Hard Cash Valley Read online

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  For Wyatt

  If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

  —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

  They say it makes you stronger, but first you gotta survive

  What didn’t kill you, will make you wish you died …

  You call that a scar, a bruise, a tear, pillow marks, souvenirs

  —Cory Branan, “Survivor Blues (The After Hours)”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Arnie Blackwell was sweating bullets.

  He’d sweat so bad on the plane, he felt like he’d just stepped out of a shower fully dressed. When he’d boarded the plane in Atlanta, he’d had no idea that the suitcase he’d used to pack up the cash would be too big for him to carry on, and now Arnie was standing in front of the baggage-claim carousel on the bottom floor of the Jacksonville airport, shoulder to shoulder with all the other passengers, waiting on a little more than five hundred grand to magically appear on the conveyor belt.

  He couldn’t breathe. Every time a suitcase that wasn’t his slid out from behind the black rubber curtain, his heart thundered in his rib cage hard enough to hurt. The baggage-claim area was massive and Arnie was surrounded by hundreds of people—every one of them he was sure knew something wasn’t right with him—but as each new unfamiliar piece of luggage came into sight, the blue and gray concrete walls of the wide-open expanse moved in closer and tighter until it began to feel less like an airport and more like another prison cell. He began to feel claustrophobic. When his phone rang it nearly sent Arnie into cardiac arrest. He flinched hard enough to bump both of the travelers flanking him as they waited for their own bags. One man, a big, tough-looking joker in a Carhartt sweatshirt, actually pushed him back. Normally, Arnie wouldn’t take that kind of shit from anyone—regardless of their size—but he kept himself in check. There was too much riding on his keeping his composure. He ignored the big redneck. Right now, he just wanted that light brown tweed suitcase with the Moosejaw bumper sticker plastered across the lid to appear on the conveyor so he could collect his payday and possibly get his hands to stop shaking. He fumbled the phone out of the pocket of his Adidas windbreaker and read the name on the display—Bobby Turo. Arnie wiped a sweaty palm on his pants and then held the phone to his ear.

  “Bobby? Is everything all good? Did you get back safe?”

  “Yeah, man. Smooth sailing.”

  “Is William okay?”

  “Yeah, we went right where you asked me to.”

  Arnie’s heart slowed a beat. “And you walked him in, right? You gotta walk him in. And you gotta stay there with him, Bobby. Don’t you fucking leave him. You can’t just break him from his routine. He’ll freak out.”

  “Sounds more like you’re the one freaking out. Take it easy. He’s fine. He knew more about what he was doing than I did. Calm down, bro.”

  Arnie’s head started throbbing with a sudden rush of blood. His voice suddenly quiet. “Are you high right now?”

  “Dude. Arnie. Relax. We did it. We’re home free and the kid is fine. We went over it a hundred times. I promise. It’s all good.”

  “It better be all good, Bobby. If we lose that kid we lose even bigger scores.” Arnie glanced around him and kept his voice hushed. “Two hours. You stay put for two hours. Right where I told you to go, and then take him where I said to take him—right? Bobby? Are you listening to me?”

  “Arnie, Jesus, will you chill out. Randy says wassup.”

  “No, I won’t chill out, you fucking idiot, and why is Randy with you?”

  “He’s not—he just texted me.”

  Arnie shook it off. “Bobby, I just want to know my little brother is where he’s supposed to be.”

  “Well, he is. Okay.”

  Arnie took a deep breath. “Good. All right. Now try to pay attention, you pothead. I’m at the airport in Jacksonville. I just landed. I had a problem with my luggage. They wouldn’t let me carry it on—you should’ve checked into that before you gave me the damn thing to use—but as soon as I get it in my hands, I’m going to pick up the other package. You did send the other package, right?”

  “Yes. Days ago. I told you that.”

  “To PO Box 213. On Gaston Street.”

  “Jesus, Arnie, yes—to PO Box 213 on Gaston Street.”

  “Good. After I check into the motel and get a few hours’ sleep, I have to set everything up down here for me and William long term. When I’m done, I’ll be back for him, but you and I aren’t going to talk for a while after that—clear? Do not call me under any circumstances. It’s too dangerous—unless there’s a problem with my brother. And there better not be a problem with my brother, Bobby.”

  “Just handle your business, Arnie. I got this.”

  “You fucking better.”

  Arnie heard the double beep of another call coming in on the line. He looked at the display again to see William’s name. He lifted the phone back to his ear. “That’s Willie calling me on the other line. I swear to God, Bobby, if you fucked this up. If he’s alone right now and you’re lying to me. If he’s in trouble—”

  “I said he’s fine, man. You need to calm down.” Stoned or not, Bobby was getting tired of being scolded like a child. He got defensive. “Maybe you should remember who bankrolled this little adventure, Arnie. Without me there would be no—”

  Arnie ended the call in mid-sentence. Little adventure? If that hippie had been standing in front of him right that second, he’d have knocked his fronts out. He couldn’t see what Bernadette saw in that idiot. He calmed himself and answered the other line. “William?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Arnie switched the phone to his other ear. “What?” His hands were shaking so bad that he dropped his claim ticket in the process of moving the phone. He nearly dropped the phone, too, as he frantically tried to pick up the slip of paper as if he’d just dropped a winning lottery ticket, which was not far off. He bumped the man to his left again. This time the big boy acted even less pleased and shoved Arnie harder than he had the first time. Arnie barely noticed the nudge as his eyes followed the claim ticket to the floor. He bent over and snatched it up before it had even settled and managed to bump the big man a third time as he straightened back up.

  “You got a problem, buddy?”

  Arnie dropped the phone down by his side and squeezed it tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Maybe. Maybe I got a big fucking problem. Maybe I’m just one mouthy asshole away from losing my shit.”

  “Is that right?” Carhartt puffed his chest out, but his voice was ti
mid. He couldn’t get a read on Arnie’s degree of crazy, and the lack of confidence made him sound weak. Arnie could smell the blood in the water. The big boy was soft.

  “Yeah, that’s right. And if you put your fat hands on me again, I’ll shove this phone straight down your throat.” Arnie was still sweating like he’d been sitting in a sauna for the last six hours, and this time Carhartt could read every bit of the crazy in his eyes, so the big boy quickly found another place to stand. The small victory made Arnie feel a little better. He swiftly forgot about the man and shifted his focus back to the carousel. A security guard in a gray uniform stood several feet over to Arnie’s left. He’d been watching Arnie since he walked in—or maybe he wasn’t. Arnie’s paranoia made everyone around him suspect, but Arnie tried to avoid eye contact with the airport cop all the same. An Asian man pushed his way into the space vacated by the Carhartt redneck and made room for a young girl—his daughter, most likely—eleven or so—William’s age. Arnie smiled at her, but after one look at Arnie, the girl’s father immediately sheltered her and stood between them. Arnie couldn’t blame him. He was soaking wet. His clothes were sticking to him and he smelled like spoiled lunch meat. He was also shaking like a dope fiend. The Asian man grabbed a sleek black suitcase from the conveyor and quickly hustled away. Arnie was freaking out. Where was his fucking suitcase? How could he be so stupid to let this happen? Goddamn TSA.

  The security guard was moving in closer. At least, Arnie thought he was. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure everyone around him could hear it. He felt like the old man from “The Tell-Tale Heart,” except there wasn’t a body behind that steel wall. There was a box of money. It was Arnie’s first real lucky break, and, he hoped, the last he’d ever need.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where is my damn bag? Arnie thought his head might spin right off his shoulders. Please, God, just let me have this one thing—just this one thing.

  And then, like an answered prayer, there it was. The top of the tweed case slowly emerged through the curtain of thick rubber strips and inched into view until Arnie could see the red sticker his brother had stuck across the lid. William loved stickers. Arnie shoved his way past several other people, saying “Excuse me” all the way. He snaked his wiry frame through the crowd toward his luggage. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” An older woman mumbled something as he pushed past her, but Arnie ignored her. He didn’t even see her. He stopped seeing people altogether, or security guards, or crushing prison cell walls. All he could see was that suitcase, and now he was only a few feet away. He nudged his way closer until he could get a grip on the leather handle and hoisted it off the conveyor belt with a renewed vigor. The act of lifting the bag made him feel stronger. He felt whole somehow, as if he’d just reconnected to a lost limb. As he turned to walk away, he could feel the excitement set in. He could feel the anxiety begin to melt away and he finally stopped sweating. Arnie homed in on the massive set of double doors leading outside. He navigated his way through the crowd and toward those doors with tunnel vision. All he could see was the sunshine on the other side of the sliding glass. He picked up the pace and slammed right into the airport security guard who may or may not have been standing there the whole time.

  “Whoa—slow it down there, sir.”

  “Sorry.” Arnie regrouped and kept walking. The young airport cop reached out for Arnie’s suitcase, but Arnie snatched it away and held it up to his chest.

  “I’m going to need to see that, sir.”

  Arnie just stared at the slim mocha face of the young man, unable to form any words. He tried to move to the left, but the guard sidestepped him and blocked his way. His voice stayed calm and smooth. “Sir, is everything all right?”

  “What?” Arnie wasn’t sure what was happening. Stars were bursting in his peripheral vision. He felt sick, as if he might throw up.

  “I said, is everything all right?” The guard’s eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion, but Arnie had trouble keeping eye contact. He couldn’t focus. The walls of the airport baggage claim began to breathe and warp.

  “Yeah. Everything is fine.” Arnie struggled to stay in the moment—to focus. “What?” he said. “What do you want?” He stood as still as he could while he tried to form the right words but Arnie’s gut instinct was to run—to just bolt for the doors. He probably would have, too, but he couldn’t get his feet to move.

  “I need to see your claim ticket?”

  “My what?”

  The young guard’s voice sounded like a distant, untuned car radio.

  “Your claim ticket, sir. For your luggage.” That time Arnie made out the request through the static in his head. He relaxed a little—barely—and looked down at his hand. He was still holding the crumpled slip of paper—and his phone. He hadn’t ended the last call. William was still waiting on the line. That grounded Arnie in reality.

  Why hadn’t the little weirdo hung up?

  Still fighting the voice in his head telling him to just cut loose and run, but better equipped now to move his limbs, Arnie set the suitcase down at his feet, handed the airport security guard the claim ticket, and held the phone to his ear.

  “Willie, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I gotta go. I’m going to hang up now. Just stay put. When you’re done there, go with Bobby and wait. I’ll call you back.”

  “I’m hungry, Arnie.”

  “Well, eat something, then—shit,” Arnie blurted into the phone, before ending the call and slipping it into his back pocket. William might’ve been his meal ticket, but he drove Arnie crazy with all his weird shit. Arnie looked at the young black man in the uniform with all the disgust he felt for his little brother and Bobby. He was feeling better, his paranoia subsiding, leaving his body like an apparition. He even smiled a little. “Are we good here or what?”

  The security guard carefully inspected the sweat-soaked ticket and matched it to the sticker on the handle of Arnie’s suitcase. He handed the ticket back to him. His eyes were bright green. Arnie wasn’t sure why he noticed that.

  “How about it, Smokey? Can I go now?”

  That crack didn’t sit well with the young guard, but he was used to stupid white people at the airport. He took a slow breath and answered almost robotically. “Yes. You’re free to go. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need directions to the cab stand or the car-rental area?”

  Arnie ignored him and grabbed the suitcase. He was already making for the sliding glass doors leading to the sunlit outside world. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the guard talking into his radio—or maybe he didn’t. He didn’t care. All Arnie Blackwell knew was that he wanted the hell out of that place—and now he was.

  * * *

  Arnie didn’t fully relax during the entire cab ride—even when he made a quick stop by the post office on Gaston Road to get the package Bobby had mailed to their prearranged PO box.

  At least that pothead sack of shit didn’t screw that up.

  Arnie’s anxiety melted away even further, like a layer of liquefied fat, once he tore open the package marked up with Bobby’s handwriting and saw the five disassembled pieces of the Sig Sauer—each component bundled neatly in bubble wrap and all perfectly surrounded by a small sea of foam packing peanuts. Potheads, he thought. Everything they do is like a high school science project. Arnie let loose a small giggle thinking about Bobby carefully premeasuring the tape, wrapping each piece, and tucking each one into the box along with one magazine and individually wrapped bullets. Arnie shook his head. He pictured Bobby standing at the counter of the post office carefully tapping NO to the questions listed on the keypad for the clerk.

  Anything liquid, fragile, or combustible?

  “Nope.”

  Any lithium batteries?

  “Nope.”

  And then walking out of the post office with his sunglasses pushed close to his face to hide his bloodshot eyes, smiling that dopey smile of his. “Good job, Bobby,” Arnie
whispered to himself, and eased back into the seat of the cab. The tension in his muscles had loosened but allowed a fresh new ache to set in, like a runner would experience after a 10k race, and despite the feeling of safety that having a gun gave him, Arnie was still so spun out from the airport that his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down in the back of the yellow Corolla. He discreetly unwrapped each piece and put the gun together down low behind the side passenger seat, using the speed loader Bobby had included to fill the magazine with 9mm hollow points. If the Iranian cab driver saw him do any of it, he was either accustomed to having people with guns in the back of his car or he didn’t care. When the cab finally pulled in at the Days Inn, Arnie had already stuffed the gun in his pants and handed the driver two twenties for the eighteen-dollar ride. Arnie was finally feeling good. This was how he was going to be living from now on—large and in charge. The driver wanted to get chatty due to the big tip, but Arnie slipped out of the car, holding the suitcase tight against his chest, and bumped the car door shut with his hip while the driver was still talking. He left the open cardboard box filled with packing foam and bubble wrap on the floorboard of the car for someone else to clean up. He was done cleaning up messes. By the time he’d entered the lobby of the motel, he couldn’t have even remembered what the man driving the cab looked like, or if it was even a man. He only knew he had gotten away with it. He did it. He finally did it. It was easy-peasy from here on out—nothing but high-dollar bourbon and uptown pussy from this day forward. First class all the way. The receptionist behind the counter, however, was quick to stick a pin in Arnie’s inflated ego balloon.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwell, your room is still being cleaned. Check-in isn’t until four o’clock.” The receptionist was a redhead who wore too much makeup to cover up her acne scars, and her monotone speech conveyed a clear hatred for her job—maybe people in general. Arnie couldn’t be sure. He looked at the clock on the wall behind the desk. He liked redheads, and this one wasn’t that bad-looking either, aside from the craters in her face. She was the kind of flawed tail Arnie would throw some game at under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances—so he was an asshole. “It’s fucking three thirty.”