by Brad Smith
At the bank, the teller was of no help. When Frances asked to talk to the manager she was told that he had gone home. He didn’t work Friday nights. Finally the teller called someone in the building and a few minutes later led Frances into the office of the loans manager, a woman named Kelly. For some reason, in the face of the teller’s impotence, Frances had grown calmer. Maybe it was because she had something to do. Something she had to do.
‘What is this about?’ the manager asked. She was sitting at her desk, her eyes on the open laptop in front of her. Frances assumed she was looking at her account information.
‘I need a hundred thousand dollars,’ Frances told her.
‘Yes, Steven said that,’ the manager said. ‘But surely you don’t require cash?’
‘I do.’
The manager hesitated. ‘Can I ask why? I mean, we can provide you with a certified check, which is the same as cash.’
‘It has to be cash.’ Frances now tried the story she’d been working on. ‘There’s a piece of property along the river I’m buying. The owner insists on cash. He’s old school, doesn’t trust banks.’
‘But if you tell him that a certified check essentially is cash,’ the manager said. ‘If you like, I could call him—’
‘No,’ Frances said quickly. ‘He’s very eccentric. And I need to get this done tonight. He might change his mind by tomorrow. He’s done it before. Why can’t I withdraw it?’ She gestured toward the laptop. ‘I have a line of credit.’
‘That’s not the problem,’ the manager said. ‘The problem is the vault. It’s on a timer and it won’t open again until Monday morning. I don’t know how much cash we have on hand but I doubt it’s anywhere near what you want.’
‘I really need the money.’ Frances felt her heartbeat racing again. How could this be happening? ‘Please.’
The manager looked at her strangely but she got to her feet. ‘Wait here a moment.’
She went out into the bank and was gone for ten minutes or more, while Frances’s anxiety rose steadily. When the manager finally returned, she did not sit down.
‘It looks as if we can put together forty thousand, possibly forty-five. Can we do that, along with a check for the balance? Or we could give you the rest of the cash Monday morning. Surely forty thousand will hold the place for the weekend?’
Frances realized she had no choice. ‘All right, I’ll take the forty-five. I’ll have to … I’ll have to make it work.’ She hesitated, looking at the manager. ‘I have to make it work.’
‘We’ll get you your money.’
‘Please,’ Frances said.
ELEVEN
Chino found a bottle of Irish whisky on a shelf beneath the island and he poured large measures for himself and Bug, who had walked over from the couch when he’d seen Chino rummaging through the cupboards. Chino had offered the fifth toward Billy Taylor, still standing by the bay window watching the road out front, but Billy had shaken his head. Probably a good thing, Chino thought. An Indian drinking hard liquor could be a problem. A prison guard had once told Chino that Indians couldn’t handle grain alcohol because, historically, they had never been exposed to the stuff. Not until the white man had shown up anyway. The guard could have been full of shit; most of them were.
Bug carried his glass back to the couch and sat down by the girl there. He’d been talking to her non-stop. He probably thought he was getting somewhere with her.
Chino had made a search of the house while he waited for the woman to return. He’d pocketed some jewelry and a man’s watch in the master bedroom upstairs and went into the bathroom there, looking for drugs in the medicine cabinet. Coming up empty, he did a couple of lines on the counter. He’d given some coke to Bug earlier, to get him wound up for the job, but that was all he would get. Chino didn’t want him getting out of hand before they got the money.
Downstairs he searched an office looking for cash or a safe, but found nothing. Off the kitchen there was a door leading down into a stone basement. It was low-ceilinged and dark, even with the lights on. There was an oil furnace there and shelves with cans of paint and preserves. A couple dozen bottles of wine stored sideways in a rack. A work bench with some antique tools.
Now Chino sat at the counter and drank. Carl was facing away, his eyes fixed on the wall. His head had stopped bleeding and the blood along his face had coagulated, growing dark. He was quiet, barely moving since the woman had left. Still, there was something about him that bothered Chino.
The girl had retreated into the corner of the couch, as far from Bug as she could get. With her hands tied behind her there was no way she could push her skirt down and she appeared dismayed by that, constantly squirming, scissoring her legs in an effort to cover herself.
‘I’ll take that tape off so you can have a sip,’ Bug said.
‘You leave that fucking tape where it is,’ Chino said. He was talking to Bug but watching Carl, who had shifted around so he could see what was happening across the room.
‘You are such a sweet girl,’ Bug said. ‘How old are you anyway? I love a young thing.’
Only Bug would try to strike up a conversation with a woman he’d gagged, Chino thought. Carrying his glass, he slid off the stool and approached Carl, kneeling down there to block his view of the couch. He took a moment, looking at the man. He was strong, Chino could tell that when he’d bound his wrists with the electrical ties. His forearms were powerful, his hands large and callused. There was something capable about the man, and that pissed Chino off.
‘What’s the matter?’ Chino said. ‘You don’t like my buddy sparking your little girl? You’d better hope the missus brings home the bacon or I might let him take her on a little date.’ He drank from the glass. ‘Oh, that look in your eyes. You’re about ready to blow a head gasket, aren’t you? I bet you’re thinking about what you’d do to me. You know, if you had the chance. In your head, you’re a tough guy. Real life, you’re just another pussy, sitting here on your fancy farm. Probably never had your hands dirty in your life. I’d kick your fucking ass six ways to Sunday, pal. You and your attitude. Well, who’s lying on the floor bleeding and who’s drinking whisky and having a good old time?’
Chino saw Carl’s eyes register something and he turned to see Bug running his fingers along the girl’s thigh. Tickling her, Bug giggling as the girl shrank back in horror. At the window, Billy turned from his vigil to see what was going on.
‘Look at those crazy kids, getting along,’ Chino said to Carl. ‘Must make a father happy to see that. You got potential son-in-law material right there. Dumb as a rock and couldn’t spell cat, but he likes your girl.’
Bug’s hand went under the skirt and the girl attempted to scream beneath the tape, the sound emerging like a frantic moan.
‘Leave her alone,’ Billy snapped, stepping toward the couch.
‘Come on,’ Bug laughed. ‘I ain’t hurting nobody. I just wanna touch that sweet thing a little bit.’
‘Leave her alone, man,’ Billy said. ‘Not why we’re here.’
‘Shut up and watch the fucking road,’ Chino said.
‘Not why we’re here,’ Billy said again.
‘Relax,’ Chino said. He looked at Carl. ‘Don’t you hate it when people can’t get along? Come on, tough guy. Give us a smile. I don’t like that evil eye, boy. You best change your attitude or I’ll shove that empty whisky bottle up your ass.’
Billy stared defiantly at Bug, who had backed off some, although his hand still rested on the girl’s knee, his fingers drumming a little beat there. The girl was looking at Billy as if he was her last chance.
‘Leave her be,’ Billy said once more.
Chino got to his feet and made a move toward Billy, menace in his eyes. ‘You don’t tell anybody what—’ He stopped as headlights swept the room. ‘She’s back.’
Billy moved at once to the window.
‘She alone?’ Chino demanded.
Billy watched a moment. ‘Appears so.’
‘Keep your eyes on that fucking road,’ Chino ordered. ‘Could be cops trailing.’
He pulled the revolver from his belt and moved toward the back door. When Frances walked in he grabbed her by the arm and propelled her past him into the living room, then stepped outside for a look around. He stood there on the patio for a full minute before walking over to look inside Frances’s SUV.
When he came back into the house she was standing in the middle of the room, holding a heavy cloth bag in one hand and staring defiantly at Bug, who had now taken his hands off the girl. His eyes were on Frances and even behind the mask he appeared sheepish, as if caught in the act.
Chino pointed the gun toward the bag. ‘You get it?’
Frances turned to him, taking a breath. She held the bag forward. ‘There’s forty-seven thousand. All I could get from the bank and the ATMs.’
‘Fuck!’ Chino shouted. ‘You fucking cooze. What did I tell you?’
He snatched the bag from her and dumped the bills out on to the island. He stood staring at it, his chest heaving. Bug got up from the couch and walked over. He picked up some of the money as if to count it, then left off. He turned to Chino.
‘It might be enough,’ he said. ‘I mean it’s close, right?’
Chino stared at the money, his mind working. ‘She’s lying,’ he said quietly.
He turned and slapped Frances across the face with such force she fell backwards into the coffee table and went down.
‘You are fucking lying!’ Chino screamed. ‘A hundred grand. You’re on fucking TV! You’re worth ten times that.’
Seeing Frances fall, Carl tried desperately to stand, struggling to gain his balance with his hands bound behind him. As he got to his knees Chino punched him in the face, then grabbed him by the shoulder and hit him again and again.
‘You people make me sick!’ He left Carl alone and went over to grab Frances, jerking her to her feet and pulling her face close to his. ‘I got a feeling you got it all and you’re trying to fuck me. Seeing if you can save yourself a few dollars. You don’t want to spend a dime, even to save your stinking life.’
‘No,’ Frances said. ‘The vault is on a timer. I swear.’
Chino hit her again, closing his fist and driving it into her mouth. Carl was on his side a few feet away and he swung his legs around and drove his heavy work boot into Chino’s knee. Chino screamed in pain and collapsed. Bug jumped forward and began to kick Carl.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Billy said. He headed for the money. ‘Let’s take this and get out of here.’
Chino got slowly to his feet. Reaching up, he removed the balaclava and limped over to where Carl was lying, his head turned away from Bug’s wild kicks. Chino pushed Bug aside and grabbed Carl by the neck and shoulder, lifting him to his feet and dragging him to the door leading to the basement. He put his face inches from Carl’s.
‘I gave you a chance. Both of you. And you fucked it up.’
When Bug saw Chino without his mask, he removed his own. He stepped to the basement door and opened it. ‘Get rid of him,’ he urged. ‘We got the women.’
Chino shoved Carl through the door and into the basement.
Carl, without his hands to break the fall, hit the steps headfirst and then continued down, his left shoulder crashing onto the steps, one by one. At the bottom, his head slammed into the concrete floor of the basement and he went out.
Chino turned back to the others.
‘Jesus, let’s get out of here,’ Billy said again.
‘Not yet,’ Chino snapped, approaching Frances. ‘They broke the deal. I warned them. Go get the truck, bring it up to the house. Wait for us.’
‘Let’s just go,’ Billy said. ‘There’s fifty grand.’
Chino pointed the gun at Billy’s head. ‘Get the truck and wait for us.’
When Billy was gone, Chino gestured toward the girl on the couch. ‘Make it quick,’ he said.
He watched while Bug led the girl down a hallway, then turned to Frances.
‘One last time,’ he said. ‘Where’s the rest? I know you got it.’
Frances had gone from watching Carl disappear down the stairs to seeing Stacy being led off. She was barely able to speak.
‘I’m telling you. Please—’
‘You think I’m trash, don’t you?’ Chino said. He spread his palms. ‘But look where we are. Not so snooty now, are you? Now you’re going to have to beg.’
He put the gun barrel against Frances’s forehead. ‘In case you didn’t know, you beg on your knees.’
When Bug came out of the bedroom, Chino was stuffing the money back into the bag. The woman was nowhere to be seen.
‘Go out to that garage and find a can of gas,’ Chino said. ‘We’re leaving nothing behind.’
‘Where’s the woman?’
‘With her hubby,’ Chino said. ‘Do it.’
When he had the money stowed, Chino went beneath the island for three more bottles of liquor. He put the bottles on top of the cash as Bug returned with a gas can.
‘Billy waiting?’
‘Yeah,’ Bug said.
Chino handed Bug the bag. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
Bug waited in the truck with Billy, who sat sullenly, saying nothing. Chino came out the front door on the run. He jumped into the passenger seat and they drove off. As they hit the river road, the interior of the house exploded.
TWELVE
It seemed to Carl that the sound of the fire woke him – the snapping and crackling of the flames, like miniature fireworks, from somewhere above him. When he opened his eyes it was pitch black. His cheek was against the cold concrete floor. Behind the duct tape that gagged him, his tongue felt swollen and his mouth was dry. The pain in his left shoulder was excruciating, shooting from his neck down into his biceps. He smelled the smoke then. Looking up, he could see the flames dancing beneath the door at the top of the stairs.
When he moved, he felt the warm body beside him. He couldn’t see her and he couldn’t touch her, but he knew at once it was Frances. He knew her scent, her being. He lowered his face next to hers, hoping to feel her breathing. He could not.
Pushing his back against the newel post at the base of the stairs, he managed to get to his feet. He worked his wrists against the plastic ties that held them behind his back. They would not give. He knew that the shoulder was separated, and badly so. There was a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. He moved to it, feeling the wall with his right shoulder, his good shoulder. When he found it, he crouched and flipped it on with his chin. Nothing. The fire must have blown the breakers.
Standing there, he could now feel the heat from above. The house was burning down. He wondered about Stacy. Was she down there with them? In the dark it was impossible to tell. He moved around, feeling with his feet, but couldn’t find her.
He stopped for a moment, looking again at the fire beneath the door above him. Going up was not an option. He told himself to slow down. To think. At the back of the cellar there was a storm door that led outside. Carl had never known it to be opened and he thought it was padlocked. He needed to get his hands free.
He moved away from the stairs to the wall opposite, where the wine rack was built. Finding it in the darkness, he turned his back to the wall and reached out to grab a bottle. He pulled it from the rack and dropped it on to the concrete floor, smashing it. Slowly he knelt down, feeling for the broken glass on the floor behind him. The pain in his shoulder was making him nauseous and he stopped for a moment, thinking he would be sick. Searching again, he found the neck of the bottle, turned the jagged edge upward in his hands, seeking the ties that bound his wrists. He sawed away clumsily, felt the broken glass slice into his skin. Still he moved the bottle neck around, working it back and forth, finally feeling it against the plastic ties. He screamed as he drove the shard upward, into his flesh and through the plastic. His hands came free.
He pulled the duct tape away from his face, feeling it tear at his hair. Both wrists were bleeding pr
ofusely, the blood running from his fingertips to the floor as he made his way in the darkness to the storm door. There was a hasp there, and a padlock. The heat from above grew stronger, the noise of the fire louder. Carl turned and followed the wall to the work bench, his hands before him, reaching for it in the dark. He felt frantically along the bench and then the pegboard above it. Screwdrivers, pliers, pipe wrenches. Finally his hand closed on the claw hammer. He went back to the door in the dark and began to hammer at the lock, the lock he couldn’t see. He pounded away, missing more than connecting, the blood from his wrists coating the hammer handle, making it slippery and hard to grip. As he swung futilely, the panic inside him grew. When he stopped and reached for the padlock, it was still intact.
Above him something collapsed, hitting the floor with a deafening crash. The staircase, Carl thought. Soon the whole house would fall into the cellar. The floor was burning above his head and the heat descended on him like a sauna. He was drenched in sweat. He reached for the lock, running his bloody fingers along the hasp itself. The wood there was old and cracked. Turning the hammer over, he attempted to drive the claw between the clasp and the wood. He missed, and missed again. The hammer slid from his bloody fingers and fell to the floor. He dropped to his knees to find it. He began again and on the fifth attempt the claw caught. He jerked the handle upward, felt the hasp break loose a little. And then the hammer slipped. He did it again and again, gaining an eighth of an inch each time. Finally he drove the full length of the claws behind the hasp and ripped it out of the door, the wood splintering. He jerked the door open, swinging it wide on the rusting, complaining hinges. Cool night air greeted him, like an angel’s embrace.
When he turned away from the door there were flames at the top of the steps leading upstairs, illuminating the stairwell. He could see Frances now, crumpled on the floor, legs drawn up. She was still wearing her coat. Moving to her, Carl looked desperately around for Stacy but didn’t see her. He knelt beside Frances and ran his fingers along her throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there. He attempted to lift her and when he did the pain raced through his shoulder like a shot. He thought he would pass out. He released her, allowed her to slump back on to the floor. He couldn’t carry her.
