“Frankie, it’s Susan.” The woman’s voice just paused for few seconds, before the voicemail continued. “We need to talk. As soon as possible.”
“Frankie, I know you got my first message, please call me soon.” The same voice of recorded message played.
“Frankie, please don’t dodge my calls.”
“*sigh.* Frankie, I’m pregnant…”
Poor Susan never got the call back, but could anyone blame Frankie? He was too busy counting money. Sliding hundred dollar bills with his thumb, exchanging the green from one hand to another.
“Yo, man. It’s Kenny. Hit me up fast. Charlie’s been mad doggin’m tellin’ me to reach you. Call me back, man.”
The tumbleweed rolled by the dusty cabin in the middle of the hot desert. Afternoon sun mercilessly beating down the ground below with its mighty rays. Few of them piercing through the holes and avoiding the pieces of wood barricading the windows, being the only source of luminescence inside the old dusty building. This lovely little place might have seen days that had stories worth to tell…But the current occupant of this place, couldn’t give any shit in this particular moment. A cheap cigar held firmly by those bared pearly whites, cracking a cocky grin across the bastard’s face. The money kept flowing between his fingertips, and he couldn’t care less what fate the person known Kenny might face.
“Yo, man it’s Richie. There’s a word in the streets some homie Alvarez is lookin’ for ya. And he’s a big dog. Just thought I’d tell you that…Peace.”
All that money in his fingertips, rolling them up all neatly and holding the dough together with a rubber band. Dumping it in the bag with rest of the cash. Puffing a grey smog off his cigar.
“Hey man. Have you seen Charlie? He’s panicking and looking for you. He was at my doors couple’a minutes ago.”
Ashes collapsed into the chipped glass, once filled with excessively cheap rum.
Into the distance, on a sand covered desert road, the cloud of dust kicked up behind the two fast moving black jeeps.
Again, there was another short beep coming out from the phone to play another voicemail. An angry spew of gibberish in Spanish playing out, quite possibly the voice belonged to a middle aged male. And boy did he sound beyond fucking upset. Yet, the grin never faded off his face. He couldn’t understand a word this man said, and he didn’t quite give two shits about it either. He was busy basking in his own victory. Honey hues glaring at rest of the green papers with Benjamin Franklin’s face printed on them. Greedily snagging them into his grasp to repeat the counting process.
“We’re coming for you.” This message was brief. Just few words spoken menacingly. This could’ve meant a lot for some people. Some might have even started running after hearing that. And yet..And yet, he’s in a cabin, built in the middle of a desert, counting money like everything went just like the end of every single Disney movie. Happily ever after.
Another beep to play the final voicemail on his phone, a shaky, panicked voice of a man pleading.
“Yo, Frankie. It’s Charlie. Alvarez is losin’ his shit ’bout you stealin’ his stack an’ supplies, an’ he’s lookin’ for ya. He sent me to get’cha. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ya. Meet me up ASAP…Frankie..Please. Claudia’s life depends on this.”
And yet, he didn’t bother to raise a fiery brow. Not even concerned about the life of his friend’s lovely girlfriend or anything. Final one hundred dollar bill slipped from one hand to another, rolling them up just like he done with rest of the money. Fingers reaching to pluck out the cigar from his lips and stub it against the empty glass as he announced in the empty, haunted looking place to non-existing audience.
“Two fifty grands, and five hundred. Lord almighty, you are real!” Swiftly, he zipped up the black duffle bag and flung it across his shoulder. There’s something he spots in the corner of his eye. Something perched on the dust covered shelf. A simple oil lamp, left there ages and ages ago. Something no one ever bothered to clean either. The blackness burnt onto the glass. The smell of its fuel still erupting from the ancient looking object. Something he’s nearing to, to grab it with those greedy little fingers.
The trail of floating dust and tire tracks left behind the fast moving vehicles, pulling over to the cabin. The sky was red, and the sun was shying away from rest of the world, hiding behind the rocky cliffs. The light escaping from a barricaded window was faint, yet seemed so bright as the night neared. A ’67 Chevy Impala, buried under thick layer of whatever the hot winds brought in the morning, making it that much difficult to determine the color of the car in lack of sunlight.
And speaking of which.
A click, and the doors spread open like wings of a mighty eagle. Six men from two jeeps exit, with their guns locked and ready to go.
Series of clicks, and barrels pointed at the cabin.
There’s no warning.
There’s no words.
Just car lights shining into the distance as the armed gunmen aim for the dimly lit, small, wooden construction in the middle of nowhere.
And then, there it was. When triggers were squeezed and rounds dumped off the barrels. Breaking through the wood and shattering everything that was inside.
No brow was raised. Not even a flinch at the loud noises. Professionals in their work.
The guns blasted for a minute. And even that minute seemed like forever. And when they finally ceased and turned the cabin into a Swiss cheese, they finally broke in.
There’s no blood.
Just a mess of shattered furniture and glass.
There’s no dead. There’s nothing. There’s no one inside but them…
But there’s something that happened to catch their eyes. A napkin on a table. And there’s only one word written all over it.
They didn’t speak a word. Just stood there defeated.
And meanwhile, far off behind those rocky cliffs, Frankie was walking away victorious to the sunset, with two hundred thousand and five hundred dollars in the bag.