Strawberries

by Casey Bartsch

  “I thought you said that nobody actually got whacked.”

  “I may have jumped the gun on that one,” Sylvia admitted.

  “How much is left in the bag?”

  “About the same.”

  “Holy shit, Sylvia! You were able to save a hundred grand?”

  “Oh gosh, no. That's just this bag. Do me a favor. In my closet there are a bunch of shoeboxes on a shelf. Bring me the heavy one, would you?”

  Bill did as he was bid, and moments later returned with a box with Sketchers printed on the side. He had the lid off and had an exasperated glow.

  “How much is this?”

  “Seventy-five, I think.”

  He sat the box down on the table and sat himself down on a bar stool, then he watched her get everything neatly together. When she was finished, she had a duffel bag full of money, a backpack full of clothes and toiletries, and an old Amazon box under her arm.

  “I'm ready,” she said, “But would you please carry that small bag near the door.

  “What's in here?”

  “That's my emergency bag. I'll tell you all about it later.”

  “That was one of the most amazing displays I have ever seen,” Bill said. “I don't want to be rude, but I'm going to ask anyway. How much are you worth?”

  “A little over three hundred and fifty thousand, after I drop off this box.”

  “How in the world?” he asked, trailing off.

  “I work almost constantly, and I live frugally. I barely have any time to spend anything anyway. My fee is large, and the clients often tip very well. The plan was always to make a million and then retire. That's what Melissa had taught me.”

  “Well, I should tell you that your boyfriend's a pauper.”

  “My boyfriend. That sounds so strange.”

  “Should I not have said it?”

  “No, I like it.”

  “OK, let's hit it,” Bill said. Then, just before he closed the door he asked, “Are you sure that you don't need anything else?”

  “I'm sure. There's nothing in there, save DNA, that's connected to me. Put the key in the bowl and lock the door. I won't be coming back here.”

  “That sounds really sad in a way,” Bill said.

  “Well, Babe, you can be sentimental for the both of us. I'm busy in the brain.”

  Bill dropped the key in the bowl, and it clink-clanked around and then fell to the floor. He thought for a moment about picking it up, but then let it lay instead; waiting for the day that someone else would find it.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  The morning snuck up on Harry and stabbed him in the chest. He hadn't slept much, but still amounted enough morning breath to offend himself. As he ached his way out of bed, his knee shot a bullet of torment to his brain. His reprieve from pain was most certainly over.

  The phone rang,

  Harry was expecting the call, and would have been a fool not to. He let it ring seven times before it finally stopped, and it only took maybe a half minute for it to start ringing again.

  The bell tolls for thee, Harry Bland.

  “Harry, did I get you out of the shower or something?” Jasper asked.

  “I was just ignoring you.”

  “Well then, I guess you know that I have some bad news.”

  “I would imagine so. Go ahead.”

  “I won't sugar coat it, Harry. You've been removed from the case.”

  “And?” Harry asked.

  “And it may be a good time to think about the next phase. Go out and live a little, ya know? Maybe take a vacation.”

  “You mean retire, find a hole, curl up in it as snug as I can, and die.”

  “Come on, Harry, don't be like that. I don't like this any more than you do.”

  “Really? You don't think that this might be affecting me a little more than it is you? You got my job, Jasper, don't try and take my wallowing too.”

  “OK. I know this isn't easy, but you'll get your full pension. Find a hobby, Harry.”

  “Oh fuck off, Jasper,” Harry said, and hung up. He was becoming a more assertive person, but still not quite enough to stick around to see what happened after he told someone off.

  He sat back in his chair, the warm embrace it gave was less of a comfort than usual. In this moment, he didn't know exactly how to feel, let alone what to do. He was reminded of the old roadrunner cartoons, when the coyote would run right up to the edge of a skinny cliff, but instead of the edge he stood on falling as the viewer expected, the chunk of rock behind him fell instead, and he was left in the precarious position of standing on a rock in midair. A huge chunk of rock had just fallen behind Harry, and now he had some serious decisions to make.

  Someone knocked at the door–loudly.

  Why can't the universe just leave me the hell alone?

  “You aren't dressed yet.” Love said, pushing past him the moment he turned the doorknob.

  “I'm not technically naked either.”

  “You know what I mean. You should be ready to go by now. Get your stuff together.”

  “Go? What do you mean go? I just got canned. There is nowhere to go.”

  “Of course you got canned, what else was going to happen? You knew it was going to happen, so you had plenty of time to get ready. Now stop wallowing, and get your things.”

  Not knowing why, Harry began filling his luggage with his dirty clothes. He wanted to just let it all stay where it was and curl up in his chair. He wanted to let the hours tick by and not move an inch. Why was he packing now? Where was it that he was going?

  When he started to pack his files, Love stopped him.

  “Leave those. We don't need them, and I have copies anyway. A couple of agents will be here in an hour or two to sweep the room, so just toss them on the floor.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked, filling his second bag.

  “Pleasure, Wisconsin.”

  “What in the world is there?”

  “Strawberries, most likely. Or I guess I should call him Robert Kirkman now.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Harry, there is a reason that Nicky, Slick, and I were picked by the bureau. We can find anything that can be found with a computer, which should just be shortened to: we can find anything. It's like a game that we're really, really good at. The bureau is busy checking up on the media angle. They aren't going to move on it until they are sure that reporter's info is legit. I'm sure that Pleasure is already on their radar, but I think we have a couple of days before they descend.”

  “And you don't think that we should tell them?”

  “No, I absolutely do not think we should tell them. You aren't the only one who didn't catch the guy, Harry. I didn't either. Besides, they would just cover the town in suits and scare him away. We'll catch the fucker, and go out with a bang.”

  Harry wanted to protest. There were a thousand reasons why Love's idea was the worst possible, yet all Harry could think of to say was, “OK.”

  “That's it? OK?”

  “Yeah, let's go get him.”

  “Cool. I expected more of a fight,” she said, “We'll take my ride.”

  “You don't want to fly?”

  “Nope. I'm pretty sure that reporter is driving him there. I don't have any proof, just a hunch. I'm not sure when they left, but if we have any luck, maybe we can catch them before they even get to Pleasure.”

  Harry put on one of his new shirts and a pair of jeans. Then he crammed the rest of his stuff into the last remaining space in his bag.

  “OK. Let's ride.”

  “Let's ride? You're ridiculous, Harry.”

  “I guess that's a bad thing, right?” he asked.

  “It's cute. Let's go.”

  With the door closed, Harry turned right toward the motel entrance, but Love put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Not that way. They already have a car on you. I'm parked out back.”

  “At some point, we probably need to discuss the fact that I'm no longer an
agent of the FBI, and that this is entirely illegal,” said Harry.

  “No we don't, because I already know all of that. Illegality hinges solely on getting caught Harry. You won't do anything that could get you into trouble. You're just my very special consultant.”

  When they got to the rear of the motel, Harry caught a glimpse of Love's ride. It was huge. It was imposing. It was a powder blue colored Hummer.

  “Oh my God,” Harry muttered.

  “I'm afraid not. This god belongs to me. Isn't she lovely?”

  “I don't even know,” he said, “I'm surprised your feet even touch the pedals. And I don't see how we'll be inconspicuous in that thing.”

  “I've plotted a course out of town that will avoid the cops. Once we're on the open road, it won't matter anymore. Now, get in.”

  Love hoisted her small frame up into the driver's seat with great agility. Harry just looked at the behemoth, with its white wall tires and grill that could plow through space and time.

  “Get in!” she yelled again.

  Harry certainly wasn't convinced that Wisconsin was the place to be right now, but he hadn't the foggiest of ideas what he would be doing otherwise. He tossed his bags into the back seat, if you could call it a seat, and then pulled his own body inside. His knee chuckled, so amused by the pain it could do nothing else.

  The rumble of the engine shot through the alley, bouncing back and forth like an aria of testosterone. Love's small hands gripped the huge steering wheel like a mouse gripping Gouda. Then, just a few short minutes later, they were on the road, leaving Hennington behind and barreling face first into an unknown story.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Larry and Simon had worked six years before they were able to afford their own rig. When that day came, it was like getting a blowjob on Christmas morning. It was a shiny, metallic red then, and the hood twinkled like stars in the afternoon sun. They had named it Rosalita after the Springsteen song, and it was like they owned their own home.

  Now, it was a pale shadow of its former glory. The red that had once sparkled now looked as if someone had taken a belt sander to it. The eagle shaped hood ornament that Larry had bought custom was tarnished, and so loose it would sometimes turn the wrong way round and look straight back at him.

  They didn't have much longer until they got to their destination, but Larry was in bad need of a little stretch of the legs. Simon was snoring in the seat next to him. These long trips never seemed to bother his brother one bit. In that way, Simon was a far better trucker than Larry ever was.

  Once Simon had drifted off to sleep, Larry had turned the radio away from whatever shock jock his brother had found, to Christian talk. He had been half listening to the broadcast for a couple of hours, but only recently had the topic started to interest him.

  “God gives us all a gift, and it is our job to use the gift to further his purpose,” the preacher was saying. “If we squander this gift, we are not fulfilling God's will.”

  Larry reached out and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Listen to this,” he said.

  On hearing the preacher's voice, Simon said, “Oh come on, Larry, it isn't even Sunday.”

  “Just listen to what they're talking about,” Larry told him.

  “You may not know what your gift is yet, but I promise that God has given you one,” preached the preacher. “Your gift is your purpose. Find your purpose and your life will have meaning.”

  Simon was sitting up now, fully alert and listening.

  “Your purpose is your golden ticket to the promised land. Fulfill your purpose, and Heaven's gates will swing open, and God will be waiting for you on the other side–his arms spread wide.”

  The sermon continued, but the topic shifted to something less interesting to Simon, so he turned it down and faced his brother. “He says that our gift is our purpose.”

  “That's right,” Larry said.

  “My gift is drawing stuff. You remember? I was real good at drawing.”

  Larry remembered well. Simon used to draw all the time when they were younger, and he was good. Photo realistic good.

  “Yeah, of course I remember. When was the last time you drew anything?” he asked.

  “It's been years. Ten at least. That's my point. I was never as good at anything as I was at drawing pictures, and now I don't”

  “Why don't you draw anymore?”

  “I don't know. It just stopped being fun, I guess. But according to the preacher man, I'm not fulfilling my purpose in life, and I'm not gonna get into Heaven, either.”

  “I don't know if he meant that. There are lots of things that you can do with your life.”

  “I know, but it's like with that old waitress a ways back, and how she gets paid. If we didn't deliver this cargo, someone else would have. So all this driving can't be my purpose. But I have one, I know that much.”

  Simon took a long drink from a warm Gatorade and then dropped the bottle on the floorboard. “Even without the preacher,” he continued, “I can just feel that we all get one thing to do. I don't think drawing is mine, but I don't know what it is. Maybe it's not obvious. Not everybody can have something obvious like drawing anyway. Can they?”

  “I suppose not,” answered Larry.

  They sat in relative silence for a good spell, both thinking on why it was that they were alive.

  Larry had been eating sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into a cup while his brother was asleep, and even though he knew that Simon hated the sound, he continued. His brother was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice anyhow.

  “Here's what I think,” Larry said, spitting out another shell and missing the cup entirely. “Not all of us can have the big world changing purpose. Most of us only make a little mark on the world. I think, though, that every little mark must help out the people that will change things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It's like knocking over dominoes. You might not have a big purpose, but whatever it is might lead to someone else doing something big down the line. Maybe our cargo will lead to someone curing cancer, or something like that.”

  “Like that butterfly movie we saw that one time!”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  Larry pulled the truck into a station and parked at one of the gas pumps. “Fill it up while I rock a piss,” he said, “Then it's your shift. We'll get there in five or six hours. Then we can unload, get paid, and get the fuck home.”

  Larry had to ask the clerk for a key to the restroom. It was attached to a string, and at the end was a large hunk of a two by four. Burned into the wood were the words: If you steal this, may God have mercy on your soul.

  After his business was concluded, Larry returned the key. “Will he still have mercy?” he asked the clerk.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and headed back to the truck.

  Back on the road, Simon changed the radio station as soon as he could. He found a decent classic rock station and kept the volume low. Larry was tired, but didn't want to sleep so close to the end of the journey. He laid his head back and felt the tires spin beneath him.

  “That still doesn't work,” Simon said suddenly, taking Larry out of a daydream.

  “What are you on about?”

  “What you said earlier, about our cargo leading to something big.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, remember I said that if we hadn't hauled this load, someone else would have done it. So something like that can't be our purpose.”

  “Well, I don't know little brother, it was just an example.”

  Larry decided then that maybe it would be a good idea to get some shut eye after all. As he went back to the bunk, he could still hear Simon talking to himself.

  “No, that just won't work at all,” he was saying, “It's gotta be something, though. Something that only we would be doing at the right place and right time.”

  Simon opened a can of strawberry soda and it spewed out onto his hand. “Yeah that
has to be it,” he said, wiping the sticky mess on his shirt.

  THIRTY NINE

  The wheels of the Civic slipped into the gravel at the edge of the road for the fourth time as Sylvia paid more attention to the radio than whether or not the car was actually between the lines. She over-compensated, turned the wheel too sharply to the left, and nearly hit an old Cadillac in the westbound lane.

  “Would you just let me find a station?” Bill said.

  “I said no! I've got this, and there is very little out here to actually hit with my car. We're in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yet, you've almost hit so many things.”

  She ignored his nagging. The stations lost signal every hundred miles or so, and then it took another twenty just to find a decent new one. Her CD player had broken less than an hour into the trip, consuming her favorite 80's mix in the process. Bill had a hard time masking his glee at the loss of the disc, and then proceeded to give her a hard time for not moving into the digital age like everyone else. He had plenty of music on his phone, but it was all whiny faux-folk rock sung by hipsters in bowties.

  She finally found a station that was playing modern alternative, and she decided that it would have to do for now. When she sat back and got herself situated into full-on driving mode, she saw before her everything that she had seen for hours–nothing. A housefly had more personality than this road.

  “So, answer the question,” said Bill.

  “They're hard to explain. They kept a wall around me growing up. I was never really allowed to go out with friends unless there were adults present. But, it wasn't just me. Most of the kids in my school had the same issues with their parents. We could go to each other's place, but we were always watched pretty closely. Mom stayed home most of the time. My grandparents left her a pretty tasty nest egg, so she always just did whatever she wanted. Mostly community stuff. Pleasure has a lot of beautification clubs and things like that. My mom did all of that shit.”

  Visions of her childhood home danced in her head as they steadily made their way to Wisconsin. They had been on the road for twelve hours, and Sylvia wanted to get sixteen in before stopping for the night, but her eyes were growing heavy. “We need to stop and stretch, and then you can drive the last four hours.”