John Avery: Three Days To Die

He leaned his bike against a post and unzipped his sweatshirt, then threaded his way through the junk maze until he came to the back of the building and a flight of rough, wooden stairs which he ascended to the second floor.

He stepped off the landing onto the long, wood-planked balcony that led to the cannery's office. On his immediate right was a steel door marked MAINTENANCE; he opened it and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

He felt around in the dark for the candle and lighter he and Willy had left on a shelf months ago, and as he lit the candle, two mice, startled by the flame, took off in opposite directions and disappeared.

The small space was packed with the essentials of building maintenance: tools, cleaning products, old buckets of paint, wire — all blanketed with a thick layer of dust. Aaron brushed the cobwebs aside and made his way to a large, unpainted, wooden cabinet in the back of the room. He opened the cabinet doors and pulled an old tweed suitcase out from the bottom shelf. He laid it on the floor, then knelt next to it and flipped open the latches.

The case was stocked with basic hideout necessities: a stack of comics, some playing cards, a spare candle and matches. Beneath the stack of comics was a small, royal-blue satin box. Aaron lifted the little box from the suitcase and held it in his hands for a moment, then opened the lid.

Inside was a small photo; he picked it up and held it toward the light.

It was a one-of-a-kind shot of his mother hugging his real father, Daniel Quinn. Aaron had taken the picture himself with a disposable camera during a family vacation while his dad was home on furlough the summer before he was killed in action overseas. Taken in an alpine meadow just before sunset when the light was perfect — the priceless photo represented the last days they spent together as a family; and whenever his heart was heavy, Aaron turned his thoughts to that wonderful summer. He took a moment, then carefully tucked the dog-eared picture into his wallet.

Suddenly Aaron heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to the second floor. A chill ran through him — it wasn't Willy in his sneakers. It sounded more like two or three men in leather soled shoes. He quickly slid the case onto its shelf, and closed the cabinet. Then he held his breath as the footsteps crossed the stair landing and moved past the maintenance room toward the office at the end of the balcony.

He blew out the candle, then crept to the door and opened it a crack, in time to see three large men in business suits file into the office, leaving the door slightly ajar. Aaron stayed where he was and listened.

Johnny Souther removed his leather fedora and dropped two bags of fast food onto an immense oak desk piled high with books and magazines. He lit a gasoline lantern — the city had cut the electricity to the cannery building when it was condemned a few years back — then sat behind the desk. The other two pulled up wooden chairs and faced him.

Souther grabbed a cheeseburger from one of the bags and unwrapped it. But instead of eating the sandwich, he simply held it in his hands and looked at it. He had spent half of the last ten years eating similar food off of metal trays while under armed guard, and had never lost his taste for it, but last night's botched bank job had left him without an appetite. He folded the cheeseburger into its wrapper and dropped it back in the bag with the others.

Nearly everyone Souther knew outside prison he had known inside. One of them was the big black man sitting across the desk from him, Benjamin "Beeks" Madison, whom Souther had met while working in a prison laundry.

Beeks was starving, and the smell of the food was killing him. But just as he started to reach for a burger, Souther cranked open the window next to his desk and tossed both bags out into the darkness, then cranked the window shut. Saliva flooded Beeks's mouth, and a tear came to his eye as he pictured himself enjoying his tasty dinner.

Souther shifted in his chair, his hip joint hurting as the result of letting a security guard shoot him five years before. He knew he couldn't be present at every robbery, and he thought he had put a good man in charge. But last night things had gone terribly wrong, and he deeply regretted not having been there.

He removed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from his desk drawer and poured himself a drink. He tossed the shot back and slammed the glass on the desk, then spoke slowly, in a low, well-worn voice.

"This morning I had five men — eleven, counting the fools doing nickels upstate. And now I have what, two? Hell… Wallace did better at Stirling fucking Bridge."

It wasn't simply the loss of his men that upset Souther; there was also the loss of income (his chief financial burden being his long-time girlfriend, Brandy Fine, a twenty-five-year-old redhead knockout whose extravagant taste for clothes, cars, nice homes, and jet-set travel demanded copious quantities of cash). It helped that the income from his various business ventures was tax-free, but there was never enough.

Lars "Needles" Sheldon had never even considered stepping outside the law until he met Johnny Souther, but with an instinctive flair for the demanding work of a bank robber, he had quickly become one of Souther's most trusted inside men. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his silver hair.

"Diggs should never have let the bank manager into the vault without — "

"Without frisking the fucker first, right?" Souther said, interrupting Needles. "I know, damn it. If he had, Freddie wouldn't have had his damn head blown off."

"Larry, either," Needles added.

"I know. Shit!" Souther picked up a large hardback book with both hands and slammed it down on his desk, shattering Beeks's nerves in an attempt to calm his own.

Needles was well aware of the importance of frisking bank managers — having uncovered several concealed weapons himself that way. When he was in charge of a job he was meticulous about such matters, but he wasn't in charge on this job — he wasn't even there. Diggs was.

Souther drew a deep breath in through his nose and released it slowly out his mouth. With Diggs looking at life in prison, and all his other men either doing time or dead, Needles and Beeks were all he had. He looked at them sadly, then pulled two more glasses out of his desk and poured them both a drink.

Aaron trembled, terrified, unable to believe what he'd just overheard. He slipped out of the maintenance room and took a few cautious steps toward the stairs. But in the dim light he tripped over a pile of loose steel pipes and tumbled to the floor — making a huge racket.

Souther stood and drew his. 45 automatic.

Aaron lay still, holding his breath, his heart bouncing off his ribs like a boxer's speed-bag. He pictured his epitaph, carved in granite:

Here Lies Young Aaron Quinn

A Clumsy Fool Until The End

Souther picked up a large black flashlight, clicked it on, then eased the office door open with his foot and stepped slowly out onto the walkway, sighting down the powerful beam with his pistol. Needles and Beeks drew their guns and followed him.

The men worked their way slowly down the long balcony, checking behind stacks of boxes and under piles of junk, moving closer to Aaron with each step.

Icy fingers gripped Aaron's heart as Souther's flashlight sliced through the darkness like a great saber.

Willy rounded the corner in front of the cannery, pedaling his beach cruiser at full speed. He jumped the curb under the mercury-vapor streetlamp and stomped his coaster brake, laying a long black patch of rubber across the wide, concrete sidewalk.

Two vans were parked at the curb — one white, one black. Willy glanced at them curiously. Then, whistling a simple tune, he pulled open the secret panel and pushed his beach cruiser inside.