After stripping off his shorts, he showered and dressed in ten minutes. In the kitchen, he grabbed a banana, along with a handful of Frosted Mini-Wheats cereal, and ran out the door. Glancing at his phone when he sat behind the wheel, he saw he had plenty of nonspeeding time to get to work.
He arrived at work five minutes early. Hanna was standing at the waitress station, facing away from him. He crept up behind her—his pulse quickening—and tapped her on the shoulder.
Hanna spun around. “Hey you,” she said, smiling.
“Hey.”
“Feeling all better?”
“Yeah,” he said, putting a hand to his abdomen, “that was awful.”
“Poor baby.” She frowned. Then, “You owe me a night out.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess I do.” Damn, it felt good that she wanted to see him again.
“How about tonight?” she asked.
Aaron’s stomach dropped, but he kept a straight face. He had to tell her the truth. A second date was looming; things were moving forward. How could he turn her down? What excuse could he come up with for why he couldn’t go out tonight? Then he remembered that the cop said he was going to need him tonight. Surprisingly, he felt no relief at having an excuse. He didn’t know which choice was worse, helping the cop or telling Hanna the truth about himself.
“Don’t hate me, but tonight’s not good,” he said, then added without thinking it through, “but how about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow it is, then,” she said, her pearly whites glistening.
“C’mon guys,” Mike said, coming up from behind. “Let’s get to work.”
Hanna rolled her eyes when Mike walked away and into the kitchen. “All right, talk to you later,” she said.
Aaron stood there, the joy expelled from his body. He had a date, which meant breaking curfew again. Unless you invite her over to your house. Then you, Hanna and Mom can bake cookies!
Pathetic.
Hopefully, after tonight, if the cop kept to his word, he’d be done with him. One huge stress would be lifted from his life. Which was why he had to talk to Hanna. If the cop caught him breaking curfew, he’d be right back to where he was now. That was it. Decision made. He was going to tell her the truth. He’d do it, tomorrow. And if she no longer wanted anything to do with him, he’d understand. It would suck, big time, but he’d be fine. But maybe she’d be okay with what he did; it wasn’t like he’d killed someone or even done the actual holdup. He’d just been the driver.
Feeling a stress-induced headache building, he pushed through the kitchen doors, greeted the rest of the staff, and then went to the dishwasher and started his prep work.
The day moved torturously slow. Aaron just wanted it to be tomorrow already, the night done and over with. He performed his tasks in robotic fashion—washed dishes, pots and pans, helped the cooks with whatever they needed and grabbed items from the cooler or basement.
The bright spots of the day came in short glimpses, whenever Hanna came through the doors. Occasionally they made eye contact, and he felt the spark between them. Other times, he just watched her move, enjoying every second of it.
When 6:00 p.m. arrived, his shift was over. Hanna had decided to pull a double, ensuring she wouldn’t have to work one tomorrow, leaving the night open for her date with Aaron. He made sure to say good night to her before he left.
As he headed to his car, he could’ve sworn he was coming down with a cold. His chest felt tight, his throat sore, his head pounding. There was no virus running through him. It was all stress-related. He was going to be doing something awful tonight, he just knew it. He would use the knowledge of being paid up to the cop combined with seeing Hanna the next day as fuel to get through whatever it was he was going to have to do. Of course, when he did meet up with Hanna, it wasn’t going to be all roses. Again, he didn’t know what he dreaded more: meeting with the cop or revealing his past to Hanna.
Aaron swung the Camaro’s door open, the hinges creaking like some kind of creature in distress. He paused as he was about to get in. A folded piece of notebook paper was attached to his steering wheel via a long rusty nail. Goose bumps rippled across his flesh. He glanced around the parking lot and scanned the tree line.
He didn’t need to read the note to know who it was from. He pulled out his cell phone, thinking he’d missed a call, but he had not. He placed the phone back in his pocket and slid behind the wheel. He tried pulling out the nail, but it wouldn’t budge, the thing clearly having been hammered in place.
He tore the note free and unfolded it.
Go to the liquor store at the corner of Garretson and Wilcox in Harriman. 8 p.m. sharp. Use the items in the glove box and rob the guy. Make sure he opens the safe in the back room, the one behind the painting of New Orleans’ Bourbon Street. And before you piss your pants, remember, you’re not really robbing him. You’re getting me what’s mine. He’s a tough old bat. Watch him. Use the items in the glove box to put a good scare into him. He needs one.
Make sure he’s tied up before you leave so he can’t call the cops. Once you’re clear, I’ll make an anonymous call to the police so he can be freed.
Head along Garretson for about a mile. Take a right on Fremont, then a left on Trestleview. Meet me under the train overpass. Wait for me there. Tell anyone about this and you’ll go back to prison, and for much longer than the rest of your sentence.
P.S. Do this for me, and we’re good.
Aaron dropped the note onto the passenger seat, then stared out the front window. There was no way he was robbing someone, even if it wasn’t an actual robbery. He turned his attention to the glove box, reached over to open it, then hesitated. He didn’t want to know what was inside, as if doing so might open a door he couldn’t close. But this wasn’t some fantasy novel. This was real life, his life.
He pulled on the latch and the small door swung down. A black nylon bag rested within. He grabbed it and felt a number of items inside, including something heavy. The bag was closed at the top by a drawstring. He loosened it, then dumped the contents onto the passenger seat. His eyes nearly popped from their sockets at the sight of the Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. Opening the chamber, he saw that it was loaded. Fuck, he thought, and dropped the weapon. The other items were a ski mask and a pair of leather gloves. By themselves, the items were enough to send him back to the slammer. He quickly stuffed everything back into the bag. He thought about his prints on the gun, took it out, wiped it down with his shirt and shoved it back into the bag.
With the bag on his lap, he leaned back in the seat and sighed. All he’d wanted to do when he got out of prison was move on with his life. He accepted that he’d most likely never be anything special, a doctor, lawyer or wealthy person of any kind, but he could work hard and make a life for himself. Now this cop was putting it all in jeopardy. And for all he knew, the cop was setting him up. Maybe the guy got his jollies from screwing with people, then arresting them, getting himself a nice collar.
Deciding to tell the cop that he could go fuck himself, Aaron started the car, drove over to the tree line and tossed the nylon bag and its contents into the woods. He wasn’t about to go down a worse path than the one he was on. At least if he went back to prison, he could live with himself. Satisfied with his decision, he went home.
When seven p.m. rolled around, Aaron’s cell phone rang. Seeing the number was private, he picked up, ready to engage the cop.
“I’m not doing it,” he said into the phone. “Go ahead. Arrest me. I don’t care.”
“Excuse me?” the cop said.
“I’ll serve out the remainder of my sentence. It’s better than taking a chance with you.” Aaron was shaking, feeling as if he might puke from nerves.
“Aaron, my boy. It won’t be the remainder of your sentence you’ll serve, but much, much, much longer.”
Aaron paused.
“Should
I call the authorities, then?”
“For what? You caught me speeding, but didn’t write up the ticket. Caught me out after curfew, but didn’t report it. Guess you’ll have to wait to pull me over again, plant that fake bag of cocaine or heroin on me?”
“Not at all. I can call them at any time for the three keys of cocaine I already hid in your car.”
Aaron stiffened. “Bullshit.”
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t have you on a leash?”
He wanted to tell the guy to go fuck himself. Hang up and call his bluff. But he couldn’t be sure.
“If you’re thinking about taking the coke out of your car, forget it. You’ll never get to it all before the cops arrive.”
Aaron needed time to think. “I’m recording this conversation, asshole. I’ve got you. Touch me and I’ll go to the cops with it. I’ve got—”
“You got shit, Aaron. A voice on a phone. Nothing more. You’re an ex-con. Scum. No one will believe you, and you know it. And you’re beginning to piss me off.”
Aaron’s stomach dropped into his loins. He paced the living room, unable to stand still.
“It’s getting late, Aaron. I’d suggest you get going before I change my mind about you.”
He had no choice. Even if there were no drugs in the car, the man could make his life miserable. Next time pull him over and arrest him, for anything from narcotics possession to disorderly conduct. He could take it further and go after his mother.
“Speak to me, Aaron. Tell me to go fuck myself. I’m begging you.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“Wonderful. I knew I could count on you. Now, remember, I want you to put a real scare into that old bat.”
“I’ll get you the money, but I’ll do it my way.”
“Do you mean you’ll go in there empty-handed because you threw away the bag of goodies? Don’t worry, I put them back in the glove box for you, along with a small duffel bag. You’ll need it to place the cash in.”
Motherfucker had been watching him. “I don’t need the gun.”
“I’m sorry, Aaron, but I insist. A stickup without a firearm just isn’t scary. The old man won’t give you a thing without that gun being pointed at him. You don’t have to shoot him for goodness’ sake, just use it as a tool to get what you want.”
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Aaron said.
“Yes, I do, and that’s why you don’t want to piss me off. The old man closes his store around nine, sometimes earlier, so get going. We wouldn’t want you to speed, now would we? Bye for now.”
Aaron shoved the phone back into his pocket. The sudden silence was overwhelming. The room teetered back and forth like a ship at sea. He plopped down on the couch, his legs no longer able to hold his weight. He needed a moment, just a moment.
He told himself that everything would be okay. He’d go in, get the cash, secure the guy to a chair or something, then leave. Simple. Nobody would get hurt.
The cop was taking a chance using him. If he wound up getting caught, he’d sing his lungs out about how the cop forced him to rob the store. That wouldn’t look good for the cop, for how would he explain being called out by a supposed stranger? Why would Aaron pick him out of all the cops in the precinct? Cops stuck together. But the brothers in blue, including his boss, would suspect something. If the cop had a history of trouble, Aaron’s spewing might be enough for something to happen in his favor. But it all meant nothing if he wound up back in prison, with more years added for armed robbery.
Realizing he needed to be his at his best, focused on the task ahead, he placed all his worries in a box, then set it on a shelf at the back of his mind. He grabbed the small bottle of whiskey he’d purchased the day he was released from prison, which he’d intended to open when he was off parole, and headed out the door. He was no longer the good Aaron, the reformed Aaron. He needed to rely on his criminal persona to get him safely through the next few hours. Nice guys didn’t rob people.
Chapter Seven
Aaron drove around the block, observing the liquor store and taking in the surrounding area before he parked his car down the street. He was at the end of the town, the mom-and-pop stores there closed. The sidewalks were devoid of people, and the only light came from the overhead street lamps and the liquor store, its advertisement-shrouded windows aglow. Now he understood why the liquor store closed earlier than other liquor stores: there was just no one around.
Aaron was able to breathe a bit easier. Far from relaxed, he was grateful he was in a part of town that appeared abandoned. Since his arrival only two vehicles had driven by, indicating he was in a low-traffic area too. As far he knew, there was nothing past the store except back roads and wilderness, at least for double digit miles. About eight miles back the way he’d come, there was a shopping center with a Walmart. The superstore was off of Route 17, a busy highway on which most traffic traveled in order to reach the shopping center.
Aaron figured he should be able to get in and out without being seen, save for by someone passing in a vehicle, and the shadowy storefronts would hinder anyone from making out his face or any important details.
Sitting in his car, he took a swig from the whiskey bottle and let the burn settle in before pulling on the leather gloves. They were snug, but comfortable. The pit of his stomach hummed with heat, like a furnace burning strong on a cold winter night.
He picked up the revolver, made sure it was loaded, then leaned forward and shoved it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. He’d thought about removing the bullets, but it was better to have them, and he was pretty sure the charge for robbery was the same whether the gun was loaded or not.
He stared at his hands, unable to stop them from shaking. It was okay to be a little nervous. It meant he’d be careful. Too nervous, and he’d fuck up. Not religious by any stretch, he closed his eyes and prayed, asking for the robbery to go smoothly. No shooting, no hurting, no killing and no getting caught. It was an outrageous thing to pray for, but he had nothing to lose by doing so.
Once he left the car, he needed to be on his game. He’d mentally put his worries on a back shelf already, but figured doing so again couldn’t hurt in case a few had escaped the first time. He thought about his mom and how he couldn’t disappoint her, which meant not getting caught. Then he thought about Hanna, his almost-girlfriend. He couldn’t disappoint her either. She was a keeper and he planned on being with her for a long time. She was the best thing to come into his life.
He took another sip of the whiskey, feeling the burn travel down his throat and settle comfortably in his stomach. With the furnace aflame, he closed his eyes, focused on the job ahead, then grabbed the ski mask and duffel bag and exited the car.
Standing with the door ajar, he glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then closed the door and headed up the sidewalk, sticking to the shadows when possible.
Like a football player ready for the big game, he mentally psyched himself up. He would go in mean, threatening and ready to do whatever he had to in order to be victorious.
He reached the liquor store in no time, made sure the coast was clear and pulled the ski mask over his head. His stomach dropped, trepidation rearing its head. He shook the feeling off as best he could, then opened the door and went inside, turning the Open sign around so that it read Closed.
Shelves of liquor towered over him. A life-sized cardboard cutout of the captain from the Captain Morgan Rum ads grinned at him. He saw a security camera over the checkout counter on his right, but no old man. The store was deserted. Shit, maybe the guy was watching him right now on a TV screen in the back office, calling the cops. He was about to turn and leave when a voice from a room just to the left of the counter said, “Just a sec.”
An elderly man, balding on top, a halo of white around the dome, with a bulbous nose and wire-rim glasses
emerged from the doorway. He walked behind the counter, eyes glued to a sheet of paper he was holding. He glanced up for a second at Aaron, did a double take, then froze in place. The man’s facial expression didn’t change, no look of shock or surprise, as if getting held up was commonplace in his store.
Aaron reached back for the gun, fumbled a moment with getting a proper grip, then pointed the weapon at the old man. He felt a twinge of sadness, but then he remembered what the cop said, and fell into stickup form.
“I’m here for the cash, old man,” he shouted and approached the counter.
The old man straightened, his face a scowl. “You little punk. You think you can come in here and—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Aaron shouted, and shoved the gun in the man’s face, his arm reaching over the counter.
The old man didn’t flinch, and in fact, seemed angrier. “Fuck you.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Aaron threatened. “Take me to the safe.”
“Or what,” the old man asked with a chuckle, “you’ll shoot me? Do that and you’ll never get the thing open. I promise you that.”
Aaron groaned, then fired a shot to the right of the old man. Two bottles of vodka exploded on the shelf along the wall, sending fragments of glass and clear liquid everywhere.
That had done the trick. The old man cowered.
“If I don’t get what I came here for, then you’re going to die, and I’ll take what’s in the register and a few bottles of the best liquor you got.”
“Okay, okay,” the old man said, gesturing for him to relax. “No need to shoot me. My money ain’t worth dying for. I’ve got insurance. I’ll take you to the safe.”
Aaron felt the tide turn. He was in control, flying high with power. He hated what he was doing, but at the same time, the power he held over another individual was intoxicating. He was no longer a pawn to be pushed around, sacrificed, but a man in charge. He’d made a wise decision leaving the gun loaded.
The Unhinged Page 7
