by Nace Phlaux
But $4,178. That’s how much was in the bag. I know because I counted it over and over and over in utter and complete disbelief. We’d spent that amount of money before—down payments on cars and the mortgage and such—but I never held that much cash in my hands before. It was a surprisingly small bundle for such a large amount. Or maybe it was the right size and I just expected something else? I’m not sure since I’ve never dealt with anything like that before. It was nice. I could get used to it.
It didn’t dawn on me until the fourth or fifth count that I should thank Christy. The phone she gave me was still sitting in the basket the hotel gave me with the soaps and lotions, but the battery had died. I plugged it in and went downstairs for the continental breakfast, and by the time I returned, the phone was charged enough to come on and tell me I had missed a couple voicemails and a text message. All of them were from Christy and were basically her checking on me, the poor dear.
“There you are, Candice,” she said when I called back. “You had me worried. Get my present?”
“Call me Candy, doll. All my friends do, and I think I can call you that after...after all you’ve done.”
Honestly, Dottie, who does that? What kindhearted soul gives so much to someone she barely knew? It may seem horrible of me, though, but the situation did bring up a certain question: It broke my heart, but I asked her where the money came from. Really, it was the amount that bothered me. Most people gave in increments of fives or tens. But eight? Eight itched me.
“My synagogue. And someone I knew owed me one. But with the number of cards that came clipped to the money, I think a few of the lawyers were hoping you’d call them with any divorce concerns. Did you come to any conclusions yet?”
I told her I hadn’t, that I’d been prepping to head home when her friend showed up. But given the circumstances, I’d have to circle the wagons and reconsider my options. The money wasn’t enough to let me retire, but it was enough to seriously change my life, considering the circumstances I was in.
“Just take that money and put it in your personal account for now. A little interest is better than nothing. If you don’t have one, you can visit my credit union over in the Flowers Mill Shopping Center.”
“Oh, bless you, honey. Bless you.” I thanked her again and again, even though I knew she was trying to persuade me off the phone. But nobody had ever given me anything like that. She was right about the money too. So after we got off the phone, I packed up my things, checked out of the hotel, and headed to my car with my luggage rolling behind me and the bag firmly in my grip.
At least I thought it was firmly in my grip. Maybe my hands aren’t what they used to be. Maybe that grip was never there in the first place. But I was a few steps from my car when this dirty Mexican kid runs out from between the vehicles in the lot and grab at the Hello Kitty. I’d just been swinging my arm to reach for my keys, so his fingers missed the handles, but he startled me, making me take a step back away from him. That’s when he pulled out a knife from his jacket that looked longer than my arm. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like a chef’s blade. Something fancy like you’d see on Rachael Ray.
He yelled at me to hand over the bag, cursing like the filth he looked to be. “Give me the f***ing bag! Hand over the f***ing bag!” Everything he shouted ended in something Mexican, probably him calling me names. I took French in high school, not that I’d remember a lick of it now, but I’d recognize a word or two. You remember the curse words, of course. But he stepped at me, waving the tip of the knife in my face, and I threw the bag at his feet.
With him bending over to grab it, a flash of a vision popped into my head where I could surprise him with a sudden kick or disarm him with my old lady kung fu. I’ve been kicking myself ever since over having never taken one of those self-defense classes. But I thought, cripes, it’s the suburbs. That stuff only happens in the city. And it’s not like I’m ever in the city at night, so why bother? So I stood there motionless as the brown hoodlum nearly tripped over his own feet. I know it’s uncouth to say nowadays, but him wearing the bright orange sneakers and carrying the pink bag...You know. Just seemed a little funny is all I’m saying. It is what it is.
And that’s where I’m at now. I stuck my tail in-between my legs and called Christy. Who else could I call? Jerry? The police? “I’m hiding from my cheating husband, and a godless Mexican boy stole the cash a stranger delivered to my hotel room on behalf of a girl whose name is on the receipt for the room I just stayed in for the past few nights. He had Chef Ramsey’s knife, and I’m pretty sure he’s a little queer. The kid, not Ramsey. Can you help me, officer?”
Then, just like now, I went to Starbucks and waited. Waited to meet Christy. Waited to gather my thoughts. So I’m sitting here, looking out the glass and people-watching, trying to put my head together, but the baristas are giving me the evil eye since I haven’t purchased a drink in over an hour. I’ll fill you in once I find a better place to sit and meditate. Mercy, Dottie, what am I going to do? Hopefully my next letter will have much better news. God bless us both. Love you, and keep me in your prayers.
Fondly,
Candy
Manny 6
From: Emmanuel Quinn ([email protected])
To: Rolando Ortiz ([email protected])
Sent: Wednesday, January 23, 2013 12:51 PM
Subject: Re: Re: Where the freak at?
> > I seen you sneaking in here half the day already away, fam. Where you been hiding? I tried
> > calling your cell but it went straight to VM. Seeing your side chick? In a meeting til 5 so
> > stick to emails.
> Boo boo boo boo boo boo... I did something bad, boo. I’m kinda freaking out here. The
> phone’s ringing like I’m supposed to be working but I did something bad. ¡Me cago en
> ná! Coño, papi, so Christy called me last night y told me she found the ATM thieves that’re
> hitting everywhere around here lately and she tipped me on a score. Knew where the one
> biddie would be and around when she’d be leaving. Siad she knew she’d have a bag full of
> cash and told me if I get the bag she’d give me a raise that no one’d know about at the agency.
No no no, my mama didn’t send me to school and get me in $30k debt just so you can drag me into that ish. No, forget that. You take that ish and you throw it away or give it to Miss Christy or whatever it is you gotta do to get done and done with whatever those fools are doing over there. You don’t want no part of whatever that jawn is. Whatever that crazy girl wants, just give it to her and be done with it. SMFH
> So I waited outside the hotel and this old lady comes out holding the bag Christy told me
> about. Like so old that...I dunno how this lady’s stealing anything. Maybe she just drives the
> getaway car or something. I almost didn’t go for it cuz she looked like she’d have a heart attack
> if I jumped outta the bushes. But I ran up and grabbed the bag and ran for it. And I was
> supposed to take the bag to Christy but I had to open it to see to make sure it was what it was
> supposed to be and there was CASH. Lots of it. So I counted it. Over 4 Gs, mi Kofi.
You must be high af, son. How else could some biddie call you up and get you to jump through this hoop BS and jumping little old ladies? How do you know she’s telling the truth? You could’ve just mugged a grandma looking to give her grandkids a ton of chocolate chip cookies. That coulda been a massive bet for the Super Bowl. That coulda been a bunch of ish but it don’t matter since it. ain’t. yours.
What’d Miss Christy even promise you? How’d she convince you? Was it like she called and went “I’mma kick a baby” and you was all “Naw, I ain’t gonna kick no baby” and she goes “I’mma rob a grandma instead” and you said “Lemme think about it. Hmm. A’ight.”
> So like...what do I do? I kinda want to keep it. Like...I know a raise is good. Saving
over
> months and all that ish, but I got 4 Gs now. What’s Christy gonna do about it? I thiefed a thief
> and lied to the whistleblower. Right? I can buy you something pretty, son. Get you a car,
> right? Get myself the Roland JX-3P I been keeping my eye on.
> Tell me why I shouldn’t, mi mama bicho. This could be my chance to do something. I don’t
> know, boo. I just need some guidance.
What you need a slap upside the head, boy. If you still reading this far, I don’t know what else to say to you. Get tf over to Miss Christy and give her that money. If you don’t, boy... I can’t deal with that kinda jawn in my life. It’s me or the money and any other crimes Miss Christy asks you to do. Cuz you know if she thinks you’d do something like this and you prove it by doing exactly what she asked, you know she gonna ask you again.
Your choice, my Latino prince.
Thanks,
Manny Quinn
Assoc. Mgr – Physician Validation
t: +1 (215) 680-3747
41 University Dr.
Newtown, PA 18940
www.episync.biz
Please consider the environment before printing this email.
Eddie 8
The kid drove through Langhorne until we were in a development on the other side of town consisting of strings of white townhouses. He parked and used his binoculars to scope out a weathered place with a faded—as in nearly clean white—pineapple flag hanging out front. Most of the places were well manicured, but there’s always that one house in the neighborhood with their Christmas lights up two months after it’s necessary. If it wasn’t for that house, though, the girl’s would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb with how dilapidated it was.
Poy—that’s what he said his name was when I asked. I stared at him again, but he stayed strong this time, going, “It’s Poy.” Fine. Either his friends gave him a ridiculous nickname, or I question the life choices of his parents. Poy gave me a look when I finally asked about the accident, but I followed it up with, “I know the broad strokes, but you obviously know her much better than I do, right? Figured you could fill in the details.” He seemed satisfied at that.
“A drunk driver hit her mother’s car, killing the Goddess’ mother and husband. The Courier Times called it a tragic death for such a young entrepreneur. Banal words for the genesis of something so beautiful. That’s DeAngelo for you. If they weren’t murdered, where would we be right now? The plan wouldn’t even exist. You would be in jail for the ATM heists, and I’d probably be home playing ‘Devil May Cry.’ Wastes of skin. That’s what we’d be without her.”
I nodded along and added the necessary Mmhmms and Sures, letting him pause to look off in meditation.
“Of course, the driver was the first to go. Then those who posthumously stole the husband’s designs or refused to pay for the work he’d already put in for his unfinished work. Blackmail, granting wishes, just offering jobs. The economy today is making things almost too easy. Some people just need to be offered positions, and they’ll do anything she asks. Others need more persuasion, as you’re aware. And then there’s the information they willingly hand over.”
“What information?”
“Remember all those forms you filled out at the agency? Don’t they sound familiar? What city did you grow up in? What was your first pet’s name? High school, maternal grandmother’s maiden name, the model of your first car. Security answers to every service or app on your phone. And they all hand it over in the hopes of ‘landing a job.’ ‘Getting back on my feet.’” I’m not doing him any justice, but he said it so mockingly. Asshole probably had Daddy paying for everything. “Such trash, all of them. Asking to be used. Oh, and you have your burner, right?”
I pulled the cell from my pocket and activated it, only to find a text message from Boss Lady saying, “Ask him about his powers.”
“Sometimes I talk to it, hoping she’s listening to mine.”
“You’re obviously special, Poy. You seem to have a better understanding of the Goddess than anyone else I’ve met. But if you know everything about her, then why’s she after Eric Milnes? He special like you?”
He scoffed hard, practically coughing. “Doubt it. I don’t know anything about him. Maybe he knows Carol Lee.” That name sounded familiar. I dug through my memories, but it seemed to be protected behind a drunken shroud. A drunken shroud...and then it clicked. “You received the call. Made a Poltergeist crack. I saw the logs. The ones who stand out, act suspicious or surprised, get watched and contacted.”
“So who’s Carol Lee?” As I asked, the streetlight overhead turned off, making us both jump. The kid apologized and hung his head low, looking like I’d just scolded a rescue dog, not even sure what’s wrong, just used to being blamed. I’d hoped that would make him answer my question, that with enough subtle force, he’d start blabbing. The girl could be listening in as we spoke, most likely was since she’d told me to ask him about his so-called powers. But he was spouting so much BS, he was bound to hand me something useful.
“I’m sorry,” he said again instead. “I have...I have powers.” The light flickered orange flashes a couple times before finally staying on and shining white. “I can’t always control them.” Is this why she let him know so much? Sure, he could blow her operation, but he was also psychotic. Possibly retarded. Who’d believe anything he had to say?
A door slammed somewhere in the complex, and a second later, the girl bounced down her front walk to her car parked in the lot across the street. Poy started his car and followed her again, returning toward the mall but stopping at that diner up on 413. Being a quiet Monday night, she got a spot right by the front doors, but the kid picked one where he could see most of the one side of the diner, including some of the seats at the bar.
“I don’t know who Carol Lee is,” he said once we stopped, gathering items from various pockets in his car. “But she’s certainly interested in anyone who does. But I have to leave you, friend. Be careful. They wouldn’t like seeing you again so soon.” That’s when I noticed the girl in the window, walking to a table without any hostess and holding her own menu. In the corner of the room, she moved to sit down, her companions difficult to see at first from our vantage point, until one of them stood to let her into the booth.
The trio. “Is this your idea of a goddamned trap? I’ll use your body as a freakin’ shield, you little piece of—” I reached for him, but he raised his hands defensively and shouted, “No! No! No! I didn’t think about it. I just followed the Goddess without realizing where we were going. I didn’t mean to—”
I opened the car door, trying to cover my face from the light, and closed it as gently as I could, ducking through the lot and its surrounding hedges until I was behind the building, far from the line of sight of the inhabitants of the booth. I made my way along the main drag, staying behind the businesses on Business Route 1 and ducking and dodging as best I could whenever a car drove by. With nowhere feeling exactly safe, home seemed like the best option. The shantytown would have to wait until it was light out again.
* * *
The next day crawled, with this Dugan guy showing me how to install bracers and racks in vehicles for computers and other pieces of first responder gear. Guy has a nasty habit where he can’t say “yeah,” “sure,” or “right” just once. He watched real careful when I used the ratchet as if it was my first time but looked at me dumbfounded when I asked for 3/8”. “Oh, this one, you mean,” he said when I finally leaned over and picked it up from the drawer beside him. When I asked if Gaunt had been around yet, no one seemed to know.
As the clock struck three thirty, I bolted for the parking lot and headed over here, knowing the sun was racing against me. You didn’t seem to be around when I pulled my truck into the rear lot, and I guess Hayleigh was already out at her book club or whatever she did Tuesday nights. I left the burner on but in the center console and crossed over the couple streets to get to the shopping ce
nter.
Being older and wiser made returning to the shantytown easier. A homemade taser and switchblade in my pockets helped too. The construction materials hadn’t changed much over the decades, but a spiderweb of extension cords had enveloped the place. Worn electronics mixed in now with the broken bottles and bags from the nearby fast food restaurants. It sounded like someone was watching a movie in their shack from a cell phone or something with a tinny speaker. Being that close to the turnpike, the place only smelled of that diesel and exhaust cologne that every highway has.
Unlike when we were kids, the thing I had to collect this time was a person who may or may not’ve even been in the pile of wet cardboard and stolen iPhones. Most of the built shelters were sealed or draped to protect from the weather, making it impossible to see inside without removing parts. That might’ve led to a confrontation a knife and a taser couldn’t take care of. I had no idea if there was any sense of community there. It could have been every man for himself, or it could’ve been a “harm one, harm all” mentality.
As I tiptoed through the camp, a woman came out of one of the shelters and brushed out dust and wrinkles from her dress. Young, maybe somewhere in her twenties, Korean with a ragged Penn State hoodie three sizes too big for her and a skirt barely popping out from underneath. She wouldn’t have stood out in any way if we’d crossed paths on the street. I would’ve just wondered if she were cold. Between the two of us, I looked like I’d be the one calling this place home with her showing up to pass out blankets.
“Darlin’?” I go, and she spins around, clutching her front pocket and saying, “Packin’.” I held my hands up and took a step closer so we weren’t shouting to each other. “I’m sure you are, sugar, but I ain’t here to hurt anyone. Just looking for someone.”
