1950s, Fort Lauderdale, Florida
He’d turned the motel upside down looking for that bag of money. It’d been weeks since Red and his shitty friends had left and Ralph was convinced by now that there was no money. Whoever the guy was that Red was looking for never stopped here.
He had just come back to number four to have some lunch. Sitting down on the couch with a sandwich, he stared at the TV. It wasn’t on, but he stared hard, trying to think of some of the recent television shows he’d been watching. There were some clever ones about spies and crime-solving. Where would someone on one of those shows hide a bag of money?
Taking another bite of his sandwich, he washed it down with some soda pop. He was running low. He hoped a guest would be stopping by soon, maybe someone he could hitch a ride from to go get groceries. He’d take a taxi back if he had to. He’d done it once and it didn’t cost too much.
The table next to the television caught his eye. Pop’s dogs, Jack and Sandy. Their images were protected forever in those frames. He’d wished he’d thought to put Ruthie and Razor’s picture in a frame, but he’d preferred having it with him, so he could pull it out when he needed to. He hated himself for being so careless with that photo.
What was the last dog’s name? The one Pop didn’t have a picture of? He couldn’t think of it. He just remembered the dog had died recently because the grave was obviously newer than the others. He sat back and gazed at the blank television again. He didn’t have time to think about Pop’s dogs. He had to think like a mastermind. Like the ones he saw on TV. Especially that spy guy. If Pop got his hands on that money, what would he have done with it?
There wasn’t much else to do at the motel other than general maintenance. He didn’t have to wait on Pop hand and foot anymore, so his days weren’t as busy. Some days, he pretended he was someone important, like Red. He could be like Red. Like one of those guys on TV. Was Red undercover? He must’ve been. The person on the other end of the phone called him “agent.”
Lost in a fantasy of beautiful women and fast cars, he suddenly sat straight up on the couch and dropped his soda bottle, the liquid fizzing out on the carpet floor.
He knew where the money was.
By the time he lugged the bag back to the motel, he was panting and filthy. The bag was big and heavy, and it was right where he’d thought. The dog’s grave. Only there was no dog.
He couldn’t imagine how Pop, in his frail condition, had ever gotten it out there and buried it. As he was digging, he started having doubts. A stab of conscience told him he’d feel awful if he was digging up Pop’s dog. Benny. He remembered the name now. That was the last dog that Pop didn’t have a picture of. Pop had told him he had a frame for it and everything, but never got around to having a picture taken to put in the frame.
Except when he’d searched the motel from top to bottom looking for the hidden bag, he’d never run across an empty frame. Pop must’ve lied about it. Still, it could’ve been true. The frame could’ve been broken and thrown away. The frame would’ve been a reminder of the picture that was never taken and maybe Pop had tossed it. Ralph didn’t think so.
And he was right.
Now, he spread an old motel sheet across the bed and heaved the heavy bag up on to it. He unzipped it and his breath caught as he gazed upon its contents. There was more money in this bag than he’d ever imagined existed, even in a bank vault. He picked up a neatly bound stack of bills and fanned them.
Then he remembered something. The man on the phone that night said he didn’t care about the money. He wanted the bag. Why would he want a crummy old army bag? There must be something else here.
He climbed up on the bed and managed to grab the bag by the bottom, heaving it upside down on the sheet. The money spilled out, some even sliding off the bed and hitting the floor. He shook the bag, making sure it was empty. He didn’t see anything fall out with the money. But the bag still felt a little heavy. He jumped down off the bed and stuck his arms in the bag, feeling around. His elbow made contact with something hard and he realized something had been sewn into the lining of the bag.
Quickly, he retrieved a knife from the kitchen and carefully slit open the interior. He reached in and pulled out two heavy metal plates of some kind. He laid them on the bed and knew immediately what he was looking at. This money was counterfeit and these were the plates that were used to make it. Big deal.
He was disappointed. What was he going to do with a bunch of fake money? He couldn’t spend it because he’d probably get caught. It would be traced back to the motel and then they’d start looking for Pop. Dammit.
Maybe he should get a phone number for The Red Crab and call Red. Tell him to come get his fake money. He felt totally deflated now; the excitement of seeking and the anticipation of finding the bag was gone. He’d never realized how good the hunt had made him feel. He couldn’t explain it; he got a thrill from pretending he was some kind of agent, like Red. Looking for something more important than a big bag of money.
That’s what the man had said. He didn’t care about the money. Who didn’t care about money? He’d remembered how important money was when he was roaming Fort Lauderdale and eating out of garbage cans.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering what he should do, when something caught his attention. He squinted, looking closer. His eyes weren’t lying—something brown was sticking out of the seam he’d ripped when he’d found the plates. Reaching in, he removed a large, oversized envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. Some pictures fell out onto his lap. He quickly scanned them, and since he didn’t recognize any faces or the names on the back, he turned to the papers he was holding. It was a large document, several pages long. He started to read.
He was young and didn’t have a lot of education. But he was smart enough to know what he was reading was important. More important than a bag of counterfeit money. Some names he recognized. Others he didn’t. There were specific dates, places, and events. Was he reading this correctly? How could this be?
This was big; he knew it. This kind of information could destroy people. Destroy lives. Maybe it already had.
Pop must have killed the bag’s owner. The insurance salesman. He obviously wasn’t an insurance salesman. Was he an agent like Red?
He didn’t know the extent of what he had read, but he thought he knew someone who might.
Over the next week, he did what was necessary to close the motel. He burned the counterfeit money in the pit—that’s what he named the spot where Red and his guys started the fire that first night. He hid the plates and envelope somewhere he was certain they’d never be found. He would relocate them later, but he would need time to plan that. He rummaged up some old chain and crafted a sign that said “closed for renovation,” draping it across the motel entrance. He drained the pool and called the telephone company to cancel the phone. He did the same with the water and power companies. He didn’t have to worry about the gas pumps. Pop had told him they hadn’t been used in years.
He’d already gone through Pop’s personal papers. Pop’s real name was Gainy J. Talbot. He took Pop’s checkbook and some tax documents he might need in the future, plus the deed to the motel and the title to Pop’s car. He’d leave the car here. He burned all of Pop’s other personal belongings, including some old army pictures and discharge papers. He paused when he came across a document he hadn’t noticed before.
It was a birth certificate. The birth date wasn’t close to his—Pop’s son was older than him—but it would still work. He would save this.
Jason William Talbot was as good a name as any. Besides, he hated the name Ralph.
He packed up everything he could carry and started walking toward the city. He was going to take Red up on that job offer.