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

by Rob Aspinall

  31

  Darla's out walking her pet rat along the main street through town. Good, it saves me finding out where she lives.

  I catch up to her. "Hey, Darla."

  She stops and fiddles with her hair.

  "I was coming to see you," I say.

  "You were?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  She pouts her lips as if waiting for a kiss. I give her a peck. She smiles. "What is it, honey?"

  "You didn't get the message, from Father Shaw?"

  "No," she says. "But then my phone's on charge and I was cutting Mrs Dixon's hair."

  "That's what you do, cut hair?"

  "Mobile hairdresser," she says. "What did you think, I was some kind of lush?"

  "Course not," I lie.

  The ginger Chihuahua on the end of the lead lets out an impetuous little yap.

  "Take a walk with me," she says, continuing along the main street. "Prince gets snappy if I interrupt his cardio.”

  I walk alongside Darla and the rat. Darla links an arm around one of mine. I let it happen. I need her onside.

  "So what did Father Shaw want?" she asks.

  "We had a meeting."

  "What about?"

  "About the mess the town's in," I say.

  "The fracking? I know. All that pollution. I'm gonna have to put Prince on bottled spring water. He's fussy enough as it is."

  "Well we're working on a plan for that. To save the Collins ranch. I thought you could help."

  Darla stops and turns to me. "Sure, honey. When?"

  "Tomorrow morning. First thing."

  Prince yaps again.

  "Okay Prince, I heard you," Darla says.

  Prince looks up at me and bares his teeth.

  "What do you want me to do?" Darla asks.

  "I need you to look pretty."

  "Don't I always?" Darla says, paranoid.

  "I meant wear something revealing. But not too revealing. Like, um—"

  "It's fine, Charlie. I get it . . . Is that all?"

  "I'll need you to act. Can you do that?"

  "I'm a woman. Of course I can act."

  "You sure?" I say.

  "Am I sure I'm a woman or sure I can act?"

  "You know what I mean."

  She laughs. Prince yaps. "In a minute, Prince," Darla says. "Mommy's talking."

  "So can you or can't you?" I ask, getting impatient myself.

  Darla sighs. She throws back her hair and closes her eyes. "Oh, oh, Charlie, yes Charlie, yes!"

  She opens her eyes and flashes me a wicked smile. An old woman walks by and tuts.

  "Was that—" I say. "When we—earlier?"

  Darla doesn't say a word.

  I pull my arm from her grip. "I'll pick you up at eight.”

  32

  Chris Gallagher consulted his watch. The time said five-thirty. "Well, that's it," he said to his colleague from Phoenix, Jim Potts.

  Colleagues often joked that he and Jim were twins separated at birth. They wore the same kind of office clothes. Sported the same kind of middle-age spread pushing out of a shirt. And the same kind of sweat rings around the armpits.

  "No bank's open past half-five,” Gallagher said. “And I haven't seen Collins rushing out to pay the loan."

  "Internet transfer?" Jim said. "He's got 'til midnight as I recall.”

  "Nah," Gallagher said, pulling his pants up by the belt. "He ain't got it. He admitted as much himself."

  "So where does that leave us?" Jim said, as the two men watched their crews set up large beige tents and blue portable lavatories.

  "The crews aren't paid past four-thirty," Gallagher said. "Too late to start now."

  "Then why the hell are we out here?" Jim said, tugging on the collar of his pale-blue work shirt.

  "The gods of Mainline are sore 'cause one of the mortals said no to 'em."

  "They don't have to punish us while they're at it," said Jim.

  Gallagher looked out across the surrounding fields. "I had a job like this once. The land was repossessed on the Friday. But the digging had to wait until Monday. The bank has to approve the repossession first. Then Welch and the FD will have to make the transfer. No way that's going through tonight, whatever happens."

  "You reckon we're getting the weekend off?"

  "Fat chance," Gallagher said. "Overtime's already paid for and Welch wants us digging by tomorrow at the latest." Gallagher stretched and yawned. "You know what head office are like. They only relax when there's money coming up the pipe."

  "Yup," Jim said. "Well I hope it goes through on Monday. At least we can go home for the weekend."

  "Come on old buddy," Gallagher said. "Where's your frontier spirit?"

  "Me and you don't get OT, remember?" Jim said.

  Gallagher puffed his cheeks and blew out a heavy sigh. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. "I hate drilling in places like this. It's a damn oven out here. Nothing but dust and vultures."

  "Yup," Jim said, his attention caught by something in the distance.

  Gallagher turned and saw Collins' pickup driving towards them from the farmhouse. A white Bronco SUV heading in through the entrance. Both vehicles pulled up in front of Chris and Jim, nose to nose. Collins and his wife rode in the pickup—two young men on the back.

  Out of the Bronco stepped a flame-haired priest who looked to Gallagher like he was fresh out of college. There was also a black woman in a long yellow summer dress and another man in a white shirt with a red logo that said Al's.

  The man in the white shirt opened the boot on the Bronco. He hauled out a steel beer keg and rolled it across the ground with a foot. He pulled out another keg. The priest helped the man, taking out two twenty-four packs of beer.

  The woman in the yellow dress slid out a large tray of what looked like food covered in foil. Meanwhile, Collins and his family unloaded the back of the pickup. They carried large bowls and tubs--more home cooking.

  "Well I'll be damned." Gallagher said.

  "Is it Christmas?" Jim said.

  Collins approached with two large bottles of whisky. "Thought you gents could do with some refreshments."

  He handed a bottle to Gallagher and one to Jim. Gallagher checked the label. Decent stuff.

  As the two young men on the back of the pickup set up a long decorating table to the side of the road, Gallagher could see the family resemblance.

  "What's this all about?" Gallagher said. "Not that we're not grateful."

  "Just a little Rattlesnake hospitality," the priest said, setting down the packs of beer.

  As the food was laid out on the table, Gallagher and Jim inspected the spread.

  Collins' wife slid a transparent tub full of marinated steaks onto the table. She tore off the lid to let Gallagher take a look. "Better get those barbecues lit," she said.

  The man in the white shirt rolled both kegs of beer and stood them up next to the table. He shook Gallagher by the hand. "The name's Al," he said.

  "You the owner of the bar in town?" Jim said.

  "That's right, and any time you and your crews want to stop by, you'll find the best beers and burgers in the state."

  "We'll be sure to do that," Gallagher said. "But I have to say, I'm a little confused. I thought most of you folks were against what we're doing here."

  "No one more than me," the woman in the yellow dress said. "But if it's happening, it's happening. Might as well make the best of it."

  "I'm sure we can all get along," Collins said.

  "We thought we'd extend the olive branch, welcome you to the town," the priest said. "I'm Father Shaw. We have plenty of room in our congregation, should any of you gentlemen decide to attend."

  "I think this is gonna be real good for your town," Gallagher said. "Though you might have to build a bigger church, Father. Once those drills go in the ground, this place'll grow so fast it'll make your head spin. Tell the guys to light the grills, Jim," Gallagher said, clapping and rubbing his hands together. />
  Jim put his hands to his mouth and yelled to the gathering crowd. "Light the fires, boys. Steaks, beer and whisky!"

  Gallagher smiled at the whoops and hollers from his crews. Al opened the first keg and filled a red plastic cup up to the top.

  He handed it to Gallagher, who took his first sip. “Whoa,” he said. "That's a damn good brew. And chilled."

  "Of course," Al said. "Brewed local."

  Suddenly the overnight delay didn't seem so much of an inconvenience. As the people of Rattlesnake dished out the food and served up the beers to the queue of contractors, Gallagher looked up to the mellow evening sky. Maybe the Rattlesnake drill wouldn't be so bad after all.

  33

  The night is black. The moon hiding behind clouds. Two in the morning according to the digital clock on the dash.

  I catch a ride with Al to the ranch. We park up short of the entrance. Father Shaw rides in the backseat, alongside Florence, the head of the anti-frackers.

  Al kills the engine and the headlights.

  I turn in my seat. "Didn't think you'd come, Father. Thought this kinda thing was against God's code."

  "So is destroying the land he created for us," he says.

  "Then let's do it," I say. "We all clear on the plan?"

  Al, Shaw and Florence all nod.

  "Good," I say, opening the door. "Let's go."

  We climb out of Al's Bronco, tools in hand, jogging quiet through the ranch entrance. It's not far to the assembled trucks and diggers. The place is quiet apart from crickets. The men sleep in giant tents. No sign of lights or the sound of drunken laughter.

  Beer, whisky and all that bread, potatoes and meat--they should be long gone by now. Yet they've pitched their tents in and around their machinery, which makes this trickier.

  "Work fast, but work quiet," I whisper.

  We split into pairs—Al and Florence heading one way, me and Father Shaw breaking the other. We pick our way through the tents, careful not to trip over a web of guide ropes pegged into the ground. As we pass through a narrow gap between tents, I hear snoring from the one on the right and farting from the one on the left. We tiptoe through to a big transporter truck carrying three earth movers on the back of its trailer.

  Me and Al are the mechanically-inclined, so our job is to do the technical work. Father Shaw and Florence are here to carry tools and play lookout.

  First, I climb up onto the trailer. I take a carpet knife off Father Shaw and slide under the chassis of a digger. I use the knife and slash the fuel line. It starts to leak diesel. I hand Father Shaw the knife and slide out of there. I move onto the hydraulics on the inside of a digging arm. I use a pair of heavy-duty wire clippers to cut one of the lines.

  It's tough work, but after a few goes, I cut halfway through the line.

  Pretty sure that ought to do it.

  I repeat the process until all the earth movers on the trailer are disabled.

  Next, we scurry over to a trailer with long, thick lengths of steel on the back. Dunno what they're for, but I'm guessing they're important.

  I jog up and down the side of the trailer.

  The driver didn't even put the legs down to stabilise the damn thing. Guess he didn't think it was going anywhere. Or maybe the sun cooked his brain. Either way, it's a welcome lapse.

  I squat low beside the trailer and reach underneath to the fifth wheel. It's almost pitch black and torches are out of the question, so I feel around for something familiar. Some kind of handle. Yes, there it is. I lift the handle up. It detaches the fifth wheel connecting cab to trailer.

  We clear out of there. Onto the next truck. But there's a problem. A tent door zipping open. A contractor stumbling out, coming our way in nothing but a pair of baggy white boxers and boots.

  I grab Father Shaw and pull him down. We hit the dirt and scramble underneath a trailer. The man burps and breathes heavy. He moans and groans. Mutters to himself. He comes to a stop a yard to our left. He unzips his fly and empties his bladder. Hot, stinking piss splatters against a nearby tyre. It makes a thin river in the ground, mixing with the dust.

  It steams in the air. We hold our breath. The guy runs out of juice and shakes himself off. He shuffles back to his tent. We come out of our hiding place and step around the river of piss. We work our way through the rest of the camp, meeting Al and Florence in the middle.

  "Are you done?" I whisper.

  "We're done," Al says.

  "Then let's go," I say.

  We weave a careful path through the tents and jog out through the entrance. We climb back in the Bronco. Al starts the engine.

  "Leave the headlights off," I say.

  Al nods and turns the Bronco around, going easy on the accelerator.

  I wait until we get clear of the ranch. "We're good, you can hit the lights," I say.

  Al flicks on the headlights. He steps on the gas. The four of us relax in our seats.

  "That was fun," Father Shaw says, like an excited schoolboy.

  The rest of us burst out laughing, the tension broken.

  "This is the place," I say to Al.

  He pulls the Bronco over by the side of the highway,

  "What are we doing here?" Florence asks.

  "Work's not over," I say, looking around the cabin. I see some sleepy eyes and tired bodies, the adrenaline wearing off, causing 'em to crash. It's okay for me. I'm used to working in the black of night, when the roads are empty and the streets are clear. Standard business hours for a fixer.

  I turn to Al. "You bring the shovel like I asked?"

  "In the trunk," he says.

  I open the passenger door. "Turn off the headlights. I'll be back in a bit."

  I close the passenger door and walk around the rear. I open the boot, or trunk as they call it over here. I take out the shovel Al brought me. I close the boot, rest the shovel on a shoulder and walk out into the desert.

  It's cool out here. Different to town. Everything is lit a midnight-blue by a half moon. I use the rock formation as a starting point and the cactus with the broken arm as a further guide. I pace out into the desert sands beyond a patch of scrub, counting under my breath. I stop and drive the tip of the shovel into the sand. It doesn't take long to make a hole.

  I stop digging, drop to my hands and knees and reach down into the ground. I push the torn glovebox panel out of the way and heave the holdall out of the hole. I dump it to one side and push the dirt back in the hole with the shovel. I smooth the sand out on top and push the dirt off the end of the blade with the sole of my boot. I haul the shoulder strap of the holdall over my head and take the weight. I pick up the shovel and walk back out of the desert.

  I open the boot on Al's Bronco and slide the shovel inside. I keep hold of the bag full of cash, climbing up into the passenger seat.

  Al nods awake from a snooze. Looks at the holdall. "Is that—?"

  I nod and close the door. The others wake up, too.

  "You all clear on the plan?" I say. "Cash payments to your banks first thing. Then same-day transfers to Collins."

  "Western & Main is my bank," Al says.

  "You got another business account?" I ask.

  "Sure," Al says.

  "Then use that," I say. "If anyone else uses Western & Main, tell 'em the same—or to steer clear of the Mitchum branch, at least."

  Al starts the engine. He turns on the headlights.

  "Is that wife of yours up?" I ask.

  "Loretta hit the hay hours ago," Al says.

  "Give her a call," I say. "Tell her she's got some counting to do."

  34

  Loretta had already opened up by the time Sidney Withers arrived at the Mitchum branch of the Western & Main Bank. It's why he'd promoted her to Assistant Manager. If there was one person even more punctual than he, it was Loretta.

  Withers was pencil thin, right down to his features. He wore rectangle glasses and a pink tie over a white shirt. His suit was navy, his skin pale and demeanour reserved.

 
It was early Saturday morning and his usual cup of coffee was already waiting on his desk. White with two sugars. Loretta had seen to that, too. He set down his briefcase and walked out of his office. He knocked on Loretta's door. The door was open.

  "Morning Loretta," Withers said.

  "Morning Sid," Loretta said, sitting behind her desk at her computer. She was a forty-something blonde, always smartly turned out--on that day in a crisp white blouse under a black trouser suit. In fact, Withers thought it a shame she was already married to her husband, Al.

  "So, any messages?" Withers asked.

  "Mr Welch," Loretta said, rolling her eyes. "Phone was ringing when I walked in the door."

  Withers nodded to himself. "Thought as much. Anything special on the agenda today?"

  "No, just a plain old Saturday," Loretta said. "Working when everyone is barbecuing."

  "Heard it's going to be a hot one today," Withers said. "Why did we get into banking, Loretta?"

  "I don't know. It couldn't have been for the money."

  Withers laughed. "Anyway, I'd better get to it. Got a repossession to push through."

  "The Collins ranch?" Loretta asked.

  "Rattlesnake is your neck of the woods, isn't it? You know the man personally?"

  "He drinks in my husband's bar sometimes," Loretta said. "That's about it."

  "You not sore over the whole business?" Withers asked.

  "Shame for him and all, but to be honest, I can't wait for that deal to go through. Best thing that's happened to the town in years. God knows we could use the investment."

  Withers nodded. "Alrighty then," he said, retreating from the doorway.

  "Oh, Sid," Loretta said. "I forgot to mention. We've got a fire inspector coming first thing. Annual check."