by TJ Vargo
Curtis checked his watch as he walked up the drive. It was past midnight. Hopefully Sonny and Fitz were still here. He had to talk to Sonny and find out where they put his fish.
The porch lights glowed on Barry’s pale yellow colonial. Two big wooden rocking chairs and a half cord of firewood were on the porch. The garage door was open and a black Harley and a slate blue convertible BMW were parked inside. Fitz’s rusted-out Ford Bronco was parked in front of an outbuilding. Curtis looked at the porch. He thought about ringing the doorbell. No. That wasn’t gonna work. Barry might get the idea that he was in on whatever heist they were planning. He walked into the woods off the driveway and leaned against a tree, chewing a long piece of grass as he watched the front door. He’d wait for Fitz and Sonny to finish their business with Barry, then he’d have Sonny take him to Big Blue. After that, he’d pack a duffel bag with his money and leave town. He spit grass on the ground. The sooner he got out of Tombs the better.
The front door opened.
Curtis stood.
It looked like Fitz was drunk off his ass, stumbling and weaving as Sonny guided him down the porch steps. Curtis couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fitz in this condition.
Curtis stepped out of the treeline, watching Sonny help Fitz into the Bronco’s backseat.
“Fitz don’t look good,” said Curtis, walking toward them.
Sonny spun and dropped his keys.
“Damn,” said Sonny, scooping the keys off the pavement. “Don’t sneak up on me.”
“Just came to get my fish,” said Curtis.
Sonny nodded. “I gotta drop Fitz off first,” said Sonny. “But listen, you won’t believe what Barry—”
Curtis held up a hand. “That’s none of my business,” he said. “Just drop Fitz off and let’s go get my fish. I’ll follow you.” Then he turned and jogged toward the road.
He started his motorcycle and waited as Sonny backed out of the drive. Five seconds later he was following Sonny, dipping and swerving through the endless hills and valleys of County Road 311, which every kid in town called “The Snake.”
Curtis downshifted on a steep hill to keep up with the Bronco. Sonny drove like a maniac through all the twists and turns.
He lost Sonny’s tail lights over a ridge. Cresting the top of the hill, he swerved past a buck with giant antlers. It stared at him as he passed. If he held his hand out, he could’ve touched it’s nose. Weird things always happened out here on The Snake.
It didn’t seem like much. Just a huge wrinkle in the earth making its way toward town, unusable by the early settlers that needed flat land to run a plow. But the winding ridge wasn’t natural.
The motorcycle’s whine filled Curtis’s head as he chased Sonny. Eventually The Snake leveled into the neighborhoods, utility poles and convenience stores marking the outskirts of the city. Curtis hung back, taking in the thickening congestion of houses and businesses filling the landscape.
This was where the town fathers decided to build, on top of the raised mound of earth that marked the end of The Snake. It made sense—the countryside was below them on all sides. But they didn’t know they were building their courthouse and taverns and cabins on top of an Indian mass grave. They didn’t know the ancient mound curling from the west was built in the shape of a snake, and that they had chosen to live on its head—a head filled with the skeletons of ancient Native Americans. That was why the settlers called the town Tombs.
A caravan of semis shook the Route 30 bridge as Curtis crossed it. He gripped his handlebars, feeling the pavement shudder as he looked over the bridge railing at the gravel quarry and steel mill. A lot of people thought Tombs was cursed because of the bodies beneath it. Curtis didn’t believe it. People could build whatever they wanted over his grave—he wouldn’t care. And he doubted any dead Indian cared what was built on top of him either. The only thing Curtis cared about was what people did to him while he was alive.
His wheels crunched onto the gravel road of Fitz’s trailer park as he followed Sonny. A few trailer windows flickered with late night television shows. Two men were out working on an old red Ford Fairlane under a streetlamp. They raised their heads, eyeballing Curtis as he passed.
Sonny stopped the Bronco in front of a trailer at the end of the road. Curtis pulled in behind him. Fitz half fell out of the Bronco and weaved toward his trailer. Someday Curtis had to find out what happened at Barry’s. Someone rang Fitz’s bell with a sledgehammer.
The ride to Sonny’s took ten more minutes. The garage door opened with a metallic squeal, spilling light on the black asphalt. Curtis hopped off his bike and followed Sonny inside.
“I’m gonna have to put it in the Bronco,” said Sonny. “It’s too big for you to carry on your bike.”
Then he shook his head, looking from one end of the garage to the other. He pointed at a stack of newspapers.
“It was right there.”
Curtis’s stomach knotted. He’d already looked through the garage before he went to Barry’s. If this was where Sonny put Big Blue, there was gonna be a problem.
“Where’s my fish, Sonny?” he said.
“It was right here,” Sonny said, tapping the stack of newspapers.
“So where is it now?” said Curtis.
Sonny kicked the newspapers. They toppled on the floor, knocking over an orange five gallon bucket.
“It was on top of these newspapers. I swear.”
The orange bucket rolled into Curtis’s foot. He nudged it away. “Maybe you moved it and forgot,” he said. “When’s the last time you saw it?”
“This morning. When I brought down the trash.”
The bucket bumped Curtis’s ankle again. “Who else knew it was here?”
“I don’t know. Where the hell did it go?”
Curtis looked around the garage. A mess of newspapers, garbage bags and old, taped-up moving boxes filled the right side. On the left, a lawnmower was jammed against a tool bench. He nudged the orange bucket with his foot, watching it roll away.
“I’m sorry, man,” said Sonny. “Somebody must have took it. I’ll catch you another fish and hang it on your wall myself.”
Curtis put his hands on his knees, feeling sick. “You need to shut up, Sonny.”
“It’s a fish, Curtis,” said Sonny. “Ain’t no big thing.”
A steady thrum started behind Curtis’s right eye. He straightened. Three years. Three damn years down the drain. The pain behind his eye started to get serious.
“You oughta sit down, man,” said Sonny. “A vein’s sticking outta your head.”
Curtis glared at Sonny. “I swear to God, Sonny—just shut up,” he said.
“I didn’t want it to begin with,” said Sonny, picking up newspapers from the floor and stacking them. “It was all Fitz’s idea.”
Curtis fumbled the bottle of Percocet out of his pocket and popped one in his mouth. He could feel it, a dry speck caught in his throat. He worked up a mouthful of spit, swallowed and stared at the floor. It took three years to stash that money. What the hell was he gonna do now?
He dug his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit,” puffing smoke with each curse. The fish wasn’t here, but somebody had to know where it was. He turned toward Sonny.
“What about Mona? You think she knows where it is?” he said.
Sonny stopped stacking newspapers. “Doubt it. Never told her I had it. And she don’t go in the garage.”
Curtis threw his cigarette on the floor. Sparks skittered over the oil stained concrete. He rubbed his face. Even if Mona knew, she’d never tell. Maybe she’d stick a rusty fork in his neck, but tell him where his fish was? It wasn’t gonna happen. He pressed a hand to his eye, his head throbbing. So now what? Go door-to-door, talking to everybody in the neighborhood? Someone had to see a stuffed trophy blue marlin being dragged down the street. Problem was, no one was gonna talk to the son of Mickey Monroe, the guy who stole shit for a living and then burned his par
tner to death. He could still go to Savannah, but then what? No money, no job, no friends. It equaled same hell, different place. His foot banged against the orange bucket as he turned toward Sonny. He picked up the bucket and whipped it over Sonny’s head.
The bucket hit the wall over the tool bench. Socket wrenches fell off their hooks, rattling on the concrete floor.
Curtis paced, holding his hands on top of his head.
The only way out was money.
Had to have money.
Where to get money.
Who had Big Blue?
It came to him.
Sonny’s eyes were dark and unfocused. He was talking a mile a minute to no one in particular. Curtis waved at him. “Hey Sonny.”
“You want to throw shit, go to your house,” said Sonny. “I live here and I gotta clean it up. I got better things to do. Am I nothing? Am I a piece of crap? Do I come to your house and throw stuff? No. I do my thing, Don’t bother nobody. Don’t get in no one’s business. You think I like—”
“Sonny!”
Sonny looked up.
“Take it easy,” said Curtis.
“You’re the one throwing shit. You take it easy,” said Sonny.
Curtis walked across the garage to get the bucket. He brought it back, flipped it upside down and put it on the floor. “Settle down,” he said, sitting on it. “I can’t talk to you if you’re flipping out.”
The rage in Sonny’s eyes dropped a notch. He sat on the pile of newspapers.
“You’re throwing shit at my head,” he said. “It ain’t my fault your fish is gone.”
A current of pain heated up behind Curtis’s eye. Even the sixty-watt bulbs in the garage seemed way too bright. He tried to relax. There was work to be done. His fish was gone, but there might be another way. He raised his chin and looked at Sonny.
“So tell me what you’re doing with Barry,” he said.
The darkness faded from Sonny’s eyes. He grinned and reached into his pocket.
“Check it out,” said Sonny, handing him a folded paper.
Curtis unfolded the paper, put it on his thigh, smoothed it and ran his index finger over the numbered list. This was big.
He knew what a chalice and an incense burner were. Any kid that went to a Catholic school would. But a monstrance and a thabor and a Bishop’s crozier? He tapped his finger on the photo of the Bishop’s crozier.
“Am I reading this right? Five feet long? All gold?”
“Yeah. It’s big staff or something,” said Sonny. “Barry said it breaks down into three pieces. It’s cool, isn’t it?” Sonny pointed at a photo further down the page. “But check out that monster thing. It’s gold too. And it’s got red jewels in it. Emeralds or something.”
Curtis smiled.
“It’s a monstrance, not a monster,” he said. “And emeralds are green, like your teeth. Rubies are red.”
“Whatever,” said Sonny, shrugging.
Curtis handed the paper back to Sonny. “So when’s it happening?” he said.
Sonny stuck the paper in his pocket. He smiled at Curtis. “You in?”
Curtis gazed out the open garage door into the night. The chirp of crickets swelled and receded. “Maybe,” he said, walking toward the open garage door. He gripped the top of the garage door frame and leaned into the night. “But I got a question.”
“Yeah?” said Sonny.
A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees out in the park. It felt cool on Curtis’s face. He looked into the darkness.
“What about just me and you doing it?” he said. “Not Barry. Not Fitz. Not Derek or Johnny.” He let go of the door frame and turned toward Sonny. “Just you and me.”
A wave of perc-induced warmth flushed through Curtis. If Sonny didn’t want to take a chance on pulling this job behind Barry and Fitz’s back, that was okay—he’d do it without him. The perc ran like warm lead through his veins. In fact, it was probably better if Sonny wasn’t in on it. He’d probably tell Fitz and screw things up.
“You know what, Sonny?” said Curtis, smiling. “Forget I said anything. I was talking crazy.”
“Crazy don’t sound so bad,” said Sonny.
“You serious?” said Curtis.
Sonny’s gaze settled on Curtis. “If you think we can do it, I’m in. Just you and me.”
The corners of Curtis’s mouth lifted. He managed to tamp his smile as he said, “Barry’ll come after us. And Fitz will too, after he heals up from whatever bones Barry breaks.”
Sonny exhaled. “Yeah, well I ain’t gonna live forever. And this is a ton of money. Barry said the gold will sell for a quarter mil. We do this, we’re set.”
Curtis walked up to Sonny. “Listen,” he whispered. “The only way this works is if we get that gold, take off and never come back. You don’t see your sister again. Your mom. Nobody. Think about it. Can you do that?”
Sonny hesitated.
“You can’t be half in,” said Curtis. “You gotta be one hundred percent. Once we start, we roll till we’re done, or dead. Understand?”
“I know,” said Sonny. “But where we gonna go?”
Curtis stepped back. “We go south. They’ll never find us.”
“You mean your fishing thing down in Savannah? Fitz already told everyone in town about it. That’s the first place they’ll look.”
Curtis dug a roll of mints out of his pocket while he walked over to a trashcan. The perc was running heavy, blunting all feeling, but it couldn’t mask everything. If Sonny saw his face right now, Curtis knew it would show nothing but hate. They’d ruined his dream and now Fitz was telling everyone in town about it, like it was a joke. Curtis popped a mint in his mouth and lifted the lid of the trash can.
“There’s lots of places to go besides Savannah,” he said. “You think I’d go to the same place Fitz knows about? You think I’m stupid?” He balled up a piece of foil hanging off the end of the roll, threw it in the trash and dropped the lid with a bang.
“I know you’re not stupid. It just sounded like—”
He glared at Sonny. “This ain’t rocket science. You want to do it or not?”
Sonny’s eyes widened. “Never said I didn’t.”
“So when’s the job supposed to go down?”
Sonny looked at the floor. He jingled some change in his pocket. He shuffled his feet.
Curtis sighed, already thinking of how he’d steal the gold right out from under Barry and his band of dipshits without Sonny. Then Sonny started talking.
“The gold’s coming in Friday afternoon. They’re putting it in the safe in the sacristy. We’re going in Saturday night—in three days. If anyone asks, you didn’t hear a word of this from me.”
Curtis looked at his watch. “It’s already Thursday—we’re down to two days,” he said. “So how you getting in?”
Sonny shuffled his feet. “I’m meeting Artie and Duck Friday morning at Fox Glenn Park. They got the info. on the security system and they know some guys that’ll melt the gold down so we can sell it.”
“Artie and Duck? The old muppets that play cards at The Fox?” asked Curtis.
Sonny cracked his knuckles. “I know. It’s weird. But somehow they got a line on how we get in and how we sell the gold. ”
Curtis thought about it for a moment. “Never woulda guessed those old codgers and Barry were hooked up,” he said.
He walked across the garage and pressed the automatic door button. The garage door closed with a screech. “Let’s get a beer before we call it a night,” he said. A tingle ran through him as he walked upstairs to the kitchen. Barry would come after them, but they could dodge him. This could work. He walked into the kitchen and scratched Bruno’s head on his way to the refrigerator. He handed a beer to Sonny then grabbed two more. One went in his front pocket, the other hissed as he opened it. It went down cold and fizzy.
“You ain’t pissed about your fish anymore, are you?” said Sonny.
Curtis wiped his mouth. “Nah. There’s always anot
her one. And sometimes it’s bigger.”
He drained his beer while they talked details. They’d meet tomorrow afternoon at The Red Fox. Sonny would fill him in on Duck and Artie’s info. After that, they’d lay low and go in Friday night to clean out the gold from Sacred Heart. Then Barry, Fitz and the rest of Barry’s crew could piss and moan while they ran and never looked back.
Curtis grabbed another beer and gave Sonny a punch in the arm on the way out.
Chapter Thirteen
Half asleep, Julia slipped out of bed, shuffling toward the sound of someone knocking on her front door. She looked down the hall, wondering who it could be. Then she remembered.
Curtis had been sleeping next to her.
She turned to look at her bed. He was gone now, but he’d been in her bed. She ran a finger across her cheek and stopped on her scar, remembering his touch.
How he smelled.
The way he breathed.
She rubbed the back of her neck. Her whole body was sore. She rolled her head from one shoulder to the other, cracking her neck.
The knocking started again. A tiny, insistent sound. She looked at the clock on her bedstand. Almost two in the morning. It had to be Curtis. She walked down the hall past the kitchen, and stared at the front door. The knocking stopped. Curtis’s low, breathy voice was unmistakable.
“Julia, you in there? Just checking to make sure you’re okay.”
She kneaded the muscles in the back of her neck. So unbelievably tight. Curtis began knocking again. She imagined him leaning against her door in his jeans and black tee-shirt. His long hair on his shoulders. His arms all muscled and tanned. He was cute. She moved toward the door and stopped, seeing a drop of blood on the linoleum. Her back stiffened. She closed her eyes.
Just relax. James is gone. Curtis is one of the good guys.
She eased out a breath and looked at the door. She touched her lip. It felt swollen. Her brow furrowed.
But James wasn’t a bad guy at first. It took some time before he slapped me.
She turned away from the door.
It took time before he punched me.
