The Mad Dash

The scratching of the dry ballpoint in the little black notebook was starting to get to Jason. After hours in the small cement cube, forcing down acidic coffee and blinking up into the one harsh bulb, inquisition after inquisition only deepening his faith in his own stupidity - it was the scratching of that damn pen that sent him over the line.

“Alright, walk me through this one last time,” the suit grumbled through a wild mustache. He, too, was being worn down by this process. When he’d walked into the room the stache had appeared much neater, waxed to match his crisp jacket (now offcast) and neatly kept notebook. That damn notebook.

“You said that last time.”

“What?”

“Last time, you said walk you through it one last time. So is this the last time? Because clearly, that wasn’t.”

“Just tell me the goddamn story. If you play along, I’ll tell you where the money came from.” Jason had heard the detective’s name twice, but couldn’t remember it. His arm was starting to ache again in the sling applied on the side of the road just before he’d been roughly stuffed into the back seat of the patrol car. That meant they’d been at this at least four hours since he had managed to convince them to give him another Tylenol 3.

“I was at work when I got the call,” Jason sighed. It had been a phone call entirely unexpected, interrupting a brief moment of serenity as he quickly smoked a cigarette behind the grocery store with a coworker from the deli, who had herself opted for a joint. Jason didn’t take risks like getting high at work. Jason was a square. So he wasn’t sure why he found himself lying through his teeth when he said “yes I was expecting that deposit, thank you for checking in” and hung up the phone.

“Deposit?” Dana asked.

“Twenty... twenty thousand dollars just showed up in my checking account,” Jason only now believed, having heard it escape his own mouth.

“What?” she whipped her head around to make sure he wasn’t having her on, but he was already halfway through the door that led back inside.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t smoke in here!” his manager exclaimed. Jason hadn’t realized he’d left the butt dangling from his fingers as he reentered the building. He shot a sorry! over his shoulder as he pushed through to the main shop, crossed the small store, and emerged out onto the sidewalk. He hadn’t even changed out of his apron.

“Shane, we have to talk, meet me at-”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Shane half choked through a mouthful of coffee across the greasy diner booth from Jason.

“Keep your damn mouth shut, you idiot,” he hissed, looking around to make sure they hadn’t been overheard, “you know what that kind of money would make people do in this town?”

“The important question is, what’s it going to make us do?”

“Well, I have to, like, turn it in or something, right?” Again, Shane gagged.

“Jason, dearest, how often have we talked about getting out of this shithole?”

“Pretty much every nigh-”

“Every goddamn night. What do you make at the grocery store? Lifting heavy ass bags of potatoes and shit all day six days a week?”

“Eleven fifty an hour,” Jason sighed.

“And I’m making just about the same but the mechanic’s only giving me half the shifts! Face it, without random chance like this we’re never making it as far as Vancouver let alone somewhere warm. We have to take this money and run while we can!”

“Shane, twenty thousand dollars doesn’t just show up in someone’s bank account! And you can’t just take money that isn’t yours! Haven’t you seen No Country For Old Men? What’s the point of scuttling off to the other side of the planet if we’re just going to end up with a bolt between the eyes?” They stared at each other in silence as a distracted waitress plopped down a plate of fries between them.

“Jason, I don’t think I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life with someone who’d throw this opportunity away,” Shane levelled a cold glare at him. Jason hated it when he did that.

“Jesus Christ.”

“So if we’re going to do this,” Shane continued through a mouthful of potato, unwilling it seemed to recognize his partner’s aversion to participating in his scheme, “obviously we can’t just move south like normal people. This money came from somewhere, and somewhere’s gonna want it back, you’re right. No, we’ll have to disappear, proper new identities and all. Even if we spend half, hell, three quarters making it happen, five thousand is enough to make it somewhere like Cuba, or Chile, or even out to Indonesia or-”

“Shane,” Jason cut him off, “I’m not going through with this.”

“Well I am, and I have access to that account. So if you’re out, you’re out.” Jason stared at him, taken aback. He didn’t know how to feel, instead opting for the simpler emotion of confusion once more.

“There’s no way this is real. It’s clearly a mistake, I’m sure they’ve noticed by now and have frozen my account, the cops are probably looking into me as we speak...” he slid low in the booth, voice trailing off into exasperation.

“Oh yeah? So if your account’s not frozen, you’ll get off your high fucking horse and spend the gift that’s fallen into our laps?”

“Sure, Shane, if it’ll make you happy, sure.”

“Then buy these fries.” He smirked and waved for the waitress. Jason’s debit card worked like a charm.

“So you’re saying this was all Mr. Druker’s plan?” the detective interjected across the steel table, spotless upon arrival now polka-dotted with mug rings. He went back to scratching his notes.

“Can’t they get you a new pen?” Jason finally asked.

“Ink costs. Answer the question.”

“You know, that’s a very nice notebook,” Jason continued, trying not to directly implicate Shane, which he had already done on multiple occasions, “there’s no way that’s standard-issue RCMP, do they let you use your own? Look at that leather! Is that a M-”

“Alright, at least get back to the story if you’re not going to cooperate.” Jason hesitated, then went on to describe his and Shane’s haphazard planning out of their next twenty-four hours as they walked across town to a guy Shane knew.

“A guy?” the detective stopped his scratching and looked up.

“Someone we could trust, that’s all he said. For being together five years, you’d think I’d know everyone he did. But not this guy.” This guy was a bizarre-looking man, young but grey-haired and sporting dark sunglasses for the duration of their interaction in the shade of his secluded porch. Shane had split off home to start packing up their things, Jason’s job was to get a clean car.

“You’re telling me twenty thousand dollars just showed up in your bank account this morning? And now you want to buy a car, from me, by card, with said money?” The sunglassed man almost chuckled to himself.

“That... is correct, sir, yes.” At that, the man did laugh.

“You’re an idiot. And I’m not selling you a car. Have a nice day.” The door banged closed.

“Just take one,” Shane said on the other end of the line.

“This guy’s good for it?”

“NO!” Shane practically shouted, “don’t take one of his cars, God. Just pick one off the side of the road and hotwire it. Remember I showed you how? After Calvin taught me at work?”

“I think I remember, but babe I’m not comfortable-”

“Twenty K and we’re out of this town forever, Jason,” Shane reminded him before promptly hanging up.

“Love you too,” Jason sighed as he scanned the street for a target. Once more the scratching stopped.

“So you just arbitrarily stole a car off the side of the street?”

“That is correct, yes.”

“Again Shane’s idea?”

“No comment.”

“You have to.”

“I don’t think I do, actually,” Jason crossed his arms.

“Then, at least, tell me why the hell your first choice was a vintage sports car?”

“We needed something fast, and” it had been as easy to boost as it looked. Shane was soon tossing four suitcases in the back and throwing himself onto the passenger seat as Jason sped off again.

“Four cases?” Jason asked, “can we afford the extra baggage fees?”

“You’re an idiot, Jason, ok? Ok. There’s a 4:45 to Toronto out of Kelowna municipal, from there we can book a flight wherever the hell we want. We can make it if we really gun this thing. Nice pick by the way. Real inconspicuous, asshole. At least now you’re locked in with me, right?”

“Shane I’ve been thinking-”

“We need new IDs but I figure we’ll get those in Toronto, big city means better fakes, right? We can’t just buy what the kids over at SGR High use to get into-”

“Shane how are we-”

“Honey, I love you, but I’m getting quite pissed off with you fighting me on th-”

“How are we going to get the money?” Jason snapped.

“What?”

“How will we physically attain the cash from my bank account with which to start our new lives, dearest?”

“What do you-”

“There’s a little something called a withdrawal limit, Shane, and I don’t think mine’s $20,000. To get that I’d need an appointment with someone in the bank, and they’d take one look at a loser like me and have the RCMP on us faster than you can dream up a scheme to completely fuck us over.”

“Jason-”

“My God, you made me steal a fucking car!” he slapped the wheel. His heart was racing.

“Jason!”

“I gotta just come clean, report the cash and pray they’re not too harsh on the grand theft auto-”

“JASON!” But it was too late. It had only just registered that they’d blown a red as the 2015 Ford F-450 slammed into the passenger side, crumpling the mid 60’s Pontiac like a tin can.

“And you know the rest,” Jason finished the tale. The detective put down his pen and looked up at Jason again. His story checked out once more, not a detail out of place. Dammit. He doesn’t know.

“The twenty thousand dollars wasn’t meant for you,” he informed Jason after a long, heavy breath. He slowly closed the notebook and gingerly slipped it into his breast pocket.

“Yeah, no shit. Actually, screw the money, alright? How’s Shane?”

“He’s still in the ICU. I’ll be frank and tell you it’s not looking good. He’ll live, though.” The one-two punch of devastation and hope hit Jason hard, but not hard enough to shake his sense of humour.

“Alright then, Frank, where’d the money come from?”

“Ever heard of a crime syndicate called the Calico Conglomerate?” Jason shook his head, “well, they’re one of the largest in the western hemisphere. We’ve known for a while that one thread in their tapestry of money launderers lives in town. We believe, Jason, that a deposit meant for their laundry found its way into your bank account this morning.”

“I stole money from the mob?” Jason began to hyperventilate, “are... are you guys gonna get me protection on the inside? Or-”

“Relax, relax. These are the kind of people who weigh their money rather than count it. Twenty grand could get lost in their couches. Here’s the point, Jason. If you’d reported that money to us as soon as you were made aware of it, we may have had a chance to trace it back to them. But as of now, the account that sent it doesn’t exist anymore. Jason, do you have any idea what the reward is for information leading to the arrest of a Calico?” Jason shook his head. “Let’s just say, it’d even get those guys to check between the cushions.”