Dirty Money

by Ashley Bartlett

  So I kept my eyes open. Just to remind myself.

  My hand was at the zipper on her skirt while I debated if I could do it when she moaned against my mouth, “Make love to me.”

  What an absurd thing to say. We’d known each other for an hour. I wasn’t planning on making love to her. I was going to fuck her. Making love required, well, love. I didn’t love her. Just like I never loved the girls, women, I found in bars.

  “No,” I found myself saying. Gratefully, I allowed my hands to fall away from her body. I didn’t want to touch her. I didn’t want to touch anyone.

  “What?” Joan tossed her hair back and grinned up at me waiting for the punch line.

  I had no punch line.

  “I…” had never left a woman waiting for me to fuck her. “I gotta go. I’m sorry.” And I meant it. I really was sorry. For everything.

  “Are you serious?” She crossed her arms over her chest, unintentionally covering herself.

  I didn’t blame her. “Yeah, really. I’m sorry.” For some reason, I just kept repeating that. I grabbed my shirt off the floor, nearly falling over in the process. I realized how very drunk I was. It really hit me once I was in the hallway outside her door. The walls seemed to curve in ways they shouldn’t have and the floor was bumpy. That had to be why I was stumbling. With one hand on the wall, I made it to an elevator. From there I staggered through the hotel lobby and found myself on a beach.

  The beach was a good place to sleep. Sand was soft. It wasn’t until I sat on the ground and wrapped my arms around my knees that the tears came.

  Chapter Five

  The new plan was having no plan. No relying on planes to get me somewhere. No selling bright shiny metal to get there faster. No girl to hold my hand. No boy to watch my back.

  I’d spent a few hours on the beach waiting for the sun to come up. When it did, my eyes were drier and I was almost sober. That would have to count as sleep.

  Next was shower, clothes, food, coffee, find a gun, find a toothbrush. In no particular order. If I stumbled across a nine while I was walking toward food, I could just cross that off the list. Wasn’t counting on that though. I wasn’t counting on anything.

  It’s easier to do when you have nothing.

  After a lovely meal of coffee and dry toast that I actually managed to swallow, I was left to find a gun and a toothbrush. Scavenger hunts are fun. Of course, I knew where I could get everything on my list. Hell, I knew I could get more, but I was afraid. Afraid to face them. Afraid to look Ryan in the eye and tell him he was right, that I couldn’t respect her. Afraid to avoid her gaze and demand an answer. Afraid of what I’d lost.

  So I was surprised when I found myself there. With my back to the perfect blue water, white sand to my ankles, staring at the bungalow. I needed a drink.

  I bypassed the bungalow in favor of the hotel. It was empty. Lobby abandoned by the guests already out enjoying what would have been a beautiful day on the Sea of Cortez. The bar was empty too, save the lone bartender stuck with the early shift. Tips had to suck at this hour.

  I asked for a scotch with my head already in my hands.

  Wordlessly, kindly, he placed my drink on the bar.

  “Can you put it on my tab?” I asked after downing the first, and ordering the second. “Bungalow seven.” The least the twins could do was buy me a drink.

  With another silent nod, he moved to the computer built discreetly into the bar. He frowned at the glass and typed again.

  “Did you say seven?”

  “Yes.” Something in his tone caught my attention. “Bungalow seven.”

  “It is not occupied, señorita.”

  “What?” I stared at him dumbly.

  “It is not occupied?” He tried again, asking me as if I could provide the answer.

  For a full minute, I just stared at him, mouth open, eyes bugging out, breathing by default not choice. Then, very deliberately, I dug some cash from my pocket, handed it to him, and walked to the front desk.

  “Hola, señorita. How may I help you?” the fresh-faced kid behind the counter asked. Definitely the slow part of the day.

  “Yes.” Damn, my lips were dry. Where the fuck was my drink? “Bungalow seven.” To stop the trembling, I shoved my hands into my pockets. “The bartender said it was unoccupied.”

  “Allow me to check on that.” Junior typed on his own discreet little machine. “Yes, the young lady checked out about an hour ago.”

  “It…I…That can’t be right.” Seriously, how hard was it to keep track of a drink? “Check again. Can you check again?” Desperate? No, not me.

  “I am sorry, señorita. The computer does not lie.” He shrugged apologetically. Why wasn’t he scowling at me? I was being rude. In the US, he would at least return the favor. I wanted him to react, wanted him to tell me to behave. No such luck. “There is a note here though. Are you Ms. Cooper?”

  “Yes.” I nearly jumped over the counter. “I’m Cooper.”

  “Could I see some identification?”

  Fuck no. “Sure.” I thumbed through my wallet below his eye level until I found the real one. The other listed my first name as Cooper. That wouldn’t do. “Here.” I thrust the card across the counter, my hands shaking even worse now.

  “Thank you.” The kid nodded and stepped into a back room. He returned moments later with my smaller duffle bag and a tiny envelope. “Here you are, Ms. Cooper.”

  “Did they…” I started to ask then lost my nerve. Fuck it. What did I have to lose? “Were you here when they checked out?”

  Junior looked surprised for a moment then composed himself. “Yes. I remember checking them out now.”

  “Did they say anything? Why they were leaving?” There was that desperation again.

  “No. Only that they had a plane to catch.”

  I almost started crying. Or throwing up. I really needed that drink. “How did they look?”

  He hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was lower than before. “The young woman was…” He searched for a word. “Strange, quiet. Like she was sleepwalking. Detached. The man, he looked as if he had been crying.”

  The bile started to rise in my throat.

  “Gracias,” I managed to spit out before turning back to the bar with my things in tow. I demanded another scotch of the boy behind the counter. We were still alone.

  He put another in front of me, bottle still in hand so he could refill it the moment I set the empty glass back on the bar.

  Then, emboldened with more alcohol than is acceptable before ten, I opened the envelope. You’ve broken our heart. It was Ryan’s handwriting with a small, dried, poetic teardrop after the word heart. It was interesting that he didn’t make it plural. If you see me, shoot first because I won’t hesitate. Followed by a few more artful teardrops.

  That was when I realized why the bag was so heavy. I unzipped it enough to look inside. Underneath some of my clothes, close to the bottom, was my shoulder holster and H&K. What was under the gun made me gasp, stare, dry heave, and run to the bathroom.

  “Señorita, are you all right?” the bartender called out.

  And then I was on the hard floor losing my guts into the cold porcelain. Tears and sweat mingled on my face, dripping into the bowl. It just kept coming. Toast, coffee, scotch, all in reverse until there was nothing left and I was just dry heaving and fighting to breathe. Sitting was torture, standing was harder, but then I was finally at the sink dousing my head in frigid water, rinsing that vile taste from my mouth. The taste of scotch and vomit. The taste of DiGiovanni.

  It took me a very long time to finally stagger out of the bathroom. To my complete disgust, the bartender was waiting outside the door looking afraid and horrified.

  “Señorita, you forgot your things.” Awkwardly, he held out the note and duffle bag. Damn, he must have really been bored. “Are you all right?” he asked kindly.

  “Fine, thank you.” I relived him of my things and stumbled in the general direction of my barstool.
“Tequila,” I coughed out. “And some water.”

  He hurried around the counter and poured in the order I’d told him. “Tequila.” He set the shot in front of me. “And water.”

  I tipped back the shot, relieved to taste anything but scotch, and followed it with water. With my hands shaking once again, I pulled the photo out of my duffle bag.

  It was me. And Joan. Kissing. Topless. The night before in her fucking hotel room. The bruises on my face and my buzzed head dated the photo as post Reese. Joan’d had a camera waiting for my submission. It was like watching a wave slowly gather to crash when you’re shoulder deep in the ocean. Slowly, it builds and builds, and even though you see it coming, you know you’re fucked and you can’t do shit about it. I was well and truly fucked. We’d been played, I’d been played, by a master. If I didn’t have the overwhelming urge to find Vito and slowly remove his scrotum with a dull knife, I would have been impressed. As it was, I did have that overwhelming urge, so awe was the last thing on my mind.

  I struggled for breath, fought that wave for the surface, and when the kid behind the counter pushed another shot at me, the clink of the glass brought me crashing back. Air rushed into my lungs, harsh with the tinge of vomit and booze. And entirely unwelcome. Suffocation was preferable.

  I tossed back the shot.

  “Can you…” I coughed. “Call me a cab?”

  With a little too much enthusiasm, the kid nodded and reached for the phone.

  *

  Armed with the photo, tastefully folded to show only faces, I spent the day canvassing every single possible hotel in San Felipe. None of them remembered her. None of the places had seen Vito either. Or the twins, though I knew that was an even longer shot than Vito or the Bitch.

  Exhausted, I found a seedy motel, checked the bed for anything living, and fell into it. Twelve hours later, I returned to semi-consciousness and was back out, slightly more rested, and a lot cleaner. The twins had included my toothbrush in the going away bag. How sweet.

  By late afternoon, I’d been to every restaurant in town. Nothing. So I kept looking. Not looking only led to thinking, and that left me, at inopportune moments of the day, standing on street corners paralyzed and fighting to breathe. People stared. The fourth time this happened, a kind woman stopped and asked if I was okay. It almost made me cry.

  The bars were a different story. They at least had something to offer. A drink. Which was good because I was ready to shoot anyone who looked at me funny. Vito was my first choice, but I’d take any fight.

  Three bars in, I shouldered my way into the cantina where Vito had found me. There were two guys working even though it wasn’t that busy yet. One, I recognized. He’d served Vito and me. The other one came over to serve me.

  “Could I talk to him?” I asked pointing at the guy I knew.

  The kid hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “Sí, señor.” Neat. Couldn’t hear that enough. He rattled off something else to his buddy in Spanish that I didn’t understand. The other bartender switched places with him.

  He said something in Spanish that made absolutely no sense to me. At my blank look, he tried again. It sounded like a question, but I really didn’t know the answer.

  “Do you remember me?” I leaned close over the counter so I wouldn’t be overheard.

  He replied in Spanish with an innocent shrug.

  “Come on, you spoke perfect English last time I was in here.” I so did not need this shit.

  He shrugged again.

  “Fine.” I dug out some cash and slid a folded bill across the bar. “Now do you speak English?”

  “Cerveza followed by a scotch,” he replied with a smile. “That’s you, right?”

  That was me all right. “Do you remember the guy who was with me?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Big dude. Linen suit.” All I got was a blank look. “He showed me some photos.”

  “I’m sorry. You know, I’m not even sure it is you I remember.” Another shrug.

  “You just named what I ordered.”

  “Popular order, I guess.”

  I’d been searching all day. I wasn’t drunk enough yet. I was tired. I was hungry. And this little douche bag had the gall to lie to me? Even after I’d bribed him. That really pissed me off.

  I grabbed his shirt and hauled him up onto the bar before he could even blink. His feet flailed in the air ineffectually.

  “You stupid fuck,” I snarled into his face. “I know you remember me.”

  “Hey, let me go,” he screamed. Then he called to his friend in Spanish. As if the other kid hadn’t noticed.

  I slammed him down so his head hit the hard surface of the bar. “Just answer the fucking question. Do you remember the guy?”

  “No, I swear. I’m sorry,” he lied.

  I was about to slam him down again when two assholes pulled me off the kid.

  “I’m gonna drop you like a bad habit,” I screamed as I tried to pull away from the hands gripping my arms. They lifted me so my feet were off the ground and threw me, fuming, out the door.

  That went well.

  I walked half a block up then turned back, trying to think of ways to get back in. Vito was paying that little fucker off. He was probably paying everybody off. That was why I couldn’t get a damn break.

  As I approached the cantina again, a guy exited. Thin, wearing a suit, slicked back hair. Something about him bothered me. I just didn’t know what. After stopping to glance up and down the street, he leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette. He was familiar. Like the last two bars I’d been in familiar. The fucker was following me. And he had lackey stamped all over him. That’s what it was. He was one of Vito’s goons from Vegas. The one Reese had nailed in the head with a bottle of scotch.

  “Hey, you,” I called out before I even thought about it.

  He looked up, then casually pushed off the wall and started in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, asshole. I’m talking to you,” I said when I caught up to him. No response. “Hey.” I grabbed his shoulder and tried to spin him around. “You’re following me. Why?”

  “I ain’t following you, kid.”

  “Did Vito send you?”

  The look on his face gave him away. Just a split second of recognition. So I punched him in the face.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled as he fell back against the empty storefront behind him. “I’m just doing my job, kid.” His hand went to his cheek, cupping it like that would make it stop hurting.

  “Tell me why he wants me followed.”

  “I dunno.”

  So I hit him again. This time he hit back. In the face. Maybe I had that coming, but I didn’t care. Without thinking, I hauled the H&K out of my waistband and shoved it under his chin.

  “Why did he send you to follow me?”

  “He didn’t.” The guy didn’t even look scared.

  “Then why the fuck are you here?” I pushed the barrel against his windpipe. It made him cough.

  “I’m supposed to give you a message.” He wheezed.

  “Then what’s the message?”

  “He wants to know if it feels good?” A small grin accompanied his question.

  “Does what feel good?” This dude was irritating.

  “To hold someone’s life in your hand.” The grin got bigger.

  “Motherfucker,” I said more to myself than him. Vito had played me again. Having me followed to see how long it would take me to notice, then testing me. “Give him a message for me.”

  “What?”

  I spat in his face. Then I realized what I’d just done. Reacted just like he wanted me to. Disgusted, I stepped back, the horror slowly dawning on me. He laughed as I ran away.

  I turned into the nearest liquor store, bought enough tequila to make me stop thinking, and returned to my motel room.

  Vito and his guys were probably still watching me. They could knock themselves out. Yes, they’d gotten to me. Yes, they’d won. If t
hey wanted to watch the aftermath they could waste all the time they wanted. I didn’t give a fuck anymore.

  When I shut the door of my motel room, I didn’t give much thought to leaving it again. At that point, I didn’t care if I never came out. The new plan was to drink until I ran out or died.

  *

  There was pounding. At first, I thought it was coming from my head. It was, but the door was shaking too. Sparse light shone through the cracks in the curtains over the window. Dawn.

  I rolled off the bed soaked in sweat and shivering. One hand groped for the half-empty bottle on the floor. With the other, I shrugged into my shoulder holster. It was twisted and the leather dug into my bare skin. Armed for anything, I answered the door.

  It was Ryan.

  “Bro,” was all I could manage to squeeze past my lungs.

  “Don’t call me that.” His gray eyes looked damp. “I’m not your bro.”

  That fucking hurt. “Oh, yeah.” I attempted a smile. It didn’t work. “How could I forget?” Slowly, deliberately, I drew the gun Reese had given me and pressed the barrel against his chest. “Bang. You happy now?”

  “No.” His tears threatened to fall, hovering on long, pretty eyelashes.

  “That’s what you wanted me to do.” I shrugged and prayed I could keep myself from crying. Or throwing myself into his arms. I took a swig of booze.

  “No, Coop. I never wanted this.” He looked like he was about a teardrop away from throwing himself into my arms too.

  “Okay, enough bullshit, you two.” A slender hand shot out from the hallway, just out of my line of sight. Reese grabbed my gun, shoved Ryan into the room, and followed, slamming the door behind her. She tossed the gun onto the bed and stood with her arms crossed.

  Damn, she looked good.

  “You think you could put some clothes on?” Reese spat at me.

  I glanced down at myself. “No.” She was in my goddamn room; she could just deal with it.