”

  How much is in here?”

  “Thirty K. Add it to the twenty in the pool.”

  “We’re still short.”

  “Convince them to take the fifty now, front us the product,” Travis says. “Tell them they’ll get twenty-five more when we turn it around. That’s five thousand over what they asked. They won’t argue with that.”

  “You don’t know these guys.”

  “If they insist on seventy—”

  “Oh, they’re going to insist. I guarantee.”

  “—then tell them no deal. We walk. Or they can take the fifty up front, and we hand over the balance as soon as we start selling, plus the bonus. They’ll do it if they know there’s more cash coming. It’s a good bet for them. They know we won’t stiff them. If there’s a problem later, we’re easy to find.”

  “That supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Call them,” Travis says. “If you won’t take the deal to them, I will. Make the introduction.”

  “We’re taking a risk, going to them with an offer like that. It might just piss them off.”

  “They won’t blow the deal for a few grand. They’d be stupid to do that.”

  “Maybe so. But I know their reputation. These people are capable of doing something totally fucking outrageous and uncalled-for, just to prove a point.”

  “So am I,” Travis says.

  * * *

  The woman is where she said she’d be, parked in the ShopRite lot off Route 66 in Neptune, next to the clothing collection bins. Across the busy highway is a TD Bank, a stretch of woods behind it.

  He drives slow through the lot, checking out the parked cars. Unlikely she called the police, but still a possibility. People don’t always think straight when they’re scared.

  The Subaru’s engine is running, exhaust puffing. He circles the building, drives past tractor-trailers and dumpsters, comes back around. He pulls up alongside her, facing the other direction, lowers his window. Hers is already down.

  “That it across the way?” he says.

  “That’s it. I’ll drive over.”

  He doesn’t like the calm in her voice, the confidence. He shifts into park, gets out.

  “What are you doing?” she says.

  He leans into her window, switches off the ignition, drops the keys in her lap. “Out.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Get in the fucking truck.”

  He steps back. She opens the door, gets out slowly. He watches her, ready to head her off if she tries to rabbit.

  But if she’s planning anything, she’s too scared to do it. She climbs in on the truck’s passenger side. He gets back behind the wheel.

  * * *

  She’s trying to stay calm, hide the fear.

  “I thought it would be better, drive over there in my own car,” she says. “In case anyone there remembers me. It might look suspicious if—”

  He grabs her left wrist, jerks it across the console, presses her hand down next to the driver’s seat, onto something hard and cold. A gun. “Feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we know where we stand.”

  When she tries to pull her hand back, he squeezes harder. Pain shoots up her arm. He lets go, and she jerks her hand away, backs up against the door. Her wrist is numb. There are red marks where his fingers were, bright against the paleness of her scars.

  “Give me the list.”

  She takes the folded sheet of notepaper from her vest pocket, hands it to him. On it she’s written the names of four banks and dollar amounts.

  “You were being careful, weren’t you?” he says. “Spreading it around. You open accounts at all of them, or just safe-deposit boxes?”

  “Both.”

  “How much is in the one here?”

  “There’s an account, but only a few thousand in it. Most of the money’s in the safe box. About sixty.”

  “All hundreds?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you going to put it in?”

  When she doesn’t answer, he says, “There’s a bag under the seat. You’re doing good so far. Don’t start fucking up now.”

  She reaches down, takes out a Kohl’s shopping bag, plastic with twine handles.

  “You got the keys you need for all the boxes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your account here, is it checking or savings?”

  “Checking.”

  “How much is in it?”

  “Nine thousand.”

  “You got an ATM card for it?”
/>
  “Yes.”

  “We’ll leave that for now. I don’t want you staying in there too long. When we’re done here, we’ll find an ATM, and you’ll take out whatever the max is. From the other accounts too. As much as you can until they’re dry.”

  She rubs her wrist. Beneath the bandages, her burns sting for the first time in days. She tries to slow her breathing.

  See this through. Get it over with.

  “They have security cameras outside the bank too,” she says. “The parking lot and drive-through.”

  “I know. All you need to be concerned about is what you’re going to do when you get inside. You open the box, put all the money in that bag, bring it out to me. I count it, then we go to the next bank on that list, do it all again.”

  He drives to the exit, has to wait for a break in traffic. He pulls out, makes a right, then a sharp left into the half-full bank lot, drives past the building to the edge of the woods. He backs up almost into the trees, facing the bank. She sees the cameras on the side of the building, knows the truck is out of range.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  Her whole body’s cold.

  “Do what you’re supposed to, and we both go home today. But if anything goes wrong at any point? You try to pull some shit, here or someplace else? First thing happens is you get shot in the head. Then I write the rest of the money off to experience, take my chances with the law. Either way, you’ll be dead. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I understand.”

  She looks across the lot to the bank, pictures people on line at the tellers’ counter, bank officers in their cubicles. A normal day.

  Are you ready for this?

  “Good,” he says. “Now go get my money.”

  EIGHTEEN

  H​er legs are weak as she crosses the lot. Inside, people are waiting in the two tellers’ lines. A row of glass offices, but only one of them is occupied. Inside, a heavyset black man in a suit is talking to a Hispanic couple, the door closed. The nameplate on his desk reads H. BERRY.

  She waits in one of the cushioned lobby chairs. The bag is folded under her hoodie, stiff against her side.