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Money
Jas. R. Petrin
Art by Robyn Hyzy
When Little Donny Johnson stepped in through the front door of the Rob Roy, Beemer took one look at him, gave the bar a needless flick with his damp cloth, and said, "Oh yeah. Here we go."
He slumped back in his usual manner behind the till, shoulders propped against the doors of the beer fridge, hairy arms crossed over his ample gut. Benny, who sat gently swirling his Scotch rocks around, glanced at the door and lifted his eyebrows.
Little D. J., the guy into his early seventies, came along the aisle wearing his pointy black shoes, looking like an aging featherweight boxer in his white Tee with the sleeves rolled up.
He clambered onto the barstool next to Benny and said, "How you guys doing? Gonna be a hot one."
Beemer told Benny, frowning, "When he says somethin' like, 'gonna be a hot one,' I'm thinking, wait now, is he talking about the weather? I have to ask myself that because you never know with this guy."
"Matters a fact," Little D. J. said, "I am talking about the weather. But I could be talking about something else. The weather isn't the only thing that could be hot around here."
"What'd I tell you?" Beemer said.
Benny, curious, dropped a sideways glance at Little D. J. "What exactly are you referring to?"
"I thought you would never ask."
Little D. J. slipped a thin, shiny wallet out of the hip pocket of his jeans, opened it, and drew out a twenty—the only bill in it—as if he were going to order a drink. He laid the bill on the top of the bar, smoothed it with his fingers, and looked at them. "How many of these," he said, "do you think would fit into a suitcase about twenny-six inches by twenny-eight, twelve inches deep? Any idea?"
"Must be a skill-testing question," Beemer said.
"Or he's shopping for new luggage."
"No, and no." Little D. J. laid his hand on the twenty. "Well, maybe the first one there, the skill-testing question. I mean, if you ever had a suitcase stuffed with twenty-dollar bills, you might have some idea what the answer is."
"Usually," Beemer said, "when I stuff a suitcase fulla twenties—say I'm out shopping for a new car, an airplane, or something—I just sorta eyeball it, I don't really count it. I mean, so I'm out a few grand. Jeez."
"When I need to carry that kinda dough around," Benny said, "I generally shove it into a couple of shopping bags."
"You guys are needling me, right?" Little D. J. shrugged, seemed about to order that drink, didn't, slipped the twenty back into his cheek-shaped wallet. "You're not interested in a suitcase fulla dough, you only got to say so. No problem here. I can easy find a couple of other guys."
He made as if to slip off the barstool, and Benny laid a restraining hand on his arm. He made a sign to Beemer to give Little D. J. a beer, and said, "You don't mind me asking, what suitcase full of dough are you talking about? You got me wondering about that now."
Little D. J. nodded. "The one Jimmy Sticks is looking for. It's at the Holiday Inn there across the harbor, room 528."
Beemer threw a wary glance around the room at his clientele, leaned in close, and softened his voice.
"You're saying Jimmy Sticks is involved? Jimmy Sticks wants this suitcase you're talking about?"
Little D. J. nodded. "He wants somebody to scoop it for him, and for that he's ready to pay five large." He winked. "Only Jimmy don't know what's really in it. At least, I'm pretty sure he don't. What he thinks is in it, is what used to be in it. It's something else. Starts with H." He winked. "From Afghanistan."
"Another riddle." Benny swirled his drink.
Beemer, clearing his throat, suggested they talk about something else until after he closed the place and shifted the loogans out.
Benny moved with D. J. around the dogleg of the bar to a more private spot. Dropping into a chair, Little D. J. kept his hand on his beer bottle as if he thought someone might take it away from him. "I dunno about you, but I could use some dough about now."
"Some dough would be nice," Benny agreed.
"Things been tight for me. I been thinking how . . . I mean, thinking back to Westmorland, I did those three years? That was the best time I ever did. The place they got there, if you do time, that's where to do it. Westmorland there."
"Things must be tough if you're dreaming about prison."
"Place is set up, like, into these pods. Not cells or cell blocks, they call them pods. I was in one pod there, bunked with some Newfies, guys always playin' cards, joking, and jawing—a really great buncha guys. The doors, they leave the doors open there. You can wander around, visit people."
"Sounds like a college dorm."
"Like that, I guess—except, of course, you can't leave when you want to. But you know what? It was clean. Place I'm living now, jeez. Last time that place saw a vacuum cleaner was when the crime scene guys went over it, you remember that woman killed that john with a lamp cord? Wired him up, plugged him in. Most excitement he ever had. But what I'm saying, man, that place is a dump. Cockroaches, silverfish, bedbugs—place is hopping like a National Geographic show every time the lights go out. He never told me about that, the landlord. People are always trying to screw you over."
Benny nodded. "Truth in advertising."
"He said it was a nice clean place, that guy."
"Airline tickets," Benny said, "you notice? They put a price inna paper—this much. You go buy the ticket—double that."
"I dunno. I don't really fly much. But this place, you go to bed, switch the light out, then you hear this sorta faint rustling sound, all the little creepy-crawlies comin' at you outta the woodwork."
"You couldn't pretend it was ocean surf, you're lying on a tropical beach or something?"
"No. No you can't. What you'd think, your mind working that way, is that all these crabs were creepin' outta the water. Flesh-eating crabs. You couldn't close your eyes."
They studied their drinks.
"Man, I gotta get outta there," Little D. J. said.
Beemer glared the last of his customers out the door, threw the latch, turned down the lights, walked around the place, and tidied up a little. When he was satisfied, he poured the dregs of the coffee machine into a giant mug, brought it to the table, and sat down.
Big red letters on his mug said I LIKE COFFEE THIS MUCH.
He looked at D. J. "I know I'm gonna hate myself in the morning, but what's all this you're telling us?"
Little D. J. squared himself to the table and propped his skinny wrists on the edge in front of him. There were shaky-looking tats on his bony knuckles, applied with a straight pin and the ink from a ballpoint pen by somebody with the delirium tremens. One said PRUNY and the other said JUMP. Liver spots starting to edge them out.
"Here's what it is. Listen. A guy, apparently a guy down in Africa—"
Be sure to read the exciting conclusion in our April issue, on sale now.
"Money" Copyright © 2010 by Jas. R. Petrin
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