A WORRIED MAN

  A WORRIED MAN

  A Novel

  by

  Patrick Dakin

  A worried man with a worried mind,

  No one in front of me and nothing behind …

  Bob Dylan

  'Things Have Changed'

  1

  Good News, Bad News

  Two extraordinary things happened in my life the year I turned thirty-six. They were extraordinary in the sense that they were dire, although one was disguised as something quite different, at least for awhile. Actually, there was a third extraordinary thing, but we'll leave that one for much later.

  You might be wondering if these events were related. Most assuredly they were. Stick with me while I try to lay it out for you.

  It began on a blustery autumn night in Maynard, Missouri, a small town in the southwestern corner of the state. I had stayed late at work to finish a report I'd been struggling with for days and that was well overdue. By the time I left my office it was nearly midnight and I was bone tired and as hungry as a homeless dog. The fifteen minute drive to my home, located in a small housing development a few miles out of town, seemed daunting and so I stopped at a diner I passed everyday on my way to and from work. It wasn't far from my office but I had never been there before. It was one of those all-night joints that never seem appealing during daylight hours but that offer an obvious allure when there's little signs of life elsewhere.

  There were only a few other patrons in the place when I walked in and I grabbed a booth by the window, off by myself.

  The night was an increasingly miserable one. Wind blasted rain against the window panes so hard it was hard to see outside to the darkened street where even the street lamps were all but extinguished by the downpour.

  A tired looking waitress served me a steak sandwich with French fries and coffee. While I munched away my fatigue worsened. I lingered over my second cup of coffee while I tried to muster the energy to tackle the journey home.

  My lids were growing so heavy I was actually considering putting my head down on the table when movement outside the diner caught my attention. A dark figure, obviously a man, was running at high speed along the sidewalk toward the diner. At first I assumed he was running to get cover from the weather but when he was ten yards or so away he suddenly changed direction, dashed across the deserted street, and headed into an alleyway directly across from where I sat. A few seconds later two men came into my view from the same direction as the first. They were clearly in pursuit of the first man who, as I watched, threw an attaché case he was clutching into an open dumpster in the alley before resuming his run. The two pursuers arrived at the entrance to the alley just in time to catch a glimpse of their prey disappearing from view. With renewed vigor they took chase again.

  Now what, I wondered, is in that case that is evidently valuable enough to warrant such an enthusiastic pursuit by those two chasers? I looked around at the other diner patrons to see if any of them had witnessed what I had. No one seemed in the least bit interested in anything occurring beyond the boundaries of their own tables.

  I watched the alley for several minutes, tossing around in my mind what I might do about what I had seen. I could, of course, have phoned the police and reported an apparent robbery attempt. But the truth was it hadn't looked like a robbery to me; if anything it appeared more like the first man had robbed the other two of the case and they were chasing him to get it back.

  Should I simply mind my own business and let these men settle the issue themselves?

  Or … should I do something much more audacious? My heart was thudding alarmingly as I began to seriously consider a daring alternative.

  I took my check to the till and paid for my meal with cash. I left the waitress enough of a tip to be polite but not so big that I would stand out in her memory because of it. When I got outside I looked again at the alleyway entrance. I wasn't the type of person to assume unnecessary risk, but a few minutes earlier something strange had taken hold of me while I had watched the little tableau being played out here. For a few seconds I hesitated. I wanted to believe that Jimmy Barlow's mama hadn't raised a reckless fool, but in this instance I seemed unable to resist the temptation to act boldly for once in my life.

  It wasn't easy retrieving the case. The dumpster was only about two-thirds full and the case had landed well out of my reach. I ended up having to get a foothold on an extended part of the dumpster and then practically climbed right into it to latch onto my prize.

  The case was conventional in size - about twenty inches long, fifteen inches wide, and four inches deep. It was made of black leather and weighed about fifteen pounds. Once I had it in my possession I didn't waste time; I ran back to my car, threw the case on the floor behind the driver's seat, and sped away.

  When I arrived home there were no lights on in the house I shared with my wife of four years and our infant son. I pulled the car into the attached garage, shut down the motor, and reached back for the case while switching on the car's interior light. I sat behind the wheel with the case on the seat next to me and tried to flip open the double latches. They were locked. Should I continue on with this? I asked myself. There was still time to take the path of legitimacy. The decision to opt for illegitimacy came quickly.

  I took the case to my workbench and used a screwdriver to pry the locks open. They released easily without any apparent damage to the latches. I raised the lid slowly, half expecting a toy clown to leap out at me and laugh hysterically at my stupidity in thinking there might be something of value contained within.

  But the reality was a much different matter. When I peered inside the case the sight that greeted me nearly stopped my heart.

  It was stuffed full of bundled cash.

  On closer inspection I learned they were all hundreds. I thumbed through a few to make sure they were legitimate and found that the serial numbers were indeed different. A quick count told me there were sixty bundles. I knew that banks bundled notes in one hundred note parcels; if these followed suit then each parcel contained ten thousand bucks. Ten thousand times sixty meant six hundred thousand. "Holy, shit," I whispered.

  Although a few obvious things flittered through my mind right then, I was in no condition to make any real decisions about what I should do. The late hour and all the excitement had combined to thoroughly exhaust me. For the time being, I thought, I'll just stow the money in the trunk of the car. I popped the trunk lid and removed the spare tire, then set the case into the tire well and replaced the carpet. I'd be temporarily without a spare tire but I figured that was a small risk to take under the circumstances.

  I entered the house and tiptoed to our bedroom. Meredith was fast asleep. I quickly looked in on our two-year-old son, Conner, who was also sleeping soundly. After using the bathroom I climbed into bed beside Meredith.

  Even though I was exhausted I laid awake for hours.

  Who did all that money belong to? What were the circumstances of the chase I had witnessed?

  I wasn't the most worldly guy on the planet but even I could deduce that that much cash being carried around meant it was very likely mob related - probably tied into the drug trade.

  Was it possible whoever it belonged to could track me down?

  The waitress at the diner was my biggest concern. She'd be able to provide a description of me if asked. But I had never been in the place before, she was tired and didn't seem to be paying a lot of attention to anything. I was fairly satisfied that my identity would be a difficult thing to determine. And even if I were to be identified, as long as I found a good hiding place for the money there was no evidence that I had had anything to do with finding it.

  About dawn I finally fell into a restless sleep.

  I dreamed of being chased by a mob of faceless pursuers who kept screaming at me that I was a dead man.

  It wasn't a good sign.

  2

  At nine in the morning I awoke to Meredith's voice calling to me. "Jimmy, your breakfast is ready." Enticing aromas of pancakes and frying bacon permeated the bedroom; our Saturday morning custom was in full swing.

  My mind was not, however, occupied with thoughts of food - not with all that money tucked away in the trunk of my car. If I was going to keep it - and that was certainly my thinking at that moment - I needed to find a good secure place to hide it, and quickly.

  I considered how to broach the subject of the money with Meredith. It wasn't hard to envision what she'd say: 'Turn it in to the police. End of discussion.' There wasn't a smidgen of doubt about it - she'd never go along with holding on to the cash.

  The trouble was, I was already conjuring up wonderful images of the incredible difference such an amount of money would make in our lives.

  So, for the first time in our married life, I made the decision to keep a serious secret from my wife.

  "You got home late," Meredith said, kissing the top of my head as I plunked myself down at the breakfast table. She filled my oversized mug with freshly brewed coffee.

  "Yeah, but I did finally get that damn report done." I responded, giving Connor a light pinch on his chubby cheek. He giggled playfully. He was just starting to put two or three word sentences together. "How's my boy?" I asked, stealing a piece of his bacon.

  He held out some of his pancake for me. "Pancake."

  "Yup, pancake," I confirmed. I took his proffered bite and made a big show of enjoying it immensely. Connor then imitated my actions by stuffing a giant-sized piece of pancake into his own mouth, making yum-yum sounds and grinning maniacally.
r />   "So, what's on our agenda today, Jimmy?" Meredith wondered.

  "Gotta do some yard work," I said. "The lawn is almost knee-high at the back. I'll have to get some gas for the mower, too, by the way." I wasn't really sure we were low on gas but I was already giving myself an excuse to be away from the house for a little while. I needed to have some time by myself to figure out what to do with the loot.

  "I thought maybe we'd go to the water-park today," Meredith said. "Connor loves that place."

  "Sure," I replied. "The lawn won't take long."

  "Water-park!" Connor shrieked at full volume.

  Meredith placed a heaping plateful of food in front of me. "Enjoy, big guy," she said.

  I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down onto my lap. I kissed her three or four times. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

  "Beats me," she said, shrugging and rolling her eyes. "A total mystery." She got up to prepare a plate for herself.

  I watched her as she went about her work. At thirty-one she was more beautiful than ever. She often complained that she hadn't lost the weight she wanted to since Conner's birth but to me the extra pounds looked good on her. There was a kind of domestic glow to her now and it softened her features in a way that appealed to me a lot. She had let her light brown hair grow out, too, and I liked the way she often brought it up in a high ponytail. I was suddenly assailed by a wave of guilt. I had no right to keep secrets from her. She was the best thing (excluding Connor, of course) that had ever happened to me and she deserved nothing less than my full honesty at all times.

  But that money … how could I just give it up? I kept imagining all the things we could do with it. My job as a mid-level manager at Carson Engineering (one of the largest manufacturers in North America of heat exchangers and other furnace components) paid a barely livable wage and, if not for the additional income generated by Meredith's job as a daycare worker, I'd have been very hard pressed to meet the monthly mortgage payments. And speaking of my job, there was the distressing prospect of spending the rest of my life at that place to consider. I was in charge of the shipping department. A large part of my job consisted of finding the most cost efficient means of delivering our products to customers located all over the world. Not a position that engendered a lot of job satisfaction. It's hard to run home at the end of a long day all excited about the fact that you found a way to save the company thirteen cents a container load on domestic orders. Actually I'd been quietly searching for something I might find a little more appealing for quite some time. This newfound source of wealth that had fallen on me would go a long way to making my dreams of finding a better job come to fruition.

  I had a lot of things to work out, though. I couldn't just all of a sudden start spending money I couldn't account for. All things considered I'd be well advised to simply tuck the money away somewhere safe and then try to forget about it.

  Yeah, that was gonna happen. It'd be like trying to forget an extra ear had suddenly popped out in the middle of my forehead.

  Okay, I couldn't just forget about it - but I could, at least, try to ignore it for awhile. Right?

  Right.

  Maybe.

  On my way to the gas station with my fuel can in hand I ran through a list of places I could put the stash. The list was short. In fact, it didn't qualify as a list at all. A safe deposit box seemed the only reasonable choice available to me. But I was mindful of the fact that we lived in a small town - Maynard had a population of well under ten thousand - and I had to be very vigilant about not drawing attention to myself. It was entirely possible a bank employee coming under questioning might recall arranging a safe deposit box for someone who seemed, to put it charitably, unlikely to own anything valuable enough to warrant such expenditure.

  I had no clue as to the identity of the real owner of the six hundred grand I was rapidly beginning to think of as mine, but one thing was certain: whoever it was, they were most certainly undertaking a full scale search for it. And if I was right about the money being mob-connected, they were unlikely to be inclined to give up the search easily. Or to be particularly forgiving of the fact it had been stolen from them in the first place. You're thinking I didn't really steal it from the mob, I stole it from the poor dupe who did. Yeah, well, I doubt the mob would care to make much of a distinction there.

  I decided what I'd do is tuck the case and its contents away at the house for a month - find a nice out of the way spot in the unfinished basement area. Meredith seldom went down there because of this fear of spiders she has so it was very doubtful she would ever come across it accidentally. Then, after a month had gone by, I would arrange a safe deposit box at our bank. But I'd make a show out of putting a small envelope in it that I'd tell the clerk contained important insurance papers or something. Then every month or so I'd make a visit to the bank to drop off portions of the stash that I would hide under my clothes. Anyone who saw me would never guess I was transporting a large amount of cash. In fact, to further deflect any suspicion, I'd carry another small envelope in my hand, like the first one, to draw attention to what I was supposedly depositing. Overkill, perhaps, but I figured in this instance I could not possibly be too careful. If I took enough pains to conceal my real purpose in visiting the bank there was a very good chance I could pull all this off.

  Wishful thinking?

  You have no idea.

  3

  For the rest of the weekend I tried to act as normally as my fractured mind would allow. I must have pulled it off because neither Meredith nor the neighbors we had over for a barbeque on Sunday seemed to sense anything unusual about my behavior. Regardless of my outward appearance, though, my insides felt like they were constantly on the verge of imploding.

  I experienced periods of great bliss imagining what the future might be like for myself and my family, but those feelings would always be followed by grim thoughts of what might happen if everything went south on us.

  Had I undertaken this venture as a bachelor I suppose I would have been much more inclined to sustain an upbeat attitude. After all, there would have been the option of departing for places unknown if it became necessary. But as things stood I was gambling with the lives of my wife and son that I was smart enough to pull off what could shape up to be a mistake of monumental proportions.

  If my façade of normalcy was difficult to maintain at home, it was even harder to pull off at work. When I arrived at the plant on Monday morning I was greeted by my supervisor, a pompous little prick named Elliot Carter, who called me into his office to discuss the report I had left on his desk before leaving the previous Friday night. To say that it didn't go well would be to understate the situation in the extreme. Although he stopped short of calling me an outright imbecile he made it clear that he regarded the recommendations contained in my report as unworthy of my position as a department head. By all indications I was at the very least headed for a demotion and more likely for outright dismissal. But, at this point, Carter left me to stew over my ass-kicking unscathed by further humiliation. Actually, I was familiar with the whole routine having been through similar sessions with the man before. He was one of those truly loathsome people who are habitually critical of their subordinates work but are quick to make a few immaterial changes and subsequently take credit for the entire body of work. Senior management thought the guy was a genius, but the truth was his only genius lay in the fact that he was a first class idea thief.

  If I had entertained any thoughts of giving up the six hundred thousand tucked away in my basement, the meeting with Carter pretty much dispelled them for good.

  When I arrived home from work that day I was in a sour mood. On the surface, I had the ability to dump my shitty job and live the good life while I took my time finding employment from which I could derive some degree of satisfaction. The trouble was, of course, I didn't dare touch any of the loot for fear of discovery by as yet unknown - although probably very dangerous - persons.