Stinking Rich Read online

  Until a minute or so ago, Perko had clung to the hope he could make his way to his bush bike while the cops were distracted. But he’d just heard it drive away. Based on the gun shot that followed it, he knew the driver wouldn’t be stopping for passengers.

  Struggling in the dark, he’d only managed to further tighten the belts and straps around his belly, finding no relief from the gurgling mass of cheese and beans that burbled there like so much lava.

  At the sound of more cars arriving, he finally made his move. He crept toward the back of the farmyard along the edge of the woodlot. The heavy undergrowth made the going slow. As more and more flashlights scanned the bushes, he kept having to hunch to the ground and freeze.

  “Think I’ve got something here,” he heard someone yell and a beam of light held its line right on him. He held his breath.

  “No. Nope. Just some burlap or something,” the cop called out and the light moved away.

  Relieved, Perko gasped for air and then sounded a fart like the loudest butt trumpet in gangland. And he fell to his ass and cried some more.

  In the back of the cop car with Terry, the two Latinos whispered in Spanish. The guy on the other end of the seat whimpered and swore nonstop in French. When his seatmates were finally hauled out and thrown into separate cop cars, Terry stretched his damp legs as well as he could in the cramped compartment, leaned his head in the corner, and wondered whether this mess was somehow his fault.

  Officer Ainsley had left the front windows open to air out the squad car. Between squawks on the radio, Terry listened to the cops outside.

  “Must have been one helluva factory in there.”

  “No kidding. This was no Nasty Nancies set-up. That French faggot we nabbed is going to have some stories to tell.”

  “That should be a cakewalk. The pussy was already crying for his Maman. Kept smoothing his damn hairdo like he was getting ready for his mug shot or something.”

  “Weird ass fruitcake. We’ve seen him before. Name’s Bernie or something.”

  “What about them two Mexicans?”

  “I thought they were Cubans?”

  “Who the fuck can tell? All I know is no one’s seen them before. Must be from Toronto.”

  “Hey, who broke this thing anyway? The narcos ain’t even here yet.”

  “Ainsley, I think. Trying to play the hero, looks like. The call came out for backup at this location maybe ten minutes before the fireworks started. Sounded pretty routine.”

  “I think they were waiting for a judge on a search warrant. What a freak show.”

  Terry watched Officer Ainsley and another cop drag a flabby bearded man up the laneway. He was wearing funny-looking leather pants.

  “Can you believe the fringes on that guy’s chaps?” someone said.

  “Who does he think he is? Fucking Tonto?”

  “Hey, Ainsley, watch out he don’t scalp you.”

  Officer Ainsley snapped back: “I’m more afraid he’ll crap on me. He’s a Libido, for sure, but that bulge in his jeans is something entirely different.”

  “You been checking out his package, Ainsley?”

  “What I’m saying, gentlemen, is this poor slob just shit his pants worse than a two-year-old having a tantrum. I found him in the woods by smell alone. Thought something had died in there.”

  Terry stared at the biker’s face, cut, bleeding, and contorted in black anger. He decided that whether or not he’d caused this circus, he’d best shut up from here on in.

  Ten

  The three-wheeler was perfect for a cross-country get-away. Skeritt’s analysis had been pretty darn prescient, Danny thought. Not only had the police shown up, but it was an utter shit show. He’d been lucky to escape with his skin intact.

  At the top of a rise just shy of Ernie’s place, he stopped to think things through. The more he tried to think, the more confused he became. He had no idea who the three-wheeler belonged to, but stealing it had to be the least of his worries. Who were those toughs running helter skelter all over the barnyard, down the road, and off into the bush? Had anyone seen him? If he was on the run, he’d sure like to know who from. Cops? Bikers? The dude on the phone who left the envelope of cash every week? He couldn’t even go to the police because he had no one to turn in. And then there was the small matter of Lester rotting in the woods.

  Danny’s dream life was a bust.

  Gone was the ten thou bonus, his cool grand a week job, and limitless ganja. He pictured himself huddled in a lean-to with Skeritt, fighting over a jar of peanut butter.

  He got off the ATV to pee at the side of the road. It was a cool clear August night, the sky brilliant with stars. He picked out The Big Dipper and followed the handle to Orion’s Belt. His mother had taught him the easier constellations when they camped on their special island by the Indian Reserve. He’d lean back against her knees while she nursed a cup of tea spiked with Triple Sec. What he wouldn’t give to be back there now. He snorted at the thought. To think he’d been afraid of being attacked by wild animals. “Oh, we’ll make a big bright fire with lots of smoke,” his mom would tell him. “That’ll keep the animals away and then the guys on the Reserve will see it and come check it out. They know how to deal with bears and everything. Don’t worry.” And that had always been good enough, on the island. Tonight, though, he doubted the Indians or anyone else could deal with the angry cops and bikers sure to be on his tail.

  There was nothing for it. He’d have to follow Skeritt’s advice, boneheaded as it seemed.

  He trudged back to the three-wheeler. For the first time, he took a good look at the satchel. It was heavy brown leather with thick handles. He unzipped it and looked inside. His sphincter tightened and for a moment he forgot to breathe. He was looking at more money than he’d ever seen: stacks and stacks of green twenties, red fifties, and brown hundreds.

  He dropped the bag in fright. This was money like you’d see in the movies. He fell to his knees and stuck his head into the bag, breathing deep. Money you could smell—even through the humid stench of pot that permeated the leather.

  Hands trembling, Danny started to pull stacks out of the satchel, digging underneath, unable to believe the whole bag was full of nothing but cash. He thumbed a stack of bills. There were fifty a bunch, making each stack of twenties a thousand, the fifties twenty-five hundred, and the hundreds five thousand each. He emptied the bag and sorted the piles. It took five minutes for him to do the math and then he did it again. No question. Danny Grant had run away with seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. More exactly, he was stinking rich.

  Giddy with fear, he crammed the bundles back into the bag and squatted on a rock ledge at the side of the road. From where he sat, he could almost see Ernie McCann’s cabin. He was petrified and shaking with excitement at the same time. Ten minutes ago, he’d known he needed to disappear. Now he had the cash to do it. He desperately wanted to talk to Skeritt or his mom but Ernie would have to do. He wouldn’t tell him about the satchel, though. Skeritt could say all he wanted about Ernie being like family: people got weird about money. And scattered though his mind was, Danny knew it was better if nobody but nobody knew he had this kind of cash—never mind where it had come from.

  He drove the ATV down the hill to Ernie’s place. There was no light inside the cabin but Ernie shouted a gruff “Who the hell is there?” as soon as Danny got within thirty feet of the door. “This shotgun is loaded and it’s pointed right at you.”

  “Ernie, it’s me. Danny.”

  “Danny? What the hell are you doin’ skulkin’ around in the middle of the night? Gonna get yourself shot. Best come inside.”

  Danny stumbled through the door into the pitch dark room. He felt Ernie’s hand on his elbow, guiding him to a kitchen chair. He sat down but only one of his cheeks reached the seat and he would have fallen to the floor were it not for Ernie grabbing his arm with a chuckle.

  “Never did understand how you sighted people survive without busting all your bones
every time the electricity’s out. Here, let me help you.”

  Danny listened to Ernie step firmly across the room, lift something off a shelf, rattle a box of matches, walk back, and slide something across the tabletop. Danny felt in the dark for the plunger on the Coleman lantern, unscrewed it, and pumped a bit. Then he grabbed a match, opened the lantern’s valve so he could hear the gas hiss softly. He used the match to light the mantle. As the light grew, Ernie’s face slowly appeared out of the darkness, grinning, big yellow teeth peering out from under eyes black as coal.

  “Skeritt told me you might be along. Hardly expected to see you this soon. Want a beer?”

  The lantern burned brightly now and Danny said he could get it himself but Ernie waved him back onto his foam-cushioned chair and ambled across to the fridge. Everything about the near barren room was comfortable as Kraft Dinner and about as inspired. Next to the fridge was a two-burner gas stove and a hand pump hung over the sink. There were six cupboards: three up, three down. The top ones had no doors and held a smattering of mismatched dishware and glasses. There were no books or magazines, no curtains on the windows. The shotgun with which he’d been threatened moments before leaned against the door frame. After handing him a beer, Ernie walked over and felt along the door until his fingers wrapped around the gun’s barrel. He picked it up and hung it back in its place on the wall.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Mom’s good, Ernie. But I’m in trouble. Deep shit. Real deep.”

  “Do tell, Daniel.”

  And he did. Danny brought Ernie right up to date, telling him everything about the grow op, but leaving out the bit about the satchel sitting outside.

  “Just one cop car?” Ernie asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a bust, does it?”

  “How do I know? Maybe there were more on their way.”

  “Well, there sure as hell will be more now. That’s no small operation you’re talking about. Are you sure no one was following you?”

  “Positive. I stopped a few times and turned off the motor. Silence every time.”

  “Good. They’re going to be looking for that damn machine though. And they’ll be using dogs, too, with all that pot on the loose. You won’t exactly be hard to track. You reek.”

  Danny pulled his T-shirt to his nose and sniffed it. Ernie was right. He smelled like a bale of skunk weed.

  “There’s a bar of Sunlight soap by the sink. You can wash yourself in the lake. Throw your clothes in the fire pit. I’ll burn them in the morning.” Ernie stood and crossed into the bedroom, returning with a pair of coveralls. He handed them to Danny, saying, “Here, these don’t fit me anymore. They’re clean.”

  As he took them, Danny saw Ernie’s name stitched on the left pocket, over a picture of a circular saw blade. The coveralls must have come from the sawmill. He started to ask Ernie a question, then caught himself. There’d be time to talk later.

  Ernie said, “Go get your stink off.” Then he told Danny where there was a cliff nearby. “Drive the bike over the edge, they’ll never find it.”

  “I’ll do that tomorrow.”

  “No, you’re going to ditch that thing tonight. I don’t want it around here. From what you told me, both the cops and the bikers are looking for it by now. This place is less than a ten-minute drive. You’ll be able to walk back before dawn.”

  “Then what? Skeritt said you’d have a plan. Know where I can go until this blows over.”

  “Listen, Danny, this isn’t exactly going to blow over. Tomorrow, we’ll get you to the Reserve. Find someone to help you disappear for a while, get out of the country, or lost deep in the bush, whatever.”

  “Why the hell would anyone do that for me?”

  “Because I’ll ask them to. And Indian is Indian. Now haul your butt down to the lake and get scrubbing.”

  Danny did as he was told. The peaceful skinny dip in Pigeon Lake seemed surreal. Floating on his back on flat black water, surrounded by soap suds and staring up at the Milky Way, Danny could have been ten years old all over again. He could just as easily believe he was sixteen and there was a bonfire sparkling at the water’s edge surrounded by friendly chatter and the sound of someone strumming a guitar. For a few minutes, he felt safe, more relaxed than he had been in months, worry-free, deeply tired, and free.

  Naked and dripping wet, he made his way up the slope to the cabin. The cool night air snapped him back to reality. Ernie had said he’d get him to the Reserve and the Indians would help him disappear. Good enough, but how would he get money to his mom? So she could join him, assuming she’d want to.

  He opened the satchel and took out six bundles of hundreds. Ripping the bands off, he ruffled the bills against one of the tires. He’d have to trust Ernie to give the money to his mother; he’d tell him it was his pay from the grow op. If he was lucky, the man wouldn’t be able to see how much money it was. And if he did, well, he was family, right?

  He still needed to figure out what to do with the satchel. There was no reason to expect that the cops would look for him here tonight. Still, Danny wasn’t taking any chances. Enough shit had gone wrong the last few days. If Ernie was right and the cops used dogs, they’d be sure pick up on the pot smell that had soaked into the bag’s leather. Scanning the yard, he found the perfect spot to hide it, then went in to get the coveralls and give Ernie the cash for his mom.

  Ernie’s directions were precise. Naturally, they were perfect for driving in the dark. Danny rode the ATV out the laneway and turned left. He followed that road until there were three bends in a row: left, right, then hard left again. About a minute later, after a steep rise, the road leveled off, veered right, and Danny felt a gust of humid air blowing off the lake. He slowed down and kept an eye out for the break in the fence Ernie said he would find on the left side of the road. He gunned the ATV through the ditch with ease and headed straight for the edge of the cliff, stopping just short.

  He used duct tape Ernie had given him to tape the accelerator in place, giving the three-wheeler just enough gas to get moving. He threw it into gear and guided it the first few feet toward the cliff then stood back and watched it rumble off. There were a couple of loud crashes and then a muffled splash as it hit the water. In the dark, Danny didn’t dare approach the edge.

  “You can jump right in with it, if you like,” Ernie had told him. “Some of the kids do that with old bikes sometimes. The cliff’s only about twenty feet high, and the water’s deeper than that pretty much right up to the edge. I used to jump it myself the first few years after I lost my sight. Thrill of a lifetime—like tumbling through space, not knowing which way is up. But you’ve got to give it a bit of a run to make sure you don’t hit the granite slope underwater. Back then, I wouldn’t have half minded if I busted my neck doing it. I was pretty angry, I guess. Nowadays, I just like heading over there once or twice a summer to listen to all the hooting and cheers when the young bucks make the leap.”

  Danny sat on a boulder, fished a baggie of weed from his pocket, and rolled a quick spliff. Lighting it, he marveled at how still the night air had become. Even next to the cliff, with water below, there was barely an updraft. The cloud of smoke hung about him like fog. He imagined leaping off the cliff into an abyss deep enough to protect him from facing reality.

  He was an out-of-work dope farmer with nowhere to live. He had killed a man. Killed his dog, too. His accomplice after the fact had fewer active brain cells than the lizard who was his closest confidant.

  He did have one thing going for him. A shitload of cash.

  Danny grinned. He wondered what would make his mother more proud: all that money, or the fact he’d sent an ATV to its death? “Murder-cycles,” she called them. Yeah, he’d done good.

  Then he wondered what she’d call baseball bats if she knew about Lester.

  Grinding the roach into the ground under his running shoe, he walked away from the cliff edge and began retracing the route to Erni
e’s cabin. He’d been on the road five minutes when he saw lights flicker over the next hill. He dashed into the ditch and scrambled over the ever-present rock pile. He rolled down the other side just as the cop car’s headlights crested the rise and lit the road like daylight.

  He held his breath and his heart pounded so loud he was sure the cops would hear it. A search light mounted next to the windshield swept back and forth across the stubble in the field behind him. Then, quick as they’d arrived, the police were gone. He got up and walked along the field, afraid that if he returned to the road, they’d show up faster next time and he wouldn’t have time to escape to the shadows. Navigating the field made the going slow until he reached a footpath cutting through a woodlot. By the time he came out the other side, clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. Without starlight, Danny got disoriented. When the rain started, he crawled into a crumbling outbuilding next to an abandoned farmhouse and curled up in an old tarp to keep warm.

  The tarp smelled of mouse shit. Bits of indeterminate fluff stuck to Danny’s skin and made him itch. Exhausted, he dozed off for what felt like less than a minute before he was awakened by the sound of distant barking. Ernie had been right: the police had called out the dogs.

  The pre-dawn chill gnawing at his bones, he crept out of the shack and peered into the dark. There was no visible movement and the dogs sounded like they were still a mile or more away. He started out at a jog, crossing the field toward a depression he hoped would lead toward a creek. It wasn’t much more than a rivulet, it turned out, a muddy trickle ripe with fresh cow manure, but after a while it joined another trickle and grew stronger. The water had cut the ground deep enough that only his head and shoulders peeked above it. Problem was, the path taken by the water was anything but direct. It kept doubling back on itself, winding to and fro. Finally, Danny grew frustrated and climbed up to ground level to get his bearings.