Money to Burn

Money To Burn

By: Lisa McKendrick

The bag was thrown at Charles Willman, not handed over, but thrown, which seemed to Charles a highly irregular way of doing things. Charles credited his cat-like reflexes for the bag not hitting the pavement. Clutching it to his chest, he watched as the man who’d just been in possession of it, disappeared into the hordes of Christmas shoppers on Michigan Avenue. Charles had only caught a glimpse of him, but was certain he’d never seen the man before.

Charles looked at the bag. It was an ordinary zippered bag, the kind fellas liked to take to the Y. He’d wanted to buy one, but Lucy liked to go to lunch. He slung the bag’s strap onto his shoulder and turned up the collar on his coat. Big flakes of snow had begun to fall. He wished he too were big, well-muscled like the man who’d had the bag. Lucy would like that. Maybe then she would stop calling him scrawny and marry him. The thought made Charles sigh. It was nuts wanting a girl who wanted everything. He gripped the bag and felt the weight of Lucy’s demands pressing in on him, until he thought of her doll face. She was a looker, all right, a real looker.

Charles’ breath hung about him like a clingy ghost as he quickened his pace. He needed to get to work. Those typewriters weren’t going to clean themselves as his boss, Mr. Slate, was fond of saying, but he wanted to know what was in the bag. There was some heft to it which had ignited his curiosity. Possibilities of what might be inside flitted through his mind, and when he thought of snakes, he let it drop to the wet sidewalk. A man passing by picked it up and handed it to Charles, and without waiting to be thanked, continued down the street. Charles chided himself. It was too cold for snakes. He was glad Lucy hadn’t been there to see him panic. She would have cocked her head back and laughed, making her blonde bob sway. He hated it when she made him feel silly. As if as a show of courage, he unzipped the bag right there on Michigan Avenue and took a peek.

His heart raced and beads of sweat formed on his clean-shaven upper lip.

Discreetly, he slipped into an alley. Checking no one was about, he unzipped the bag again and withdrew a brick, a brick made of crisp one-hundred dollar bills.

Stars appeared in his vision as did dollars signs. Money! So much money! He fanned the edge of that brick, the bills made a sound like a tiny motor. They were all one-hundred dollar bills. He rummaged around in the bag and after a bit of math concluded there must be twenty-thousand dollars!

Someone on the street whistled causing Charles to start. He zipped up the bag, wondering how many typewriters he’d have to clean to make this much money. He saw them piled one on top of the other, reaching past the clouds like Jack’s beanstalk. A chill went through Charles that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature. It was 1922. This much money in Chicago had to spell danger.

I’ve been mistaken for a goodfella, he thought. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He tried to think, but his brain seemed as frozen as his face. He cursed himself for his cat-like reflexes. He should have never caught the bag. He had to get rid of the money. He had to make it disappear.

An idea sparked, and after a trip to the hardware store, Charles boarded a train for DuPage county. During the hour-long journey, Charles’s eyes never stopped darting around, trying to decide if he was being followed, and his hands never stopped gripping the bag. When he exited the train, he began walking away from town, into a forest draped white with fallen snow. Charles’ toes were frozen in his wet city shoes, but despite this, on he trudged.

At last, he selected a spot, put his boy scout skills to work, and within minutes built a comfortable fire. The sun had set and Charles set aside for a moment the urgency of the situation and enjoyed watching the flames dance, and listening to the wood crackle and pop. In this pleasant haze, Lucy again surfaced in his brain. She would be expecting him. They’d had plans.

Lucy. Charles thought of all the things she’d want to buy with the money in the bag--clothes, trips, lunches, dinners. His lips curled into a smile as he thought of how happy she would be. He took out a brick and wondered if he could keep just one.

“Impossible,” he said to the fire. He knew what kind of people he was dealing with, and he tossed it onto the fire. It was exhilarating to see the flames climb higher and to know that he was doing his bit to fight crime. This was blood money, and yet he knew, had he shown it to Lucy, she wouldn’t be able to resist it. The thought soured Charles’ mood. There were so many things she couldn’t resist. Flirting with other men, for one.

Charles tore his thoughts from Lucy and thought of the man on the street. He wondered what kind of weapon he’d been carrying. Charles thought it likely brass knuckles. It seemed like everyone in Chicago carried them. He considered whether he should as well. There were so many bad people out there. You could never be too careful.

As Charles watched the bricks burn, a mixture of relief and pride filled his chest. He had done the right thing. He was one of the good guys. He imagined Lucy looking at him with admiration and let out a long sigh. It felt good to be appreciated.

Charles reached in the bag for another brick, and pulled out a little black book. By the fire’s light he examined it, turning it over in his hands. It was thin, just the sort of book that probably contained a hit list. He was about to toss it too on the fire, but quick reflexes were not the only thing about Charles Willman that was cat-like, he was also curious, and so he opened the book.

Congratulations! It read You have randomly been selected to receive twenty thousand dollars. May it bless your life. Best regards, John D. Rockefeller

Charles checked inside the bag to see if one brick remained. It didn’t, but he liked the bag. He’d always wanted one. He watched the dancing flames and thought of how Lucy’s brow would knit when he didn’t show. She would be cross. She was always cross, unless he was buying her things. It was time for someone else to buy her things. Clutching the bag to his chest, he leaned against a nearby log and made himself comfortable.