Without a Hitch (17 page)
“This is the
last of them,” Corbin said, slamming the trunk. “I’ll count it out, and then
we’ll distribute.”
“Beautiful.
Just beautiful,” Alvarez said. He felt exhausted, but also elated at the same
time. He couldn’t stop smiling.
“We did it,”
Corbin said. “We beat the system in a big, bad way. I’ll tell you, I’ve never
felt more alive in my life than I do at this moment.”
The two friends
shook hands.
“Don’t forget
the car,” Corbin reminded Alvarez. Alvarez needed to return the rental car to
BWI in the morning. They had already replaced the license plates, leaving the
New York plates at the bottom of some little-known
river
in rural Maryland.
“Will do,”
Alvarez replied. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
The two friends
shook hands again.
Corbin returned
to his apartment. That night, he divided the money into three equal piles
which would be stuffed into duffel bags once Corbin bought more bags. After
separating the money, he took the clothes he had worn and placed them in a box,
which he would toss into the building’s incinerator the following morning. He
then took the documents, except for the correspondence and the checks he still
intended to mail to the credit card companies, and placed those in a separate
box. These would be shredded and burned before Alvarez dumped the ashes into
Chesapeake Bay on his next fishing trip.
Alvarez watched
Corbin zip up the last of the duffle bags. His bags were already sitting by
the door. Corbin’s were sitting against the wall.
“Let me ask you
a question?” Alvarez asked cautiously.
“Shoot.”
“You and I know
Beckett kept that wallet. That means we can’t trust him.” Alvarez had
Corbin’s attention. “Now, I know all about how hard it’ll be for him to use the
wallet to cause us trouble, but we don’t really know what kind of trouble he’s
planning to cause. But we do know, if he does cause trouble, it could be
serious.”
Corbin listened
quietly.
“You think
handing him the money will get rid of him, but what if it doesn’t? Right now, we
can do something about this, to head it off at the pass.”
“Go on,” Corbin
said. His mood darkened.
“You know me. I
wouldn’t mention this unless I really thought this through.”
“And?”
“Why don’t we
make sure this thing can never come back to bite us.”
“Say it.”
“You know what
I’m getting at.”
“Say it,” Corbin
repeated louder. “Come on, spit it out!”
Silence.
“Shit!” Corbin
said dismissively. “You want to murder him, but you can’t even say it!”
“I just think we
need to consider it.”
“Are you gonna
do it?!”
“I think I can,”
Alvarez said, with his eyes downcast.
“I think you
can’t,” Corbin taunted Alvarez. “I think you’ve seen too many movies and
played too many video games, and they’ve warped your mind. You think killing someone’s
easy because you’ve seen it so many times, but real life is a whole different
world. The moment you point a gun at somebody, every fiber of your being is
gonna tell you to stop. You’ll never be able to pull that trigger.”
Alvarez didn’t
respond
His silence
angered Corbin. “Let’s test it!” Corbin went to the bookcase where he kept
his gun. He pulled the nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol from its case.
He grabbed a magazine and slapped it into the pistol’s grip. Then he pulled
back the slide, chambering a round, and let it slide back into place. It made
the infamous clicking sound Hollywood finds so fascinating.
“What are you
doing?” Alvarez asked.
“Here,” Corbin
said, tossing the gun to Alvarez.
Alvarez caught
the gun in mid-air. His heart pounded in his ears. He had never held a gun
before. The gun was heavier than he expected and colder.
“Point it at
me.”
“What?”
“
Point it at
me
,” Corbin said, emphasizing each word.
Alvarez looked
at the gun. He looked at Corbin and then set it down on the table.
“That’s what I thought.
And you want to kill Beckett?!” Corbin said derisively. Corbin retrieved the
gun and jettisoned the round from the chamber. He returned the gun and the
spare round to the gun case. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because we can’t kill
him because we can’t be sure that solves our problem.” Corbin’s tone softened
as his anger abated.
“What do you
mean?”
“I already told
you this before. We can’t guarantee we get the wallet back before we shoot
him. For all we know, it’s sitting in some lawyer’s office right now, with
instructions to forward it to the cops unless Beckett calls by some date. If
we shoot him, we just add a murder charge to our list of crimes. That’s one
they will pursue.”
An uncomfortable
silence passed between them.
“What time are
you meeting him?” Alvarez finally asked.
“Three thirty.”
“Do you still
want to go alone?”
“I think it’s
best.”
“If you see any
hint of cops—”
“Then I don’t
even stop the car.”
When Corbin reached
the rest stop in Delaware, he found Beckett already waiting for him. To make
sure this wasn’t a setup, he instructed Beckett to follow him. A few miles
down the road, he turned off the highway onto a rural road. A few miles down
that road, he pulled over by a thick stand of trees. No one followed them. He
now sat on the hood of his car. Beckett’s car stood parallel to his, about six
feet away.
“I thought we
were meeting at the rest stop?”
“The cops patrol
rest stops looking for drugs and perverts.” Corbin looked at Beckett’s beat up
old car. “Man, if you look closely, you can actually watch your car rust.”
“You don’t like
my car?”
“What’s not to
like? What happened to your Chrysler?”
“We sold it. It
was too expensive. . . this money couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Remember, you
can’t spend it for six months.”
“I know, but
just having it will ease my mind.”
“Speaking of
laundering, remember how we figured one duffel bag each?” Corbin walked toward
the rear of his car and pulled out the first of the three duffel bags from the
backseat. He tossed it onto the ground before Beckett. Thunk! “Turns out we
got that part wrong.” He tossed the second one. Thunk!
“Holy cow!”
“We were pretty
amazed ourselves.” Thunk!
“I’ll bet. Any
problems?”
“Nope,
everything went smoothly.”
“Have you heard
anything?” Beckett asked, as he loaded the duffel bags into his trunk. He
opened one to look at the money.
“No, all’s quiet
on the southern front.”
“How’s the new
guy?”
“Total bobo.
Stuart misses you by the way. He sends his thanks for the UFO books you sent
him.”
“A client of
mine gave them to me when they shipped him away for a very long time. I
figured Stuart might like them. How’s Kak?”
“He sends his
love. How’s the new-old job?”
“I enjoy it, I
just can’t afford it.”
“Remember, six
months, then launder. Follow the plan we discussed.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I gotta
head back. You know how to reach me if something comes up.”
“Same here.”
“So long, Evan
Beckett.”
“So long, Alexander
Corbin.”
They shook
hands. The issue of the wallet never came up.
Over the next
two months, Corbin dutifully drove to Philadelphia several times to mail off
payments to credit card companies. He planned to call
in
address changes for each card to a series of non-existent addresses in Phoenix
in six months. After that, the cell phones would meet their fiery fates.
However, events would supersede his plan.
It was August,
but surprisingly mild. Two months passed since Beckett and Alvarez visited
Philadelphia. Corbin now played two nights a week (Tuesdays and Fridays) at
Blue’s bar and was considering adding a third. More people came to see him
play every night. Blue kept encouraging him to play professionally, but Corbin
refused. He played because he loved playing, not because he drew a crowd, and
ever since freeing himself from the restrictive playlist, he loved playing all
the more.
Corbin finished
his set and returned his instrument to its case. He made for the bar, where
Blue tried handing him a check. Corbin refused to take it, as he did every
night.
“I wish you’d
take this,” Blue said, offering the check again.
“It’s your bar,”
Corbin replied, pushing Blue’s hand away.
“But it’s your
crowd.”
Blue returned
the check to the front pocket of his guayabera shirt, the only type of shirt he
owned. “When you gonna quit your day job and come play for me? I’ll pay you.”
“I’m a lawyer,
not a musician.”
“You got that
backwards.”
Corbin
considered Blue’s words. He wondered the same thing recently. “Maybe you’re
right? I don’t know.”
“’Course I’m
right.” Blue leaned one elbow on the bar and waved the other arm toward the
raucous crowd. “This crowd is proof of that. You think I had thirty people in
here on a Tuesday night before you started playin’?”
“Let me think
about it.”
“Ain’t nothin’
to think about,” Blue grumbled. “I see your lady friend is back.”
Corbin looked
over his shoulder at the woman with the pink rose. For weeks now, she hadn’t
missed a single one of his performances. He flirted with her a couple times,
but still hadn’t truly spoken to her. He was fascinated by her, but he sensed
she wasn’t the kind of woman to be picked up in a bar. Since this
was
a
bar, he felt a little perplexed about how to proceed. She’d also increased the
difficulty level for Corbin by playing coy. For example, she never told him
her name, saying only “life is full of mysteries.”
Blue handed
Corbin a beer. “What make this lady so special?”
“You know what,
Blue? I’ve had lots of dates in the past couple years, and every single one of
them bored me to tears. I’m not saying they weren’t nice or they weren’t
attractive or whatever, but they were all just boring. If I lined them all up,
you’d swear they were clones.”
“They all look
alike?”
“No, that’s not
what I mean. They looked different, but they weren’t different. They all had
the same beliefs, the same wants, the same expectations. If you asked them to
name their ten favorite things, you’d get identical lists. It’s like they’re
being stamped out in some factory.” Corbin took a swig of his beer. “I can’t
take that anymore. . . I don’t think I ever could. I want someone with a real
personality, not someone who gets their personality from sit-coms.”
“You think
that’s this lady?”
“Yeah, there’s
something about her. It’s in her manner. When I see her, I see someone different.
Look at her confidence, her grace. She’s her own person. Do you know how
exciting it is to meet someone who charts their own course?”
Blue nodded his
head. “Ok, I get it. I’m even gonna help you out.”
“How?”
“I’m gonna tell
you why you ain’t had no luck with her.”
Corbin raised an
eyebrow.
Blue looked him
straight in the eyes. “You ain’t your own person yet.”
Corbin stared at
Blue for several seconds. He frowned, but nodded his head. “You may be onto
something.” He snuck another peek over his shoulder. “I think I’ll give this
another try. Wish me luck.”
Blue grabbed
Corbin’s arm. “You make your own luck.”
To avoid
acknowledging the new guy, Molly began sitting on Corbin’s desk whenever she
came to visit. This quickly became a habit, even when the new guy wasn’t in
the room. It didn’t annoy Corbin that she sat on his desk. After all, it wasn’t
like he used it much and he did like Molly’s perfume. What did annoy him
though, was that two weeks ago, she started pulling the extra chair around next
to him so she could prop her feet up on the chair. Not only did this make the
chair dirty, as she didn’t remove her shoes, but she never returned the chair
to its proper place when she left. This meant Corbin had to return it, if he
wanted to leave his desk. Today, true to form, she sat on the edge of his desk
with her feet propped up on the extra chair.
“You’re going to
put that chair back this time, right?” Corbin asked, as he always did.
“Of course,”
Molly assured him, as she always did.
“What’s with the
toothpaste?”
“This?” she
asked, holding up a box of toothpaste she had been rotating in her hands.
“No, the other
toothpaste,” he replied sarcastically.
“I was
downstairs at that little shop, minding my own business, when I saw this. They
had ‘fresh mint formula’ and ‘vanilla formula’ and then this little gem,
‘special nighttime formula.’ I couldn’t resist, I had to find out what
nighttime tastes like.”
“‘Nighttime,’
huh? Did they have ‘Vegas Morning’ or ‘Summer Dumpster’?”
“Not in stock.”
Corbin
chuckled. “May it be everything you hoped it would be.”
“How are things
going with your roomie?” Molly had yet to say anything nice to, or about, the
new guy, though no one protested as he hadn’t endeared himself to anyone. Indeed,
he barely spoke to anyone, including Corbin. By this point, Corbin saw him
mainly as a silent apparition that haunted his office.
“Fine. How are
things with ‘Clerk Guy’?”
“That’s not his
name,” Molly said, rolling her eyes and trying to sound annoyed, though she
struggled to suppress a smirk. “I told you, I may have been a bit hasty when I
called him that.”
Molly met Clerk
Guy at a bar in Georgetown. He worked as a salesclerk at the mall, causing her
to name him “Clerk Guy” and to rhetorically question whether he earned enough
to afford their dates. When she continued dating him regardless, Theresa
quipped that “he must get one hell of an employee discount.” Though Molly
later claimed to regret naming him “Clerk Guy,” she clearly got a kick out of
using the name and implying that he made significantly less money than she did.
“Have you given
‘Shoe Guy’ the boot yet?” Corbin grinned.
Despite the
derision Molly initially poured onto Shoe Guy, she ultimately kept dating him.
Corbin never did understand why. Indeed, not a day passed where she didn’t
mention some new flaw of his, followed by a short dissertation on how little
she liked him. After she met Clerk Guy, Molly even assured Corbin she would
dump Shoe Guy “
post-haste
,” but as the days passed, he hung in there.
“Ha ha, very
funny,” Molly replied drolly.
“Sorry, no pun
intended. . . it just
slippered
out.” Corbin chuckled.
Molly punched
Corbin on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I’m
sorry,” Corbin laughed, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender.
Molly punched
him again.
“Ouch!” Corbin
exclaimed to prevent Molly from thinking she needed to throw another punch to
make her point. He struggled to stop laughing.
“I’m going to
tell him next week.” Molly readjusted her blouse and her bracelet from the
aftereffects of throwing the two punches. “Speaking of getting rid of people,
how do we get rid of the F-N-G?”
“I don’t think
that’s within our power.”
“We should do
something. I’m sick of him and his blue suits. Doesn’t he know they sell
other colors?”
“Just ignore
him.”
“If I wanted
defeatism, I wouldn’t have brought the issue up.”
Corbin shrugged
his shoulder. “I got nothing for ya, sorry. But I’m sure you’ll think of
something.”
“Fine! I’ll
figure it out myself.” Molly stepped off the chair and slid off the desk.
“Where are you
going now?”
“I’m going to
give this toothpaste a whirl. Then I’m going to plan a murder.”
She didn’t
return the chair.
Corbin returned
the locked attaché case to his hallway closet, next to the three duffel bags.
The case contained the remaining documents and cell phones. The duffel bags
contained the money. Corbin hadn’t thought about the money since giving
Beckett his share. On the one hand, they agreed not to touch the money for six
months. On the other, he still had no idea what to do with it.
The phone rang.
It was Alvarez. “You got the stuff ready?” Alvarez meant the checks. He was
driving those to Philadelphia in the morning, so they could be mailed with
Philadelphia post marks.
“Yep. Just
finished,” Corbin replied, stepping onto his balcony. The balcony was bathed
in orange sunlight as the sun touched the horizon.
“I’m pulling up
to your building now.”
“I see you.” Corbin
watched Alvarez’s white two-seater pull up to the curb. “I’ll be right down.”
Two minutes
later, Corbin climbed into Alvarez’s car. He placed the envelopes into the
glove box. “Those are the last ones until we do the change of address bit.
Remember, no tickets and don’t use anything traceable, like a credit card.”
“Got it. You up
for dinner? You can tell me all about this mystery chick again.”
“Yeah, why
not.” Corbin reached for the seatbelt.
“I want to spend
some of the money,” Alvarez said cautiously, once they were out in traffic.
“Have I mentioned that?”
“Nope, that’s
news to me.”
“I need a new dishwasher.
Mine’s not working. It just dry humps my dishes.”
“Sounds
unpleasant.”
“It is. That’s
why I need a new one. . . which I can’t afford on my current salary.”
“This isn’t
going to become a habit is it?”
“No. It’s only
a couple hundred bucks, that’s it.”
“All right,”
Corbin agreed.
“You heard
anything yet at work?”
“Not much, just
something about a three-state manhunt for someone named Nobody Alvarez,” Corbin
deadpanned.
“That would
suck,” Alvarez laughed.
“I assure you,
if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“How’s work
treatin’ you?”
“Haven’t really
noticed. I’ve been busy thinking about my music, so I haven’t paid much
attention to work. Fortunately, Kak doesn’t want us working, so he leaves me
alone as long as I don’t do anything.”
“Must be nice.
My boss works me to death.”
“Actually, it’s
demoralizing, but what do I care? I’ve got other things to keep me busy. So
tell me again, what is it you do?”
“Associate
supervisor.”
“I know that
part. What does that entail?”
Alvarez shrugged
his shoulder. “I-dun-know. It changes. I do whatever I’m told.”
“When your boss
tells you, ‘you’re the worst blank I’ve ever seen,’ what does she fill in the
blank with?”
“‘Son of a
bitch.’”
Corbin laughed.
“Ok, I give up!”
“I’m not trying
to be evasive, well not too evasive, but I really don’t
do
anything in
particular. Today, I worked with the marketing reps. Yesterday, I watched the
tech guys install new phones. That’s my life, at least until I can start
tapping those beautiful duffel bags.”
“I take it you’ve
got plans for the money?” Corbin asked.
“I’m gonna buy a
villa. Then I’m going to spend my days cruising the net and my nights cruising
for hookers. I’m going to get a straw hat and demand that everyone call me
el
Presidenté
.”
“Sometimes I
worry about you. Where is this villa going to be?”
“Either back in
Arizona or somewhere in Mexico, down by the sea. I’ve always wanted to live on
the ocean.”
“Hold the phone
Pancho Villa, you don’t even speak Spanish.”
“Yes, I do,”
Alvarez insisted.
“Ok, say
something Spanish.”
Alvarez looked
around for a moment. “Ok, you don’t think I can speak Spanish. How about
this, ‘puede contener mani cacahuate.’”
“That doesn’t
sound Spanish, that sounds Hawaiian.”
“It’s Spanish.”
“What does it
mean?”
“It means stop
insulting my ancestors.”
“What was it
again?”
“Puede contener
mani cacahuate,” Alvarez repeated.
“You sure that
doesn’t mean, ‘may contain nut products’?”
“You speak
Spanish?”
“No, but I can
read.” Corbin picked up a McDonalds cup from the floor of Alvarez’s car.
Written on the side of the cup was: “puede contener mani cacahuate” just below
“may contain nut products.” Corbin dropped the cup back to the floor. “I’d rethink
the Mexico plan, amigo.”
“It’s a work in
progress. What are you gonna do with your share?”
Corbin shrugged
his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t have any plans for it.”
“What do you
think dipshit will do with his?”
“Don’t know. . .
don’t care.”
