The Holdup: (Charlie Cobb #3: Crime & Action Thriller Series)

by Rob Aspinall

  The woman should have been a speaker, an evangelist, she was brilliant, striding left and right.

  "Or maybe Mr Welch wants us to bless the increase in noise, traffic and disease-causing carcinogens. Put our health at risk. Put our kids' health at risk. You all down with blessing that?"

  "Hell no! Screw that!" came the general gist from the audience.

  The woman put a hand on her hip and cocked an ear towards the room. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

  "Hell no!" came the reply from a dozen voices.

  The woman nodded. She handed the mic back to the priest and sat down. The audience shouted, muttered, argued amongst themselves.

  Before the priest could talk, the man from Mainline Oil snatched the mic off him and addressed the room. "Look folks, times have changed. We all know your town is struggling. Really struggling. So let's be honest here--and I don't take any pleasure in saying this--your old way of life is on the way out."

  That one got the audience's attention. A hush came over the crowd.

  The man continued. "Five years from now, ten years from now, you can either have a ghost town and a thousand acres of worthless land, or you can have a growing, thriving economy built on shale gas. You can increase the price of your land and your homes. Improve the schooling of your kids. You can count on guaranteed employment, either within the company or the surrounding service industries. Heck, we'll even throw in subsidised health insurance if that's what it takes . . . Point is folks, Mainline Oil doesn't want to see you suffer. We want to see your town prosper. We want America to prosper. But we can only do that with your help. Will you help us do that?"

  A few of the audience spoke up in support of the guy. The greenies responded with boos and heckles.

  "Hell, let's at least look at the plans," I heard a guy say.

  "Yeah, sounds pretty good to me," another said.

  "Me too," a woman shouted. "I say we vote on it."

  The crowd broke into a fierce debate for and against. The company man handed the microphone back to the priest, seeming happy with his work.

  The priest appealed for calm. A lone man rose off his pew to the front left. He was a rugged guy in a blue and white check shirt and jeans. He was into his fifties but in great shape, with a deep tan and a full head of blonde hair. He stood and waited. Eventually, the crowd quietened down.

  "Your plans make sense," he said to the oil rep, before looking around the church. "And both sides make a fair argument. But as I understand it, this whole deal depends on you acquiring my ranch. And as I've told you a hundred times already. I ain't sellin'."

  As the ranch owner returned to his seat, the Mainline guy came back on the mic. "I'm sure we can discuss that further. In the meantime, we have more information on the project. Everyone, make sure you take a leaflet on your way out. Thank you for your time."

  The church meeting cleared out slow, with many people still arguing the toss. I filtered out with the rest of 'em, thinking this wasn't the time to grab a Bible.

  Outside the church, I saw the man from Mainline and his friend in the sunglasses. As they made their way to their waiting SUV, I was close enough to overhear the conversation.

  "Fucking hicks," the Mainline guy said. "That dumb farmer is gonna ruin the whole damn thing."

  "Calm down," the man in the sunglasses said in a gruff voice. "I'll call the boss. He'll know what to do."

  "He'd better," the Mainline guy said, as they climbed in the back of their waiting SUV.

  "You still want that Bible?" I hear a voice say.

  "Huh?"

  It's the priest talking to me. Back in the present day.

  "The Bible? You still want it?" he says, offering me a copy in a dark-blue hardcover with a gold crucifix on the front.

  I take it in my hand. "Sure, why not?"

  7

  Back in the motel room. I take my bag out of the wardrobe and drop it on the bed. I pull out the bin liner with the t-shirt in and head out to an industrial steel bin down the side of the motel. I chuck the bag inside the bin and return to the room. As I throw the rest of my clothes out on the bed, I find a pair of jeans with mud stains on the knees, a white t-shirt with engine grease down the front and a pair of work boots I don't recognise. The grips are caked in dry mud and dead stems of grass. I sniff the boots. A faint whiff of cow dung.

  I drop the boots on the floor and search the room for clues. I come up empty, so after scrubbing the numbers off my wrist, I cross the street to the bar.

  Al is still on duty, polishing a glass. "What'll it be?" he asks.

  “Information," I say. "There a ranch around here?"

  Al stares at me like I'm mad.

  "You gone dumb or something?" I say.

  "Sure there's a ranch," he says. "Same one you've been working at the last two weeks."

  "You know where I can find it?"

  Al shakes his head in confusion. He puts down the glass and scribbles down a few directions on a food order pad. He tears off the top sheet and hands it over.

  "Thanks pal," I say, looking around the bar. I notice a broken table and chair stacked in a pile in the far corner.

  "You had some trouble in here?"

  "You ought to know," he says. "You were the trouble."

  "Me?" I say. "Doesn't sound like me at all."

  "Oh it doesn't huh?" Al says. "Then you don't remember last Friday? A certain female in a blue summer dress?"

  As Al fills me in, I flash back to the Friday in question.

  It was a busy night in Al's. Busy by Rattlesnake standards. A dozen locals at least, eating, drinking, talking and laughing.

  I was sat on a stool at the bar, minding my own business. Supping on a cold one after a long day doing something or other. Can't remember what, except the insides of my thighs were killing me and my skin felt hot, as if I'd been out in the sun all day.

  Al stood talking to an old bloke about a game on TV behind the bar. American football. The Cardinals versus the Rams. The men shared a bowl of peanuts and talked tactics. Sounded too complicated for me. Normal football was far easier. In normal footie, you had two choices. Either kick the ball or kick the man with the ball.

  Good choices.

  Al's place was low-lit at night and the country tunes replaced by rock music. I glanced to my left as the door to the bar swung open. In walked the woman who'd thrown the drink in my face. She slinked over in a pale-blue summer dress and heels, done up for a night out.

  I guess Al's was the night out.

  Without a G&T in my eyes I could see she was around her late thirties. Still turning heads as she walked through the bar. She placed a small silver clutch bag on the bar and took a stool next to me. She smelled good. I kept on drinking.

  "My usual, Al," she said.

  "Sure," Al said, already fixing her the drink. He pushed a tall fizzing glass in front of her, with a black straw and a lemon wedge. "Here you go, Darla."

  "Thanks, Al," she said, sucking on the straw and looking my way.

  She finished sucking. "Not seen you here before," she said in a sleepy, caramel-smooth voice. "What's your name, honey?"

  "Charlie," I said, sipping on my beer.

  "Charlie who?"

  "Charlie Ronsen."

  "Where you from, Charlie Ronsen?"

  "Not around here," I said.

  "Is that a British accent?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh, I love the British accent. But you don't look British, she said eyeing me up and down."

  "Oh, and what do British people look like?"

  She ran a hand through her hair and cocked her head. "I dunno, gentlemanly, I guess."

  "Gentlemanly?" I couldn't help laughing. "You ever been to Britain?"

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Then sorry to disappoint, love, but there aren’t many gentlemen where I'm from."

  Darla's big brown eyes locked onto mine. "Oh, I'm far from disappointed, honey. Besides, it's good to see a new face." She glanced around the bar and si
ghed. “God knows we need a few." She sighed some more, rolling her eyes. "Oh great, here we go . . ."

  A man sidled up to Darla on her left. "Hey Darla."

  It was the same guy I'd lamped in the toilets, only without the black eye. He leaned into her and sneered at me. "Why are you talking to this loser?"

  Darla propped an elbow on the bar and turned away from the guy. "I've told you before, Wallace, I'm not interested. Take a hint for once in your life."

  Wallace was one of those guys who thought no meant yes. Especially after a few bottles of Bud.

  "Come on, Darla," he said, "Quit playin' hard to get. We both know where this is goin'."

  "Yeah, nowhere," Darla said.

  "Come on, quit talkin' to this limey fuck," Wallace said. "He ain't your type."

  Darla turned to Wallace and fixed him with a blazing stare. "It's none of your business who I talk to. And for your information, he's exactly my type."

  I glanced at Wallace as I sipped my beer.

  "What the fuck are you looking at?" he said.

  "Wallace," Al said. "that's enough—"

  "You wanna come the other side of the bar and tell me that?" Wallace said.

  "No, but—" Al said.

  "Then shut your fuckin' hole." Wallace returned his attention to Darla. Seemed like he was the local thug, hard-man, troublemaker, shrimp-dicked idiot. Whatever their problem, there was always one arsehole who couldn't help himself. I counted to ten in my mind. Didn't want to get into any bother. But my beer had run empty and Wallace had a hand on Darla's wrist. He tried to pull her off her stool. "Come on, Darla, I'm tired of hearing no."

  I put my bottle down and turned on my stool. "Let go of her, will you?"

  "Oh, looky-here it talks," Wallace said. "And talks like a queer, too."

  "Come on, pal," I say. "Take it easy."

  "Pal? I ain't your pal, asshole."

  Wallace put an arm around Darla's tanned shoulders. She fought him off.

  He got rough.

  I reached over and grabbed his left forearm. I looked him square in the eye. "Don't make me get off my stool."

  Wallace shook off my grip and fixed his attention on me. He took off his denim jacket and slapped it down on the bar. "Anyone here tell you who I am?" he said, hairy arms full of tattoos.

  "Nope," I said, sliding off my stool. I picked up Darla's stool with her still on it and carried her out of the way. I put her down a few feet away.

  It took her by surprise.

  Wallace laughed and held up his fists in a fighter's pose. "Arizona State boxing champion," he said. "Super-middleweight. Twenty-two fights. Thirteen KOs. Zero def—"

  I punched him as he talked. A straight right to the eye. Before he could hit back, I had hold of his head. I introduced it to the edge of the bar top. I grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and threw him across the bar. He crashed into an empty table and chairs, breaking the furniture. Wallace rolled around. Scrambled to his feet. Picked up a broken chair. Held it over his head and collapsed backwards onto the floor.

  "When you've gotta fight, fight," I said. "Don't talk."

  A handful of old blokes applauded in the bar.

  "'Bout time," I heard one of 'em say.

  I turned to Al. "Sorry about the damage."

  "Hell, it was worth it," Al said with a smile.

  Darla slid off her stool and rested her drink on the bar. "My hero," she said. "Back to mine for coffee?"

  The offer was tempting, but I was beat from a long day doing god-knows-what.

  She put her hands on my chest and leaned in for a kiss. I left her hanging, backing off. "Sorry, love, but I'm bloody knackered."

  I said goodnight to Al.

  Darla huffed and threw her hands on her hips. The locals in the bar laughed and whistled. I left Darla standing and walked out into the night, along the street. Legs like lead and eyelids half closed.

  But something woke me up. The sound of footsteps. They were following behind.

  Only footsteps, Charlie, you say. Yeah, but old habits. Gotta keep your wits, wherever you are. So I kept on walking around the back of the motel. I stood against the wall and waited for the guy following me to appear.

  He did.

  I grabbed him by his shirt collars and pushed him against the wall.

  "Hey, hey," he said, showing me the palms of his hands. "I come in peace, buddy."

  It was dark, but I could make out his thin, angular features and blonde beard. He was six-two and built athletic. I recognised his face from a table at the back of the bar.

  "What do you want?" I said, letting him go.

  "Saw you in the bar back there," he said. "You know how to handle yourself."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "You done time?"

  "Not in a long time," I said.

  "But you know your way around a job, a weapon."

  "Get to the point."

  "I'm part of a crew," he said. "We're looking for a fourth man."

  "Not interested," I said.

  "Come on, you're perfect," he said. "No ties and no one knows your face."

  "Are you deaf, pal?"

  "Good money," he said. "Fucking awesome money."

  "Sparking out arseholes in bars is as far as I go," I said. "Good luck with the job."

  "You haven't heard what it is yet," the guy said.

  "Don't need to," I said, walking away.

  8

  I follow the directions on the note Al gave me. The ranch starts on the edge of town, but it's a fair old hike to the road that leads to the house. I lean over a crooked wooden riding fence painted white. The ranch sprawls further than the eye can see in all directions. To the naked eye, the fields seem to stretch all the way to the mountains—pale grass with a sprinkling of squat, dark-green trees. Cows gather in the distance. I hear the faint sound of mooing on a warm breeze. Suck in a lungful of manure in the air.

  Ugh.

  The entrance to the farm is on my right, marked by a green, wooden board sign that says Collins Ranch. The road into the ranch is dirt and dust for a good half a mile. It leads from the entrance to a tiny dot of a farmhouse.

  I look above and see a huge, pink sky, the sun going down. Bugs dancing in the air. Crickets providing the music.

  The early evening's almost as hot as the day. Closer, too.

  I remove the navy-blue cap I found in my bag and run a forearm over my brow. It comes away wet in sweat. I push up off the fence and set off through the entrance to the ranch, along the road towards the farmhouse. As I get closer, I make out the house. It's a big old thing painted pale-blue with a traditional porch. There's a farmyard to the left, a nearby stables and a red barn behind it up a gentle rise.

  I walk up the steps. Everything creaks. I pull open a screen and knock on the front door, feeling like I'm intruding. But I've gotta remember. Gotta piece things together. And at the moment, this is the only piece left in the box.

  I wait a minute. See a net curtain twitch behind the window. I recognise the ranch-owner from the church. He opens the front door. He wears the same kind of farming clothes as in the church.

  He doesn't ask me what I want. He opens the door wide. "You'd better come in," he says.

  I go with it. He leads me through a wide hallway with wooden floorboards and a ticking grandfather clock. We end up in the kitchen. Rustic and relaxed, with a solid oak table in the middle of the room and a giant silver range cooker with something that smells damn good in the oven.

  A big wooden fan beats overhead. There's a woman at a stove on that cooker, stirring something in a large stainless steel pan. She flashes me a smile, taps a ladle against the side of the pan and rubs her hands on a white apron, worn over jeans and a salmon vest. She's a plain, sturdy woman with sandy hair in a pony tail. Her face glowing from standing over the hob and her eyes big, blue and kind. "I'll give you boys a few minutes," she says. "Supper's ready in five."

  Collins offers me a seat. I take a chair across the table from him.
r />   "Glad you came around," he says. "I was gonna pay you a visit later."

  "Oh yeah? Why's that?" I say.

  "Sheriff was round earlier," Collins says, looking edgy, tapping a thumb against the table. "She was asking what I knew. Who I knew. Seemed especially interested in you."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "Told her the truth," Collins says. "That you've been working on the ranch the past couple of weeks."

  "You mention what you had me doing?"

  "Cleaning out the barn. Fixing the tractor."

  "That all?" I ask.

  "Well I wasn't gonna mention the damn rifle, was I?” He leans in. "What the hell went on out there, Charlie?"

  I stay quiet. Sometimes the best way to get information out of someone is to sit there and not say a word. Don't even blink. A lot of people can't handle it. They'll spit their own guts just to fill the silence.

  It works a charm on Collins. "The raid's all over the local news," he says. "Where's the haul?"

  "Haul?"

  "The money. Shit, what's got into you, Charlie? Why you clamming up on me?"

  I sit back in my chair. Sure, seems like I know the guy. I just don't remember anything about him.

  As Collins waits for an answer, a timer on the oven rings out. Collins' wife hurries back in. "Okay, we're all set," she says, turning off the timer, the oven and the hob. She looks over a shoulder and smiles at me. "You staying for supper, Charlie?"

  I hesitate. "Oh, I . . ."

  "We're having pot roast. And I know you like my pot roast."

  "I do?" I say. "I mean, yeah, I certainly do."

  I look at Collins. He relaxes in his chair.

  "Thank you Mrs Collins, I'd be delighted," I say.

  Mrs Collins stops in her tracks and looks at me funny. "Mrs Collins? Janice, you big clod."

  "Sorry, Janice," I say. "Can I help with anything?”

  “Certainly not, you’re a guest,” she says, pulling on a pair of pink polka dot oven gloves. "Bill, honey, set out the table will you?"

  "Sure, honey," Collins says, swallowing his frustration with me.

  As Collins raids a drawer for some cutlery, Janice opens the oven and takes out an blue oval dish. She slides it on the centre of the table—full of a big slab of braised beef, potatoes and carrots in a thick gravy. The smell of the roast transports me back in time.