Max Collins: Hard Cash

“Don’t just stand there trying to figure out whether to feel ashamed or proud,” Nolan said.

He was in the doorway, standing in the doorway at the top of the steps. He came down, slowly, rubbing the side of his head where the girl had struck him with the shotgun barrel.

“I’m sorry, Nolan.”

“Sorry you didn’t shoot the bitch? So am I. Get your ass in that van and let’s get after her. I think you got her tire. She won’t be going far.”

Coming down the hill they could see the length of the several-mile-long straightaway beyond the Cedar River Bridge. There was no sign of the yellow Mustang. “Shit,” Nolan said.

“Maybe she turned back toward Port City,” Jon said.

“With that fat sack of money sitting in back? Not likely.”

The van rolled across the bridge, and they followed the highway as it curved and straightened out again. Still no sign.

“Maybe I didn’t hit her tire after all,” Jon said.

Nolan said nothing.

The West Liberty city limits were up ahead. The girl worked there, had friends there. If she was anywhere, Nolan thought, that was where she’d be.

The speed limit dropped to forty-five, and Jon complied as the van took the crest of a slight hill and followed the highway as it snaked into West Liberty.

“Maybe she took the Nichols turnoff,” Jon said. “Maybe she turned off on a side road. Maybe she stopped at a farmhouse.”

“Maybe that’s her up there.”

The Mustang was parked on the shoulder of the road, inside the city limits, but just barely — a meat locker was on one side of the highway, a junk yard on the other; ahead were some mobile homes and lower middle-class houses shuffled together as if a tornado had hit and nobody had bothered to put things back in order.

Also parked on the shoulder of the road, pulled in in front of the Mustang at an angle, was a two-year-old blue Ford.

On the side of the Ford, on the door, were big white letters: “WEST LIBERTY SHERIFF’S DEPT.” Nolan doubted those white letters would disappear if the car were pulled into a car wash.

In the back seat of the Ford was the girl Julie. She was looking at the junk yard and either didn’t see Nolan and Jon go by, or pretended not to.

Also in the back seat was the sack of money.

In the front seat was a man of thirty-one or so who had a pudgy face highlighted by a weak chin, close-set eyes, and five o’clock shadow. There was nothing impressive about the man except the badge on his cream-color uniform and the smaller, matching badge on his cream-color western-style hat.

What had happened was obvious: the smalltown sheriff had stopped the girl because she was speeding in a car with a flat tire, hardly the safest and most inconspicuous activity a person in the girl’s position might have done, and had stumbled onto something more than just your average case of reckless driving.

“Jesus,” Jon said. “What do we do, Nolan?”

If it had been out on the highway, Nolan might have chanced it. He might have stopped the van, put the sheriff to sleep, and gotten the money back. But this was in town. By now the sheriff could have radioed for a deputy or the state highway patrol or the Port City sheriff or police department. And there were homes nearby, and people standing out in front of them and out in front of the meat locker too. And there were some guys working in the junk yard, besides.

The van rumbled across the railroad tracks, and Nolan glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that the sheriff’s car had pulled in behind them. Just beyond the tracks was an intersection with a flashing red light. The West Liberty business district, such as it was, was to the left; Iowa City was straight ahead. The sheriff’s car drew alongside the van, in the turning lane. The pudgy-faced sheriff was looking ahead, watching for an opening in the traffic, which was brisk for as small as the town was. Julie was in back. So was the sack of money. She looked over at Nolan and Jon, shrugged, and looked away.

“Nolan?” Jon said again. Almost whispering. “What are we going to do?”

“Go straight,” Nolan said.