I Warned You: Welcome to Fall River (Matt Ryan Book 1) Page 3

  “I’m fine, Mom. Nobody got hurt.”

  “Don’t laugh this off. Your temper is no funnier than the idea of crime in little Fall River. I shudder to think what could happen.”

  “Ma, you’re all static. You know how the cell service is.”

  In the background his father said, “He better not ruin my business and our reputation.”

  Ryan said, “Tell Dad I said hi.”

  “Matthew, please stay out of trouble.”

  “Yes, I did my laundry, Mom.”

  “Trouble. Stay out of trouble.”

  “No snow yet.”

  “Matthew.”

  “Mom?”

  “I really, really hope you have kids someday,” she said.

  “Okay, love ya.”

  He ended the call and set the phone down. Hit play again and raised the TVs volume a few clicks.

  Rosie burst through the doorway from the office.

  Ryan turned his head as she turned sideways and hip-checked the door out of the way. He noticed those sort of things, but not from some superior height or in some judgmental prick sort of way. He couldn’t help but notice. And he knew for a fact that in a just world he would be the size of a manatee, given his eating habits. A sea cow, beached in a recliner. Someday he’d pass the point of no return, and the volunteer fire department would have to cut a hole in the wall to extract him from the apartment.

  But it wasn’t a just world. Rosie was big mostly due to genetics, partly by habits.

  By luck and very different genetics Matt Ryan was a classic mesomorph, despised and resented by all other body types. He could eat whatever he wanted, as much as he wanted, and maintain an athletic V-taper, as long he exercised a little.

  Life isn’t fair.

  People should seriously stop teaching their kids that it is. Stop setting them up for disappointment.

  “There’s more,” Rosie said breathlessly.

  “More what?” he asked.

  “Uncle Dan brought over a slip and I photocopied it. It’s a receipt from us. It was in the rental car, tucked into the visor.”

  “Weird,” he said, looking back to the TV. He didn’t care about the idiot in the Chevy, or the storage unit, or the slip. He really wanted to watch that show. He’d been looking forward to it.

  The strange part of it was, from his twenties to his thirties, he’d slowly transitioned from being an avid sports fanatic to a documentary fanatic. He enjoyed learning, outside of a classroom. Knowledge and understanding were calming, almost soothing. Like a slow slide from mindless aggression into a more quizzical rationality that still admired the aggressive prowess and violent achievements of history.

  Or something.

  “I looked up his name to be sure,” Rosie said. “He never did business with us. There’s nothing on record.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, Matt, it’s bad.”

  “We don’t want that sort around here.”

  “Why would he have someone else’s receipt and storage unit number?”

  Shit, he thought.

  He said, “Did the guy have a key?”

  “Not on him. It wasn’t with the slip.”

  “We still have our copy of the key for that unit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, nothing to worry about.”

  “I am worried,” Rosie said. “The unit number on the slip is the same number of the lapsed unit I told you about last week. You know, the one you haven’t checked yet. The guy who rented it is from the same city as the guy in the Chevy today, according to his file. I looked it up on maps. They’re from the same neighborhood. Lawrence Street. They could be friends or relatives. At least neighbors.”

  “So he wasn’t planning on robbing the market after all.”

  “No. He was coming here for something. The first guy just rented that unit in September. The guy today must have known that. He must have even known that it was a monthly rental contract that would be lapsed by now.”

  Ryan groaned. Rosie had a good point. And she wasn’t going to let up until he got up and checked the unit in question. If it was full of junk, it might take an hour or two to clean out.

  Alexander and his superior battle tactics would have to wait.

  Rosie said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Sorry, Matt.”

  “For what?”

  “Worrying.”

  “Just stop.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Worrying is pointless.”

  “You’re right. I’m only harming myself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “Will you feel better if you bake something?” he asked.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “That should take your mind of things.”

  “I hope,” she said.

  “You know it’ll cheer me up. That’s for sure.”

  Rosie smiled and nodded. She loved to bake. And she loved to make people happy with the food she baked. It was a good deal all around.

  Ryan killed the TV and stood up and said, “So go ahead and make something. I’ll go check out the unit. The world will keep turning. We will endure. And it’ll be Thanksgiving soon.”

  Rosie’s expression softened.

  She said, “Oh, I can’t wait.”

  Ryan said, “And then Christmas. We can decorate the place.”

  “Will you put up a tree out front again this year?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll buy it next door and put it up and decorate it. And if that same jackass runs into it with his car again, we’ll find out where he lives and threaten his whole family.”

  “I love Christmas,” Rosie said. She was smiling, calming down fast. “But I really believe that incident with the tree last year was an honest accident.”

  “You always have seen the best in people, Rosie girl.”

  “Well, it was snowing,” she said. “And the roads were pretty slippery that morning.”

  “Sure,” Ryan said. “But the roads were slippery everywhere that morning. Notice how he didn’t lose control by Hometown’s gas pumps, or head-on before a dump truck loaded with sand. It just had to be by my tree. Which was at least twenty feet back from the white line.”

  Rosie nodded and wriggled her fingers against the cuffs of her sweater.

  Ryan said, “Christmas music, Rosie. Christmas movies. All the food. It’s almost here. Just think about it.”

  “I think I’ll bake some cookies,” she said. “The smell of cookies in the oven always reminds me of Christmas.”

  “You want the land shark for company?”

  “I feel more comfortable when he’s here with me.”

  “You still won’t consider learning to use a gun?”

  “No, no,” she said. “I can’t.”

  “Look what just happened.”

  “I know.”

  “I can get you one for Christmas. A cute little gun with pink grips. Just a twenty-two. You can hide it right in your purse. Hopefully you’ll never need it.”

  “No,” Rosie said. “I just can’t.”

  “Okay, let’s get going,” Ryan said, gesturing toward his little kitchen where Rosie always kept plenty of supplies on hand.

  ***

  He pulled on his coat and went out the back door with the spare unit key in his pocket.

  The grassy terrain behind the apartment sloped down gradually to the rows of two hundred total storage units. The sunken arrangement of the complex was a strategic thing, making it possible to view the whole area from the perspective of the brown building with the fake clapboards. And it still allowed the property to look nice from the road. All that could be seen from Main Street was a driveway with nice landscaping and a white fence and little trees and bushes all around, little glints of the metal rooftops, and in the distance, the woods and hills beyond the complex.

  A town with curb appeal. Kept in business by passing tourist and daily commuters passing through from other towns, most heading south to work in the capitol.

  Ryan walked to the aisle of the smallest units, nearest the front of the complex. Each small unit was about the size of an average closet, not quite a walk-in. They all looked the same apart from the dimensions, ranging from small to medium to large. Just rows of metal buildings with rolling metal doors and padlocks, the various sizes all grouped together. The largest were at the rear of the complex. A few held cars and small boats and other recreational items. Renting a unit was cheaper than adding onto garages and paying higher property taxes.

  Good all around. Good for the business. Good for Matt Ryan.

  Up the hill, looking back toward the office and Maine Street, he saw someone walking down into the complex from the office. Clay Jamison, moping along, head down as always. No energy, no vitality. Often used as a messenger boy by Kerry, his older sister, owner and operator of the Barking Lot. Veterinarian, grooming, and rescue services. Located on the other side of Enzo’s Italian place, which was next door to the storage place’s driveway. Not a terribly long walk for Clay.

  Ryan lit a cigarette and stood watching Clay approach. Twenty-one years old, aimless. Didn’t like sports, didn’t like history. Still living at home and driving his mom’s car. Her last of three children. The baby. The only boy. Two older sisters. Girls could push him around. They could bully him.

  For instance, the little girl a few weeks prior who had rudely mocked his Halloween costume. Standing there in her princess outfit, hand on her hip. Isn’t Darth Vader supposed to be scary? Clay had no response for her. He just stood there in the Barking Lot’s doorway, looking helpless with a plastic pumpkin full of candy in his hand. He gave her some candy and absorbed the nine-year-old’s verbal drubbing like a punch
ing bag. His whole approach to life seemed to be nothing more than to sneak through with his head down, quietly, without making any waves.

  On the other end of the spectrum, no one made fun of Matt Ryan’s costume. In fact, several kids took one look at him in the doorway of the storage office and decided to forgo the candy he was offering.

  “Not working today?” Ryan asked when Clay came near.

  “No.”

  “What’s your Enzo’s schedule?”

  He looked away.

  Ryan said, “What?”

  Clay said, “What’s the difference?”

  “I just thought you’d be working.”

  “I’m done there,” Clay said.

  “I thought you were doing okay.”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Allergies?”

  “Some.”

  “Too much heavy lifting?”

  “Too negative.”

  Ryan said, “You remember Rudolph, right?”

  “What about it?”

  “The point of the story was that you can’t run away from problems. You gotta face them. Stare them down. Hit them right in the jaw.”

  Clay exhaled and stared at his feet.

  Ryan said, “What’s up?”

  “I went to the office and Rosie said you were down here.”

  “She was right.”

  “Well, my sister’s freaked out about you and the guy with the gun this morning.”

  “She sent you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long will you let her boss you around?”

  Clay shrugged.

  “She worries too much,” Ryan said. Then his mind shifted back and he said, “Did you get fired from Enzo’s?”

  “No, I got done.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m done there.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I gave my notice. It was time.”

  “You’ve been there, what, a month?”

  “I always felt uncomfortable.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t need judgement right now, Matt. I’m trying to work myself into a more positive mindset.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “It would be nice if you meant it.”

  “Cry me a river. Go tell your sister I’m fine. Crisis averted. No guns made any independent decisions today.”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “No, don’t. Seriously, though, I do appreciate the concern. Tell her that.”

  Clay nodded. Turned around to leave.

  “You don’t have to go,” Ryan told him.

  “I’ve never liked it down here,” Clay said over his shoulder. “This place reminds me of a prison yard.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s weird down here. There’s a weird metallic echo. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Ryan said, “You’re one to throw weird accusations around.”

  “Seriously, I feel vulnerable. Like we could be attacked at any moment. I just don’t like it.”

  “What do you know about prison?”

  “I’ve seen it on TV.”

  Ryan said, “Okay, Puddleglum.”

  Clay turned back and said, “Please call me Clay.”

  “Wrong. See, that’s the problem. You should threaten to knock my teeth out if I don’t call you the right name.”

  “Two wrongs won’t make a right, Matt.”

  “You gotta cut this crap out. You can’t be a baby forever.”

  “You’re extra judgmental today.”

  “You’re extra Puddleglum.”

  “You said you’d stop calling me that if I read the book.”

  “You read the whole thing?”

  “Yes. And I don’t think I act like a Marsh-wiggle.”

  Ryan said, “I love Silver Chair. Best book in the Narnia series, because of Puddleglum. And really, it’s an accurate description, not an insult.”

  “It was decent. But you’re wrong. I’m not Puddleglum.”

  “You’re a wet blanket. Same thing.”

  Clay shook his head.

  “I’m trying to help,” Ryan said. “You’ve been smothered by your mother and sister so long that they’ve got you believing you’re some kind of a delicate flower.”

  “That’s really not what I need to hear, Matt.”

  “It really is, bud.”

  “I’ll consider your opinion,” Clay said and kept on walking.

  ***

  Ryan took the spare key from his pocket and opened the lock on the lapsed unit. The policy his father had instituted decades prior still worked well. All locks were provided by the business, and all spare keys were filed in the office, just in case of some sort of shady business. The policy kept certain people away. It appealed to more honest people. Which was fine with Ryan. Honest people paid their bills and refrained from hiding dead bodies in their rented cubicles. Better to lose a few paying customers and maintain a zero body count.

  He opened the metal door and looked in. A tinny little space, shadowed. Practically empty. One item. A backpack resting on the folding metal shelf at the rear of the space.

  He stepped in and lifted the backpack. It was hefty. Not clothes or beach towels. More like a few bricks or a stack of big text books. He guessed what it was, but unzipped it and looked down inside to be sure.

  He found the money.

  The memory of No Country for Old Men rushed to the forefront of his mind. And here he’d just been giving Clay grief for only knowing about things from TV.

  But he didn’t feel too bad, because he’d also read the book.

  Standing there holding that bag of money, he felt a little like Moss from No Country making that unexpected discovery of cash.

  Chapter 4

  Ryan pushed his coffee table forward and emptied the backpack onto the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. Then he stood there a moment, staring at the pile of cash. Most of it was in neat bricks, some was in tight rolls, and some was floating loose and wrinkled, as if just pulled from a pocket and dropped in at the last second.

  Sharky wasn’t impressed with it. Not in the least. He couldn’t eat it or fight with it. He didn’t understand commerce and the fact that green bills could be exchanged for victuals. So money was as good as nothing to him. He stayed in his spot on the sofa, intermittently observing and dozing.

  Wake me when something good happens.

  But Rosie was very impressed. She made an O of her mouth and said, “Oh, my.”

  Ryan got a trash bag from under the kitchen counter and dropped the backpack into it and cinched it up. The pack looked dirty and ugly, and he just didn’t like it. He didn’t like the idea of whoever had owned it. It was a bit of a snobbish reaction, he would admit. But he didn’t really care. He wanted it gone. So it was going.

  “This is all yours,” Rosie said.

  “Damn right,” Ryan agreed. “Expect a nice Christmas bonus.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I’ll tell Chuck about it,” he said.

  Chuck Reynolds was Chief Clare’s junior officer, and Matt’s lifelong friend.

  “Maybe you should turn it over,” Rosie said.

  “To hell with that.”

  “That’s a lot of money, Matt. The guy with the gun today must have been looking for it.”

  “Won’t help him now.”

  “Maybe you should call Chuck right away.”

  “Why?”

  “I just have a bad feeling.”

  “Because you’re honest, Rosie. You wouldn’t do sleazy things for piles of cash and then hide it to keep other sleaze balls from getting it. If you had money, you’d put it in the bank, like a regular person. You’re uncomfortable with the idea of doing things wrong.”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “No guessing. That’s the way it is. Honest people don’t feel right with shady situations. And timid people get nervous at the drop of a hat.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Rosie, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “The rental lease is very clear.”

  She nodded. She knew that for a fact.

  Ryan said, “Anything left here after twenty-four hours of lapsed payment is forfeit. People read it and sign it. Doesn’t matter if they leave an old Yanni album on cassette, or a bag full of cash. We’re not a public service organization. Whatever gets left is on them, not us.”

  She nodded again and said, “I remember trying to call the guy, last week. It kept going straight to voice mail. I marked it in the file along with the date. I’ll show you, if you want.”