by R J Johnson
Alex smiled inwardly. He could never fool Scott. His eyes darted to the ceiling as his mind calculated the answer.
“It’s a lot of money to count, but I think my estimate back at the locker was right; it really is just over 1.6 billion dollars,” Alex said, trying to sound humble.
A stunned silence settled over the table for a minute.
Emily was the first to break the calm. “So, you’re a billionaire. Can’t say I saw that coming.”
“Do you technically qualify as a billionaire if you only have one billion?” Scott asked.
“If you can describe your bank account with a B in it, then yes,” Alex replied quickly.
Scott and Emily shot him a look. Christina snickered from the corner as she watched them chat, taking a bite of her bacon.
“Where did the money come from, Alex?” Emily asked him pointedly.
Alex sighed and looked around at the table of expectant faces. He wasn’t looking forward to this part.
“I stole it.”
Scott chuckled. Emily glared at him.
“What’s so funny?” she challenged.
“The idea of Alex stealing anything,” he said, still laughing. “This is the guy, who, when he accidentally walked off with a candy bar from 7/11, returned to the store in tears, thinking they’d already called the police and were about to come knocking at his parents’ door any second.”
“That was a long time ago, and literally worth about a billion times less,” Alex snapped.
“Where did the money come from, Alex?” Emily repeated stubbornly.
Alex pursed his lips and nodded to himself, then replied. “How much do you know about what happened to Iraq after Saddam was toppled?”
Christina’s head snapped up and stared at him in wonder, “No, it can’t be,” she whispered. “That was you?”
“And eleven other guys,” Alex confirmed.
Scott and Emily glanced at each other, then at Christina. “What are you talking about?”
Christina looked over to Alex who nodded to indicate that she had the floor.
“It was a few years ago that I read the article, so I’m a little spotty on the details…”
She hesitated, then plunged into the explanation.
“I guess back during the hottest parts of the Iraq war, right after Saddam was toppled, the Bush Administration decided that the whole region might descend into chaos if salaries for the Iraqis weren’t paid. So, under the Oil-for-Food program started by the UN, the Federal Reserve put together a special fund that the US used to ship over six billion dollars, in cash, on pallets, to Iraq.”
“Six point six,” Alex confirmed.
“So what happened?” Emily asked Alex, shooting him a look.
Christina glanced at Alex to see how she was doing telling the tale. He hadn’t interrupted her yet, so apparently she was on the right track, she thought.
“The cash never showed up. It was as if one big giant hole opened up and swallowed six billion dollars.”
“We managed to get more like twenty all told, but who’s counting?” Alex added softly.
“Twenty billion dollars?” Scott nearly shouted. Emily and Alex shushed him, and Scott lowered his voice, “Twenty billion dollars? You stole twenty billion dollars?”
Alex shrugged. “I helped steal the initial six and a half. We didn’t get as much every other time. Just a few hundred million here and there. The rest went to where it was supposed to go, I’m guessing.”
“Jesus…” Scott whistled. “So all those boxes back at the storage facility…”
“…were filled with cash,” Alex confirmed.
“And you quote-unquote died during the robbery?” Emily asked, her focus still on Alex.
Alex’s eyes grew distant, and not for the first time over the last five years, food turned to ash in his mouth. He set down his fork and pushed the plate away from him, his appetite gone.
* * * * *
The bender had been one of the biggest ones he’d ever been on before. Ever since Emily turned down his proposal, he’d taken it as a challenge to finish every drop of alcohol that appeared in front of him. He wanted to forget what happened between the two of them. He wanted to forget it all.
He had woken up outside the recruiter’s office and stumbled across the street in search of a watering hole. It was still early yet, and even the bars dedicated to their alcoholic customers wouldn’t open until at least ten in the morning.
The next best idea he had was to get to the closest liquor store and buy the cheapest vodka he could find. He didn’t have much cash left after the prior few days, so he’d have to find an internet café somewhere and get online to transfer some money from his trust fund. His dad would call and ask about it, but it was his money; he’d do what he wanted with it. He needed this time to heal. He needed to forget her. And he didn’t care what it cost.
He stumbled through the convenience store entrance and looked up at the TV, which played above the clerk’s bored expression. On it, the various news stories of the day were playing their way across the screen, most of them having to do with the two-year anniversary of 9/11.
He looked at the wall of liquor behind the dark man’s heavy frame and thought about what he wanted to buy. Vodka and orange juice always helped wake him up after a good weekend.
“Gimme a fifth of the Absolut,” Alex grunted out. He looked through the crowded shelves for the elusive orange juice.
The man looked up from his crossword and very slowly made his way to the wall behind him, grabbing a fifth of vodka.
Alex looked over the man’s selection. “You got OJ here?”
“In the back,” the man replied, monotone.
Alex dragged himself to the rear of the store and browsed the juice selection. There was generic pulp and high-quality pulped orange juice. Alex made a face. He hated pulp, but he hated the idea of being sober more at this point. He grabbed the higher-quality brand and began moving towards the front of the store.
Suddenly, two men burst into the store with guns. Alex ducked low, hoping that the two hooligans hadn’t seen him.
“You know how this ends, man!” the first shouted, pushing his shotgun in the clerk’s round face. “Put the fucking money in a bag!”
“Do what he says!” the other man growled, menacing the clerk with his pistol.
Alex ducked behind two cardboard cutout bikini models, both holding uncorked, spraying bottles of cardboard champagne. Anything he could use to get away without getting killed.
The fat clerk was doing his best to keep the tears away, but wasn’t succeeding.
“Look at this blubbering fat fuck,” the man holding the shotgun sneered with his meth mouth. “Crying over losing someone else’s money…”
The second one grabbed a bag of chips off the shelf. “In and out man! That’s how this is s’posed to go!”
“Look at this neighborhood,” the first man snorted. “Who’s gonna stop us?”
“How about me?”
The newcomer had entered the convenience store without making a sound. Alex peeked up and over the display to see a tall blond man holding a hand cannon, aiming it at the robber with the pistol.
The second gunman jerked his shotgun over from the clerk to the interloper. “Put your fucking gun down right now, man! Or do you wanna die?”
The man didn’t even look away from his first target. “First time I had a scattergun pointed at my gut, I was at a bar in Columbia. Second time was a misunderstanding in France between myself and the hotel innkeeper in a matter about his daughter. Seeing as how I’m still here, I’ll leave you to your own conclusions as to what happened to the last folks who held guns on me.”
“Do you want this to be the last fucking time?” the meth-head shouted at him, “Put your gun do…”
The clerk behind the counter yelled out a battle cry and brought up a small pistol. He kept on screaming as he aimed at the two men and pulled the trigger.
Several shots went
wild all around the store. One of the punks pulled the trigger on the shotgun aimed at the blond man. Thanks to the clerk’s distraction, however, the man was able to duck out of range just in time.
The second gunman turned his pistol on the blond man and was about to pull the trigger when Alex brained him with a champagne bottle.
The first would-be robber cried out as the blond man rolled around the aisle, making his way around the corner of the display. He ducked as another round from the shotgun blasted its way through the densely stocked chips and candy, exploding in a glorious display as carbs flew everywhere.
The meth-head Alex had bludgeoned was not yet out, as he kicked out at Alex’s legs. Alex cried out in pain and fell to the ground, and the man climbed toward him, grasping at his legs and trousers. They struggled on the floor, with Alex trying to gain leverage over the man’s pistol as it writhed toward his gut. A shot went off. Alex’s ears burst in pain.
For a moment, Alex thought he was dead. After a quick check, he saw he’d been able to push the pistol to the side at the last moment. He hadn’t escaped unscathed, as he felt a searing pain where the bullet had grazed him, leaving a burn mark on the side of his ribs.
Alex quickly moved his right hand down to the trigger guard and yanked, pulling the trigger as he rolled the heavy caliber pistol towards his attacker’s thigh. Another shot rang out, and the meth head screamed in pain, rolling to the side. Alex fell off the man, still clutching the pistol.
“You shot me, man! Motherfucker shot me!” he screamed in pain as a red spot spread over his white jumpsuit. Alex looked at the punk in disbelief, then back at the gun in his hand. He snapped out of it and aimed the gun at the man on the ground.
“Stay where you are and I won’t have to do it again, you got it?” Alex asked, hoping he sounded convincing enough.
“Mother… fucker… shot… me…” the meth-head panted, not even acknowledging Alex. He clutched his thigh, staring at the blood on his hand. “Son of a bitch…” he groaned, then passed out.
Alex swallowed, then heard a crash on the other side of the store. The man who had intervened was still fighting with the second gunman.
Scrambling to his feet, Alex stayed low as he listened to the pair fighting. They crashed up against each other, neither having anything to lose. Toe to toe they slugged it out, destroying everything in their path. Liquor cabinets, beer and wine bottles broke and spilled everywhere, making the store smell like an alcoholic’s wet dream.
Alex heard one final crash and a triumphant howl. Taking the sound as a cue, he made his move around the corner, aiming the pistol just as his father had taught him during their many hunting trips.
The punk was on top of the man, swinging for all he was worth. Alex pulled the hammer back on the heavy pistol and cleared his throat.
The punk looked up and saw Alex holding his friend’s pistol on him.
“Shiiit…” was all he managed as he wearily threw his hands up.
The man underneath the punk craned his neck back to see Alex holding the man at gunpoint and grinned, his face looking a tad worse than it had when he’d first walked in.
“You got him?” he asked.
“I got him,” Alex replied, never taking his eyes off the punk
“Good.” The man pushed the punk off him hard, throwing him across the store, watching in satisfaction as he crashed against a display and broke even more bottles.
The man stood, his boots crunching on the broken glass beneath his feet as he brushed himself off and smiled at Alex. “Well done, soldier.”
“Thanks, but I don’t actually serve,” Alex said, dropping the gun to his side. The man picked up the shotgun from the fallen meth-head and chucked out the rest of the cartridges.
“Coulda fooled me,” the man said. He tossed the shotgun to the side and reached down for his weapon. After checking it, he put it back into his holster and extended his hand. “Nathaniel Ash.”
“Alex McCray.” The two men shook hands, gauging each other’s strength and reaction.
“Someone ought to call the police,” Ash called over to the clerk, who was still hiding behind the counter. “They’d want to see this.”
The clerk raised his head cautiously over the counter. “Is it over?”
“They’re not moving or likely to shoot you anymore if that’s what you’re asking,” Ash said. “Call the police and ask them to take out your trash.”
Alex began to wheeze. Ash gave him a concerned look, then snapped his head over to the clerk. “Do you have a paper bag?”
“This is a liquor store. I’m outta business if I don’t have brown paper bags,” said the clerk, as if Ash’s question was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.
“Gimme a goddamn bag right now or I’m waking these fools up and letting ‘em take another shot at you,” Ash demanded. “And before I have to tell you a fourth time, get on the goddamn horn to the police before your friends over there wake up without my help.”
The clerk shut up and tossed a stack of bags on the counter between them. Ash grabbed a bag and opened it for Alex to breathe into. He escorted Alex outside and let him lean against a truck in the parking lot.
Alex calmed somewhat and caught his breath. Ash looked him over. “You okay?”
“I’m…” Alex wasn’t sure what he was, but after nearly dying in there, he had never felt more sober. He’d never been that vulnerable before either, and he found he didn’t care for that feeling at all.
“You’re all right. First time, everyone gets the shakes. Just breathe and you’ll be fine,” Ash said. Somehow, Alex found those words clicked with him. He took one more deep breath, lowered the bag and began to feel much better.
“There you go…” Ash said, raising an eyebrow in approval.
“Thanks,” Alex said. “I’ve never been like that before. That was just…”
“Intense…” Ash finished for him, and Alex nodded.
The clerk poked his head outside. “911 says they’re sending the police. Should I tie these guys up or something?”
“Only if you don’t want them getting away,” Ash replied. The clerk’s eyes narrowed.
“Hey, we did the hard part. We’re off the clock, friend,” Alex tried to joke. “It’s up to you now.”
Ash watched him out of the corner of his eye and allowed a slight smile cross his lips. The clerk scowled and turned back into the store, presumably to look for something to tie the two punks up with.
“Are you hurt?” Ash asked. Alex shook his head.
“He nearly got you in there.” Ash said this as a statement of fact. Alex didn’t respond and felt for the pocketed fifth of vodka.
“So if you’re not a soldier, what do you do, Alex?” Ash asked, trying to start a conversation for the third time. He took out two cigarettes and offered one to Alex, who declined.
“I was in school…” Alex began. He realized that no one, including himself, had actually asked him that question since he had started the process of pickling his brain.
To be honest, he didn’t have an answer. He had no idea what he was going to do next. The idea of graduating didn’t really appeal to him anymore; the rest of the year would be filled with the type of social events and other activities that he and Emily would be expected to be a part of, if not outright plan. He could try to avoid them all, of course, but then it would be all about him avoiding her, and he didn’t want that. He just wanted his old life back. School felt silly.
“Was?”
“Well, I’m due to graduate in a few months but…” Alex felt his voice catch. If Emily wasn’t going to be around – and she had made that clear the other night – then what was the point of him staying in school at all?
“But…there’s a woman?” Ash asked, a knowing smile on his face.
“How did you know?”
Ash snorted and took a drag off his cigarette. “There’s always a woman.”
“She got a great opportunity to go to Chile and work on something
she’s been training her entire life for…” Alex said, beginning to feel a weight lift off his chest.
Without saying anything, Ash looked at Alex with a slight smile, nodding for him to go on. Alex felt awkward about the whole thing, but what the hell? He could always blame it on still being drunk from the night before. That’s what real men did when emotions happened.
“I can’t tell her not to take the job, but if she takes it, that’s the end of us.”
“You sure about that?” Ash asked casually.
“It’s already done,” Alex replied, his stomach sinking at the thought of their fight from the other night.
He told his new friend about Emily. Who she was, how she made him feel and why. Halfway through the conversation, Alex started feeling like a crazy person, blurting out every detail of his personal life to a man he barely knew.
But Ash only went on smiling. He listened and nodded and took the occasional drag off his cigarette. Through his confession, Alex quickly realized that Ash was willing to listen to him blabber on because he was a kindred spirit. He was a man who knew what it was like to love and lose someone. He was a man who knew that all Alex needed was someone to tell: “I fucked up, and wish I’d done it differently so she wouldn’t hate me anymore.”
Besides, it wasn’t like he had anyone else to talk to about Emily. His dad would only murmur low words of encouragement, never really going beyond clichés. As much as he loved his father, dating advice had never been the man’s strong suit.
Scott wasn’t any better. His best friend was knee deep in applications for some of the best grad schools in the world. Oxford, MIT and more were all competing for their chance at taking up another three years of his best friend’s life.
Alex always knew they might eventually grow apart, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Plus, as happy as he was for his friend, he was also more than a little jealous. Scott’s life was about to take off like a literal rocket and Alex was heading for…what? Redesigning kitchens for bored Silicon Valley housewives?
He knew that if he was lucky, he could fall asleep into a very boring life where he was safe and content. However, he was beginning to realize if he kept going down the path his life had led him, he wouldn’t really be alive. He’d just be another rodent on the treadmill.
