by Steve Lowe
“Anybody left but you?”
“No.”
“I ain’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to be here.”
“Your buddy Sully got you into it?”
“Yeah. My buddy Sully. What are you going to do with that AK, Mitch?”
Mitch looked at the rifle. “This just something I brought back from ‘Nam with me. A souvenir.”
Jimmy waited, wondered if he was going to die now.
Mitch said, “I ain’t shot this thing in over thirty years. Didn’t think I’d ever have to again. You ain’t got to worry. I’m not gonna shoot you, Jimmy. Don’t have no more bullets no how.”
Jimmy crouched, slow, picked up the bag, held it out to Mitch. “You come for this?”
Mitch shook his head. “Nope. I got what I came for.”
The sirens grew louder again, but still several blocks off. Mitch said, “You best be gettin’ on then. Take that with you. I don’t want to see it no more.”
“What are you going to do, Mitch?”
“Me? I’m going home.”
Mitch turned and walked to his car, early 2000s Mercury Cougar. He got in, looking more like a man leaving work for the day than one who just shot two men. Mitch set the rifle on the floor behind his front seat and drove away. Jimmy crossed the street. He tossed the bag of money behind the truck’s bench seat and did the same.
THE NEXT DAY
Ray Nichols pulled into the parking lot of the Jefferson Estates apartment complex, drove to the east end of the first row of buildings, and parked in the last spot. He turned off the engine and sat drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. It got hot fast inside the Caprice and he mopped away sweat with his sleeve.
He didn’t expect to find anything there. He’d already been to Crestline, where the kid worked. Talked to Vic, the drunk who called in the tip about Anthony Sullivan. Saw it on the news and couldn’t believe it, he’d just talked to that guy the other night, was in some bar over in LaPorte County, Indiana, and now the guy was dead. It was the damndest thing.
Nichols visited the coffee shop in the toll road rest area, but the girl, Annie, she hadn’t been to work in a week. Her boss asked Nichols, should he see her, to tell her she was fired. Nichols told him to go fuck himself. The guy, he didn’t like that. Called Nichols an asshole. Nichols didn’t argue with him.
He got out and walked to the office. Checked in with the manager, an immense woman in a housecoat, cigarette protruding from her face and one eye squinted against the smoke curling around her head. She looked like a pirate.
“Have you seen them lately?”
The woman shook her head, dropping ash across the countertop separating them. “Not since last week,” she said. “Paid their next two months’ rent and that’s the last I seen of ‘em.”
Nichols smiled, couldn’t help himself. He said, “Arrr, thank ye, matey.”
He left the office and walked back to the last apartment building. Climbed the steps to the second floor, went to the last door at the end of the walkway. He knocked and waited and when no one answered, he grabbed the handrail to his right and the doorframe of the neighboring apartment to his left and kicked the door in. The lock was solid, but the door was a cheap piece of shit.
Nichols walked in, looked around the corner, checked the tiny kitchen area, his hands shoved in his pockets. He wasn’t concerned. They weren’t there. He checked the bedroom in back and the bathroom, flipping lights on, flipping them off again. He strolled back toward the door but stopped when he saw the leather satchel on the couch.
Nichols sat down on the threadbare cushions and looked at the satchel. It was a bit old-fashioned, a zipper top that accordioned out when you opened it. The zipper was already undone. He leaned over and looked inside the bag. Saw a note. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from the breast pocket of his short-sleeve dress shirt. Cost only ten bucks on sale at Target. He plucked the note out and sat back. It had been typed on a computer, printed out on a laser printer, cheap copy paper. It read:
To the cop or anyone else who happens to find this, an offer: Take what’s in this bag and look the other way. We’re long gone and you won’t find us.
Nichols peered in the bag again and smiled. He reached inside and pulled out the bundle of cash, held together by a rubber band. All hundreds, he counted 50 of them. He continued reading:
If you’re not a cop, then I guess you’re not going to be happy with this. But it’s the best you’re going to get. As I mentioned, we’re already long gone. You won’t find us. You’ll just have to trust me on this.
Have a nice day.
Nichols smiled again. It was a nice touch. He flipped through the bills, counted them once more. He stood and slipped the money into the front pocket of his slacks, wadded up the note and tossed it back in the bag. He zipped it shut and left, did his best to close the door behind him. On his way to his car, he tossed the bag and his gloves into a dumpster.
He opened the Caprice’s glove box, set the wad of money inside, removed a Tracfone and turned it on. The box for the phone was in a bag on the floor behind the front seat, paid for with cash. The receipt went in the trashcan just outside the door of the 7-11. Once the phone powered up, he punched in the number from memory and listened. It rang five times before the girl answered.
“Hello?”
“Annie, don’t hang up. It’s your father.”
Silence. He waited one heartbeat to see if she would cut him off. When she didn’t, he kept going.
“Just hear me out, OK? I heard through the grapevine that I’m going to be a grandpa. That got me thinking. I know we left things in a bad way. I have some making up to do, to both of you kids. I’m getting older now and starting to see things a little different. I’m done being a cop. I quit today. I thought maybe I could try to be a dad now since I never did much of that before. Maybe try my hand at being a grandpa, too. I was hoping I could come and visit with you two and get started on that. If you told me where you and Jimmy are living now, I could—”
The line went dead.
Nichols smiled. He knew she wouldn’t tell him anything. Now that she knew he was on to them, she’d toss her cell and kick herself for not doing so sooner.
He didn’t have to do it, but calling would just add to the fun of tracking them down. It put him in the right mood. He hummed as he dropped the car in gear and drove off.
Acknowledgements:
Big thanks go to Jeremy Robert Johnson, David Barbee, and Chris Masciangelo, the guys who saw this book before anyone else, took the time to read it, and gave me their much-appreciated advice and encouragement. Shout-outs to Gabino Iglesias and Caris O’Malley, great friends and the two people in this world who may have read every single thing I’ve written. Finally, special thanks to Tom Piccirilli, who doesn’t know me from Adam but is a great inspiration, as are you, J.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Steve Lowe writes some odd shit, but he’s also a freelance sports writer. He interviewed a naked heavyweight once and continues to talk about it to this day. He’s got a website but it’s probably better if you just holla at ya boy on Twitter - @Steve_Lowe
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