ONE

 

Vern stepped into the first bar he saw, a trendy joint called Nostromo. He called to the bartender for a light beer and wished he had a change of socks. The closed door kept the brunt of the heat out of the unlit room. Still plenty warm. His leather jacket didn’t help, but it covered the pistol holstered outside the right hip of his jeans.

He settled in on his stool. The bartender turned his way: Deria. Sweat streamed from Vern. She wore a black T-shirt that revealed the small birthmark just above one elbow, a taint on her smooth pale skin. She looked the same as two years ago, of course: glasses and thin lips, an unmarred face—blonde and thin and too straight for him. Only twenty-five, ten years Vern’s junior, the pain of their break-up hadn’t been enough to age her. She took her time but kept stepping toward him.

The long bar wasn’t crowded, typical for a weekday afternoon. “Didn’t expect to find you here,” he said.

“I’m not the one who was lost.”

“I’ll take the lightest beer you got.” Vern laid a five on the bar.

Deria turned around, stepped to the tap and filled a glass. She came back and set the glass in front of Vern. “It’s five twenty-five.”

Vern raised his eyebrows. If it was someone else tending bar he’d have said something. He opened his wallet, dropped a single on the bar, glanced at his beer. It looked a little dark. “Jesus, that’s your light beer?”

“All our beers are local microbrews,” Deria said, like it was a point of pride.

Vern didn’t want to talk to Deria at all, certainly not about this. But would it kill them to carry Coors? He supposed he’d have to take that up with the City of Berkeley. Fucking trendy places. This was not a light beer, wasn’t priced like one either. Wouldn’t slow down his drinking on a day like this, just meant he’d spend his money faster.

He glared as Deria turned away. He felt the heat from outside seep back into him. Vern wasn’t fat but he was thick all over; he didn’t bear heat well.

For now, he wanted to drink. He might as well while he waited for his phone to ring. He had to hand off the money, that was the whole job. He didn’t have to be sober, just in working shape in case there was a rip-off. Turman was his partner on this, they’d worked together before. Turman would pick up the drugs. He’d have a gun too. They’d watch each other’s backs.

Vern took a deep drink. The beer was bitter. Drinks were the only things he wanted smooth; the rest of life was about wanting and taking and you knew there’d be bumps in that road. The possibility of losing everything was what made it all worthwhile.

He glanced around the room, supposed everyone in a place like this thought kicking back was a lifestyle. That pissed him off. He also supposed they would be scared if he showed his .38. That made him smile. Not that Vern would rob a joint like this, or shoot anyone during a robbery. A murder rap could take up all of a man’s time.

Vern reached inside his jacket, gripped the 10 x 13 envelope stuffed with large bills like he wanted to strangle it. Job nerves, he should be past those by now.

Deria poured a beer for someone else on Vern’s end of the bar.

“Hey,” Vern said to her. “I’m waiting for a call. I don’t trust the reception in here, I’ll be in and out. Don’t dump my drink.”

“You gonna tell me when you leave?”

“Maybe.” Vern took a sip of his beer, getting used to the taste. It took the edge off the heat. “I gotta take this call.” He covered his glass with a coaster and stepped outside.

He looked at his phone, a cheap burner provided for the job, waited two minutes. Too damn hot out here. Fuck it.

He stepped back in, took his seat, took a drink. Not enough. He didn’t want to be around Deria any longer than necessary. Vern drank until the glass was empty, then ordered another.

Deria set the fresh glass in front of him.

“Look,” Vern said, “you can stand me being here, right?”

“Pay for your beers, I can stand you.”

Vern dropped a twenty on the bar and put a hand over it. “That’s for three beers. The change is yours. I keep my stool an hour, if I’m here or not. Right?”

“Sure,” Deria said. “Twenty holds the stool an hour.”

Vern’s phone rang. He answered quickly. The man on the other end gave the name of a restaurant. Vern knew the place, saw no one close enough to hear him talk, and repeated the name.

“Fifteen minutes,” the man said.

It was that long a walk from here. Vern looked at his nearly full glass. “Fine,” he said. He put his phone away and picked up his beer. Vern stood and threw his head back, poured the beer down his throat. Deria watched him drink. It only took a few seconds.

Vern walked out the door, a couple of fast steps, then slowed down. Too hot to move fast. And the beer was stronger than he’d thought, he had a buzz. He smiled. There weren’t a lot of people on the sidewalk, but a high percentage were college girls in shorts.

Vern made a call as he walked. Turman picked up. “Dillo’s, ten minutes.”

“On my way,” Turman said.

Vern walked steady. He might be a couple minutes late but he had the money, they’d wait. It was several blocks, no shade on either side of the street. Vern sweated as he walked. He tightened his grip on the envelope.

The meeting place, Dillo’s, was a pizza joint and sports bar. Vern stepped in and joined a crowd. Good. A double cross was less likely with this many witnesses. No open stools at the bar but enough room to lean in. A short bartender with a bad mustache nodded at him.

“The lightest draft you got,” Vern said.

It was still the university side of town so the lightest beer wasn’t light and it was five bucks, but Vern was glad to have a drink. He paid and turned to face the crowd, didn’t know who he was looking for. He took a step away from the bar and drank, waited a minute. He looked around, didn’t see Turman yet. Didn’t matter, he and Turman worked for Keene. Only an idiot would try to rip off this deal.

Vern’s phone buzzed. He looked at the text: South side wall, third table from the window.

People kept coming and going through the doors. Vern looked across the room to the wall on the opposite side. Two young Chinese guys in leather jackets. One would have been better. He put his phone away, looked around the room. People at every table. His end of the job was just the money drop; he’d wait to back up Turman but he didn’t need to wait for this part. Still, he wouldn’t hand off the money with anyone behind his back.

There were a half dozen TVs in the place, baseball on every screen. Vern watched a couple of minutes. He didn’t like baseball but he had a high tolerance. He drank his beer until it was half gone. He texted back: One of you go outside.

Vern pretended to watch the game but his eyes were on the Chinese guys. The taller one looked down as the short one talked. Vern thought they glanced at him but he couldn’t be sure. The short one got up, almost as tall as Vern but not as wide. He walked out the south door.

Vern sat near the north door. He set his beer on a full table and stepped outside. The Berkeley sidewalk was a contact high, marijuana smoke wafting down from the apartment windows over the restaurant. He didn’t need that, he was buzzed enough already.

Ten yards from the north door to the south. Vern held the envelope of cash tight in one hand, his other hand next to his hip, gripping the holstered .38. The sidewalk was crowded with people walking in either direction. The short Chinese man stood still and alone, one yard this side of the door.

Vern walked straight to him. “Good to see you.” He held out the envelope of cash. “This is for you.”

The short man looked surprised. “We have something for you, too. It’s inside.”

“I just deliver mail.” Vern held out the envelope. “I don’t take shit.”

The short man stood there, hands at his sides.

“Or I could take it back,” Vern said.

The short man held out a hand for the envelope as his partner walked out the door. Vern wedged the envelope in the front of his pants. The partner reached inside his coat. Vern put his .38 to the short man’s temple. “Drop!” he yelled.

Everyone on the sidewalk dropped except the two Chinese guys. Vern glared. “Drop,” he said softly, “or I kill him.”

“So kill him.” The tall man’s hand moved fast into his jacket and Vern pushed the short Chinese aside, shot the tall man in the chest. The tall man’s hand stayed in his jacket and he fell. Vern shot him again on his way down.

Vern turned toward the short man but he’d scrambled to his feet and was running down the sidewalk. No point in shooting from here, too many people. He pulled the envelope from his pants and ran in the opposite direction. He looked for cars and angled full speed across the street.

The whole thing was a failed heist, and now Vern could be up on a murder rap. For defending himself. Vern would be expected to give back the money, but first he’d be finding a place to hide and something to drink. He needed to go where no one knew him. The bar where Deria worked was a good place to start.

 

 

It was too hot to run, but mainly it was too hot to get popped for murder. Great weather for sweating with an envelope of money in one hand and a pistol in the other. No goddamn sewers to throw it in, just run.

Vern made it to the next block, around the corner, down another block to a little side street. He cut into it, still full speed. The beers in him wanted to come up. Vern held back from puking, didn’t slow down.

A couple more blocks and he spotted the bar. He holstered his pistol and slowed to a walk, stuck the envelope in the front of his pants and walked down the rest of the sidewalk. Uncomfortably. Sweat streamed. The college kids gave him room. One looked at him and Vern glared. The boy turned away.

Vern moved slowly when he stepped into Nostromo. The relative cool inside chilled him. Or maybe it was something else. The place was a little busier now, but there were seats at the bar and Deria behind it. Vern kept walking to the back and into the men’s room.

No one at the sink. Vern splashed water on his face, ran his hands through his hair, did it again. No paper towels, just one of those damned electric blowers. Vern dried his hands halfway and walked out.

He sat at the bar. “Deria,” he said. She was down the other end but she nodded at him, poured someone else’s draft and strolled down his way.

He reached over the counter, grabbed a couple napkins and wiped his face. The envelope of cash pressed uncomfortably against him. He loosened his belt two notches and sat back as casually as he could. “Another light beer,” he said, with something he tried to pass off as a grin.

Deria looked like she wanted to say “What happened to you?” and maybe she would have if the bar was empty. She just nodded. She didn’t look startled, although it had only been an hour and he knew he looked different. “You get one after this.” She set the glass in front of him. “That’s what’s paid for.”

“Thanks.” Vern wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.

Deria turned away.

“Look,” Vern said.

She turned back, green eyes behind rectangular lenses. “Yeah?”

“If you got no one to help yet,” he nodded down the bar, where all the customers had drinks, “I got a story you might like. About a job I used to have.”

“What kind of job?” Deria said.

Vern tried to think of something where the statute of limitations had expired. “It’s like what I do now,” he said. “Deliveries. Products some guys would refuse to deliver, and most guys just couldn’t.”

They hadn’t talked about his work before. She’d caught a whiff, but he’d kept quiet about specifics. Not letting her know had been safest for her. Now he needed her to find him interesting, and he needed her to know he was in trouble and she could help him.

Deria got closer to Vern, talked soft enough no one else could hear. “Drugs?”

Vern shrugged. He trusted her, and when it was safe he’d leave her forever. No one would know she’d been with him tonight. “A lot of guys move a lot of things. This one time I got asked to deliver a car. With a padlocked U-Haul on the back.”

Deria grabbed a rag, wiped down the bar near Vern like he’d spilled something. “Yeah?” Her voice was low, sounded curious, not surprised. “What was inside?”

Vern shook his head. “They didn’t tell me, just said the guy at the other end had the key to the lock.”

Deria leaned toward Vern as she wiped. “You didn’t know what was in the U-Haul?”

“They pay me enough, I don’t have to know.” Vern sipped his beer and smiled. “The money was good, but not that good. I cut the padlock, matched the key, put on another. In between I looked inside. Fucking long crates.”

Deria stopped wiping. “Bodies?”

Vern laughed. “Not that wide. It was rifles, and whoever wanted that many, I’d make sure they got ’em. Or whatever they already had, they’d use on me.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He took a long drink. “There’s a lot of religion in my work.”

She glanced down the bar, made sure no one needed a refill. “Then what?”

“Then I drive the truck up the coast, southern Cal to northern Cal, speed limit or less all the way. Traffic wasn’t bad, and I had a picture of the guy I was giving the keys to. But this was when I was young, I still took both ends jobs.”

“Both ends?”

“You know, deliver the goods and pick up the money. Bad deal all around. You risk getting busted and getting killed. And you’re just the fucking delivery guy.”

“But you knew that, and you took the job anyway.”

“Like I said, I was young. And the money was good.”

“So, what happened?”

“I had a guy with me on the delivery. Willie. We were good ’til we got there. Riding shotgun on that job meant you had a shotgun. Or a rifle. The morning of the delivery we assembled our weapons and rode with em.”

“Were you scared?”

“Hell,” he smiled, “I ain’t stupid. Of course I was scared. There was only one place on this job someone might try to kill me, and it was at the delivery. And whoever came at me would be backed by a guy who could afford a U-Haul full of rifles. Yeah, I was fuckin scared.”

Deria looked down the bar. Some guy waved at her. His glass was empty. He waved the glass too. “I’ll be right back.”

Vern waited. He had to end this story in a way that made himself interesting. The real delivery had gone smooth. The guy buying the guns wasn’t about to double cross the guy selling them.

Vern finished his beer as Deria returned. “I’ll take that refill.”

She grabbed his glass from the bar, got him a clean one and poured. She set it down in front of him. “So,” she said, “you were at the delivery.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Vern lifted the fresh glass, drank. “And I knew if we got crossed, it was total war between the buyer and the seller, and I was a dead man. Willie knew it too. So we held our semi-automatics while they unlocked the back of the U-Haul and inspected what was in the crates. We were told not to watch and we didn’t. We had our guns and they had theirs, and there were a lot more of them than there were of us. So we waited. Finally a guy brought over a suitcase, popped it open. It was filled with hundred dollar bills, banded. I knew how much was supposed to be there. Willie didn’t, he was just an enforcer. So I got on the ground and counted the money. It was all there. I shut the suitcase, picked it up. ‘What do we drive?’ I said. The guy who dropped the suitcase pointed to a Honda and me and Willie walked to it. I was scared the whole way they’d shoot me in the back but I walked steady. Fear invites death.” Vern took a drink, grinned. “Obvious fear, anyway.”

“So you just drove away.” Deria sounded disappointed.

“Yeah,” Vern said. “Take the money fifty miles down the coast and give it to a guy in a restaurant. Then another five hundred miles, go home and get paid. A little ways down the coast, no one’s following, I pull over. ‘Time to put the guns away,’ I say to Willie. So we break down the semi-automatics, put them in their cases, and put the cases in the trunk. A few more miles down the coast and Willie says, ‘I gotta piss. Stop here.’

“‘Shit,’ I said, ‘you couldn’t do that when we pulled over before?’

“‘Nah, man,’ he says, ‘but I gotta piss like a motherfucker now. Pull over.’

“So I find a place on the side of the road and stop the car. Willie gets out then turns back around and he’s got a pistol on me. ‘Now you get out,’ he says. ‘This side.’

“I walk around the front of the car. I don’t know what the fuck else to do. Willie’s gonna kill me and take the money and I don’t have a goddamn gun on me. And we pulled over near a ledge, where it’s easy to dump a body so no one can see it from the road.” Vern shrugged, flipped his hands out palms up.

“What the fuck?” she said. “How are you here?”

He hesitated. Remembered a story about a guy who tried to cross Keene. He had to tell it right.

“I come around the car and I start talkin. ‘Hey, Willie,’ I say, ‘you think the boss is gonna let you ride off with the cash?’ I keep walkin while I talk. ‘You think this through at all?’

“‘I get rid of you,’ he says, ‘and I drive to the airport.’”

“He’s holding his pistol out but he looks shaky to me. ‘Wherever you fly,’ I say, ‘they gonna find you.’ I keep walkin. ‘You might wanna lower that gun,’ I say. ‘Your pay on this gig’s gotta be pretty good. And you do this one right, you get paid better in the future.’

“‘You believe that,’ he says.

“He’s got the gun, and I could shit my pants, but he’s the one looks scared.

“‘Get back in the car,’ I say. ‘Unless you really gotta take a leak first.’

“‘Well, yeah,’ he says. ‘Thanks, man.’ And he turns his back and unzips. It’s the perfect moment, but I hesitate. Then I grab for the gun but he turns fast, pisses on my shoes and fires. I go down and he’s zipping up, he’s back in the car. He drives away in a hurry, leaves me to die.” Vern took a long drink, set it down.

“But you didn’t.”

“Nah,” Vern said, “but I’m pretty sure he did. I got paid—and that only happens if Willie’s dead.”

“But you got shot and left on the side of the road.”

“A lot of people drive down the coast,” Vern said. “One called an ambulance. If the shot’s a few inches to my right it wouldn’t have mattered. Willie in a panic wasn’t that good a shot.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, but there’s a lesson in that story.”

“What lesson?”

“Don’t hesitate,” Vern said. “Don’t hesitate, don’t get shot.”