Meeting Across the River

A Springsteen-Inspired Short Story

Night had already fallen by the time we reached the causeway; a crew working on the highway had delayed us and we were going to be late. The western stars were just visible now and ahead there was a darkness on the edge of town that made me uneasy. I’d have rather been back in Candy’s room or even at Mary’s place, but a job was a job.

The river was just a black streak as we passed over the bridge. Paulie pulled the stolen car into the empty lot of an abandoned factory and killed the engine. Either we’d somehow gotten here first or Frank had already left. For our sake, I hoped it was the former; it did not pay to piss off the man at the top.

My high hopes were almost gone when we were blinded by the light of a Lincoln Town Car turning into the lot. It parked beside us and Frank and I got out.

“You’re late, Frankie,” I said point blank, trying to seize control of the meeting from the start. “We’ve been waiting for you for an hour.” It was a lie, but he didn’t know that.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I was delayed by an incident on 57th Street.

He didn’t elaborate. This could have meant a traffic jam like the one we hit, but his driver would know all the backstreets to take. More likely it was an unpleasant incident for somebody, and for some stupid reason I wanted to know which it was.

“Accident?” I asked casually. “Some punk kids racing in the streets?”

“Accident,” he repeated. “Good word, Sal.”

I nodded, understanding. Time to get down to business.

“You said 50 large for this job,” I said. “For that much why not have your crew do it?” Not that I didn’t want the money.

“This job’s special,” he said, “and a good man is hard to find. Besides, you’re supposed to be some kind of Houdini with this type of job, a regular local hero.”

“I prefer Michelangelo,” I said, which got an actual laugh. Few people could get Frankie to laugh at anything.

“Here’s the layout,” he said, the comical moment gone as quickly as it came. “You know where Highway 29 and Thunder Road intersect just west of Fairfield?”

“Vaguely,” I said.

“You can’t miss it. Sleepy Joe’s Café is on one corner and the Moonlight Motel is just opposite. About a half mile past the intersection there’s a driveway on the right, a long one. You can’t see it from the road, but a hundred yards down that drive there’s a mansion on the hill. That’s where the item is.”

“What’s the item?” Please God let it be small; small was always easier.

“A stone,” he said.

“One stone? You’re paying 50 grand for one diamond?”

“It’s a large stone,” he said. “It’s the price you pay for quality and a bargain at twice the price.”

I doubted that. More likely it was something one of his mistresses had seen and decided she wanted. It definitely wasn’t for his wife.

“Any idea what the security’s like?” I would have to check the place myself regardless, but it never hurt to ask.

“The usual. Alarms, cameras, maybe a Doberman Pinscher or two. A highway patrolman cruises the road fairly often, and he’s got a state trooper that lives on the grounds when he’s off duty.”

“Oh, is that all? The only thing missing is lasers mounted on the roof.” Maybe it wasn’t too late to start selling used cars.

“Quit bitching, Terranova,” he said. “The state trooper likes to hang out at the café most of the time. It’s open all night and there’s a waitress he’s sweet on who works the graveyard shift.”

“What about the owner of this stone? He home most nights? Light sleeper?”

“His sleeping habits don’t matter,” Frank replied, clearly growing tired of this conversation. “He’ll be in Atlantic City playing roulette all weekend. Why so concerned anyway? I didn’t think you were the timid type.”

“I’m not,” I said, a little defensively. “I’m just a cautious man by nature. It’s why I’ve never seen the inside of a jail cell except when I visited my old man growin’ up.”

“Cautious or not, you’ve always been a lucky man, and this is a lucky man’s job. It’s why I came to you.”

I nodded. Every one of these jobs was a roll of the dice, and my old man was living proof that sometimes you rolled snake eyes. So far, I still had the magic touch.

We arranged a rendezvous for when the job was done and went our separate ways. Frank’s final words to me were the same as always: “No loose ends.”

On the drive back home, I thought about my life. Fate deals all of us certain cards, and we play the hand we’re given. Just like Hendrix was born to rock and Usain Bolt was born to run, it seemed I was born to steal. All I could hope was that my ghosts wouldn’t haunt me and that I’d be the last man standing, or at the very least the last to die. What I really needed was some reason to believe that there were better days ahead.

“I don’t know, Paulie,” I said. “Maybe it’s not too late to open a bookstore like my uncle down in Texas.” That would take a serious leap of faith.

“Maybe,” Paulie replied. “All I know is that it’s hard to be a saint in the city.”

This story is my second one prompted by a story by Aimée Gramblin (who does not like being tag-bombed) and a challenge from Michael Whalen to write a story using as many song titles from one band as possible (I managed 50, including the title). Here is the original prompt:

And here is my first attempt: