Don Bruns: Too Much Stuff

I got it.

“We’ll buy a fleet of trucks, Skip. Start that rent-a-truck business we talked about.”

“How about your restaurant on South Beach?”

“That, too. It’s going to be a party place.”

“Em, James, there might not be any gold in those boxes.”

We all three laughed.

We’d driven about four miles south when the dump truck’s turn signal flashed right. James slowed down and turned off onto a crushed-shell road. The half moon was brilliant in the black sky as we followed the narrow path for two hundred feet, then saw a row of metal huts. A dim spotlight hung from the main building of the complex. The truck in front stopped, so we braked and stepped out of the vehicle.

I can truthfully say this was the most exciting, exhilarating time in my young life. I had never felt such a mixture of anticipation, fear, and confusion. Even Em, who was used to money, used to developing big projects, was shaking. We were about to discover what our treasure was.

“How are we going to unload?”

I shrugged my shoulders as Maria Sanko came around the side of the main building, riding a bright yellow forklift.

“Question answered, son.” James grinned. We’d made a wise choice in finally confiding in her.

We worked getting the boxes off the truck, then sent the dump truck driver on his way. I did have thoughts that he might come back. If he suspected there was a big score, what was to stop him? But he waved and left the little storage facility, pulling back onto the highway.

In the yellow light, the four of us stared at the five crates lying an equal distance from each other on the ground. I’d never seen a prettier sight. There was a moment of silence, then my cell phone rang.

“Damn.”

“Who is it?”

I didn’t recognize the number.

“Well, answer it.” Em was staring at me.

“Hello.”

“Skip Moore?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mary Trueblood.”

I let out a long sigh of relief.

“What have you found out?” Lots of tension in her voice.

“We’re just getting ready to open the first five crates.”

“Five? Not ten?”

“I’ll fill you in later.”

Maria produced a pair of tin snips and started working on the first crate. Four corroded metal bands wrapped around the boxes and she cut each one. They were thin from the years of exposure and separated easily.

“Mrs. T., we’re getting ready to open the first crate.”

She was silent, probably praying. Forty-four million dollars in precious metal. I couldn’t fathom that kind of wealth.

James and Em walked over and pulled on the lid. It wouldn’t budge.

“Here, look.” Maria pointed to the edge of the lid. “It’s nailed shut.”

“Whoever packed this wasn’t taking any chances.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Now what do we do?”

“Take this wrecking bar,” she picked up a crowbar from the ground, “and pry it open.”

“What else do you have in your bag of tricks?” James asked.

“Hey, I’m here to help you guys.”

“And you’re here for one hundred thousand dollars.”

“That, too.”

“It’ll be just a minute, Mrs. Trueblood. We’re working on getting the top off. Do you want me to call you back?”

“No. I’m staying on the line.”

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, still connected, and went over to help. James took the first shift and he wedged the bar into a thin crease between the top and the side boards.

“This wood is solid.”

“Almost like petrified?” asked Maria.

“Yeah.”

“Silicate,” she said.

He pried and worked that bar. We heard a creak and knew that the wood was separating. Slowly.

Occasionally we heard traffic from the road a couple hundred feet away. A rumbling truck, a car with a bad muffler, a motorcycle, a diesel engine bus. We were aware of them, but concentrating on the task at hand.

“I wish I had more of those pry bars,” Maria said.

I was working it, Mary Trueblood still connected in my pocket. I’d pry and hear the creak, and the top would be just a little looser.

Half of the top was now almost free. Em took the bar and started working on the end of the box. For a slight girl, she’s strong. She put her weight to good advantage and worked her way around to the far side.

“There’s got to be an easier way,” I said.

“More wrecking bars,” said Maria, “but the Ace Hardware is closed.”

“Let me take it again.” James took the metal bar from Em and started prying, going faster now that the wooden top was almost free.

“Keep on prying, folks.”

The sinister voice stopped us in our tracks.

“And when you’re done, step back from the wooden box.”

We all spun around, for the first time seeing the two scruffy guys in the dim light. The dark-haired one with the three-day growth on his face held a pistol, aimed right at Emily.

“Markim and Weezle?” James had a frozen look on his face.

“Keep prying that lid.”

“Or is it Markim and Stiffle?” I asked.

The other guy, a little chubby and with lighter hair stared at me. “Stiffle is Weezle’s brother. Was Weezle’s brother.”

“Twins?” I knew it was no coincidence.

“Keep prying.”

James set the bar, and I watched him, his hands now shaking.

“Adopted?” Em studied the duo.

“Yeah. Different families. Different last names.” Weezle sneered at her, the gun never wavering. “My brother was an idiot. We sent him to find the translation for that letter the Trueblood lady gave us.”

“Whoa. She gave you the letter.”

“We couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t have the code. When you two showed up with her, we figured that she’d translated it.”

“And that we had the translation?”

“Keep prying.” Markim stepped a little closer, his gun pointing at James’s head.

The wood creaked and James moved down a couple of inches.

“And why did you kill him?” Em kept pressing.

“We didn’t know you had the translation. But my dumbass brother went to your room instead of the lady’s room. By mistake. Your reservation was in her name. Then the idiot calls me on his cell and is going on about how this lady’s room has guy’s clothes and everything. I figured that he’s in the wrong room, and Markim and I were tired of covering his sorry ass.”

“So you killed him? Pretty serious action for someone who gets the wrong room.”

“I went up to straighten him out, and we got into a fight. He hit his head on the little dresser and,” he paused, “you got a brother?”

I didn’t. James didn’t. We were like brothers, and there were times when I’d like to kill James. Still-

“No.”

“I don’t either. Not any more.” He smiled, a cold, calculated grin.

“We kept bailing his ass out, over and over again,” said Markim.

I did understand that.

“Keep prying.”

James worked the bar again. He glanced up at me, cocked his eyebrow and I knew what he was saying. Two of them and a gun. Four of us. If we get the gun, we win. What do you think, pard?

Wiping sweat from his forehead, James looked once more at me and I nodded. These guys had taken a shot at Em and me, so I was certain they’d think nothing of shooting us now.

“It’s almost off. You guys want to step up here and see what we’ve got?”

Weezle took two more steps and took his eyes off James, staring at the box with its raised lid.

James threw the crowbar as hard as he could, hitting Weezle across the face. Markim stopped, stunned, and I turned and hit him on the jaw. Deja vu. And all of us heard the explosion as a gun roared.