Close Secret

"35 million dollars."

"And what's the split?" 

"15 for you, 15 for me, and 5 to the other guy."

It was midday, though one wouldn't have known by looking inside the restaurant; the dim lighting and dark curtains hid the hour and the only two men inside were men who appeared to be freed from the shackles of time.

John Trombley and Michael Augustine sat at a bar on wooden stools with their backs facing the door. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with the amicable but impersonal disposition of a server, went off to attend to her other roles in the restaurant after bringing the two men their food and drinks: Michael Augustine, a double shot of whiskey. John Trombley, a glass of water, a basket of fries, and a bottle of ketchup.

John Trombley looked down at his food before shifting his gaze to Michael Augustine, who he studied like the enigma he was. He first met Michael Augustine at a Youth Detention Center in New Jersey during a hot summer of discontent. Coincidentally, the two teenagers were arrested on the same day. While they sat sweating in a holding cell awaiting processing, Michael Augustine asked John Trombley if he'd help him convince a rookie officer to bring them a bottle of water. From there, a lifelong friendship was born.

That was a long time ago. The days of beguiling correctional officers and stealing cars to scrap and resell at auctions were long gone for the two men. To their community, they were ordinary businessmen. Only they, and a few unsuspecting strangers, knew their true trade.

Yes, John Trombley knew very well the man who sat before him, he'd known this man for the past 30 years, and he could sense that something was wrong, several things, in fact. Like the suit his friend wore. The dark brown suit looked and smelled as if he'd worn it for several days through sweat and cold; the pants were wrinkled, and the suit jacket seemed to engulf the skinny man. And the drink his friend ordered, the double drink, was unakin of the clearheaded man he'd grown old with. And the pitch of 35 million dollars. What was that about? John Trombley thought. 

It was never about money until it was with Michael Augustine. Since their earliest days of pulling off jobs, it was always about the job; the more impossible the job, the more excited Michael Augustine became, yet now, suddenly, it was about money; and more than anything, more than jubilation, more than eagerness, more than the anticipation at pulling off another 'Breaking news' venture, this upset John Trombley.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that." Michael Augustine waved a nail-bitten hand. "Nevermind, whatever. So, are you in?"

John Trombley retreated his gaze from Michael Augustine as he took a fry from his basket and dipped it into a pool of ketchup before flagging the bartender, who was wiping down a nearby table.

"Yes, sir. May I get you anything?" The bartender asked with a pleasant smile.

John Trombley returned the smile and replied, "Yes, may you turn up the volume on this TV in front of us, please?"

"Certainly."

The bartender whisked off to the end of the bar and retrieved several remote controllers; she tried two before she found the one that controlled the television in front of the two men. A bearded sports analyst became audible.

"Is that good enough for you, sir?"

"That's perfect, thank you."

The bartender smiled, then went off to return the remote controls. John Trombley turned his attention back to Michael Augustine.

"Is your phone off?" John Trombley asked.

"Of course, my phone's off."

"How much money do you have left?" he asked while focusing on nothing but Michael Augustine's stubbled face.

“From our last job?”

“No. From all of them.”

“All of them?” Michael Augustine asked incredulously.

John Trombley nodded.

"In the States or across the water?"

John Trombley shrugged, "In general."

"Maybe, 5 million in the States."

"And across the water?"

"Maybe, 10 million."

"That's including Switzerland?"

Michael Augustine shifted in his seat before answering, "Maybe, 15 including Switzerland."

"How about on the Islands?"

"We took all of our money off the Islands, remember?"

"Not just the Caymans. All the Islands, St. Martin, St. Kitts. St. Nevis, all the islands down there."

Michael Augustine paused and looked up before he continued. "Maybe, 800 grand."

John Trombley shook his head, and his voice raised a pitch, "Why are you saying 'Maybe'? Do you know how much cash you have, or don't you?"

"I know how much."

"Then stop saying 'Maybe’. Stay honest with me. How much money do you have on the Islands?"

Michael Augustine took a deep breath and looked down, "About-"

John Trombley nearly threw back his stool with frustration, "Stop." He said through gritted teeth. "No 'Abouts'. No 'Maybes', I want a firm number, Mike. How much do you have on the islands?"

"$136,988.00, approximately."

John Trombley stood up and grabbed his wool overcoat. 

"John. Hear me out. John."

"I can't believe you, Mike. I really can't believe you."

Michael Augustine shot to his feet, grabbed John Trombley's overcoat, and put it back over his stool, "Just sit down, John. Hear me out."

Reluctantly, John Trombley sat.

"You don't need me, Mike. You need the money."

Michael Augustine remained quiet. 

"I know what you're up to."

"Look, I know it sounds bad. But it's really-"

John Trombley cut him off, "Sounds bad? It is bad. You're broke."

"John, listen."

"No, you're desperate. And I don't listen to desperate men. I can see it in your eyes, its all over your face." John Trombley turned in his stool, so his entire body faced Michael Augustine. "I know why you need this job. And I know why you need me. Your money is all tied up in Europe, and you can't access it because you put the accounts in Olivia's name; and now that Olivia left you, she probably ran off with the money. Or worse, she's not doing anything but letting it rot just so you can't have it. And over here in the States, all of your accounts are frozen. Now, the only money you have left after 30 years of pulling off job after job is baking on some island."

Michael Augustine looked down as he took another sip of his double shot. 

"You don't listen, Mike. You just don't listen. I told you to be careful with your money over there. I told you to put some money in the stock market. I told you to buy some real estate; I told you to buy some businesses."

"I did buy some businesses," Michael Augustine replied, the words springing through wet lips.

"And what happened to them? They all failed. You tried to run your businesses like we run our jobs." John Trombley took his last fry and ate it without any ketchup. "You say our split would be 15 a piece for this job, right?"

"Yeah." Michael Augustine finished his double shot, and the quiver in his chest brought water to his eyes.

John Trombley retrieved a yellow notepad and a pen from the inside of his suit pocket and began to write.

"I told you from the beginning that I was out. But, I have a job for you," John Trombley said as he wrote. "At this address is a home I bought a couple of years ago.”

"I'm not taking any handouts, John."

John Trombley continued to write and speak simultaneously, "Now, on the top floor of this house, there are 4 rooms. When you get up the stairs, make a left and go to the very end of the hallway. The room with the framed picture of a train next to it, is the room where the safe is. Underneath the bed is the safe. You'll have to pull up four layers of carpet, though, to see it. In the safe is 5 million dollars." John Trombley ripped out the paper from his notepad and folded it. "I wrote everything down for you. The address, the house code, the door code for that room, and the 3 combinations to the safe. Take that money, Mike."

John Trombley attempted to pass the paper to Michael Augustine.

"I'm not taking it." Michael Augustine said, staring straight ahead, avoiding the yellow piece of paper as though if he looked at it, he'd be committing the only crime.

"Mike, stop. Take it."

"I didn't come here to ask for your money."

"I know you didn't."

"Why are you trying to treat me like a bum, John. Huh? Do you think I need a handout? You think it's just about the money?"

"If it's not about the money, then what is it about?"

Michael Augustine pounded the counter, "It's about the job, John. It's about going back out there and taking what's ours. Like we used to."

"What's ours? Would you listen to yourself?" John Trombley scoffed and tossed the yellow sheet of paper onto the counter before standing up and putting on his overcoat. The paper landed a few inches away from Michael Augustine's dark brown suit sleeve, an unwoven seam oozed from where a button once sat.

On the TV in front of the two men, a broadcaster announced much-anticipated sports news: quarterback for the New York Giants, Johnny Franklin, finally reached a record-breaking deal with the team, an 8-year deal worth $450 million, of which $150 million was guaranteed.

John Trombley stood behind his friend with both feet pointed toward the exit, "When I told you that I was done, I meant it. I had to move on after that close-call in Dallas. I'd gotten enough of that life. I'm done with taking the big swings; they come with too much hassle." John Trombley put a dark hand on his friend's shoulder. "In a few days, I'll go past the house. I never thought I'd say this, but it'd make me happy if the money isn't there when I get there." 

•           

The house where John Trombley stashed 5 million dollars looked insignificant in all outside appearances. The white colonial-style home sat half a mile off a main road, tucked between two equally insignificant houses. Leaves littered the front yard, and weeds sprouting out of the driveway confessed that the home had been vacant for several months.

"FRONT DOOR OPEN." The automated security system alerted the house of a guest coming in through the front door before the wind slammed it shut. 

The creaking steps warned the home of a visitor coming up the stairs. The walls echoed the hard thumps that leapt off the floor as the visitor walked through the hallway with a familiar stride until coming to a halt in front of a framed picture of a steel train. 

The visitor studied the image with a curious nose tilted high.

The train, an original 19th-century marvel, had a grilled nose, and black bellows of smoke spewed out of its tall smokestack. Across a wooden bridge, the train sped, with logs of lumber on its back as a short flock of birds soared near a distant cloud. The trains surrounding: erect trees, sloping green hills, long white clouds, and dark, gray, distant mountains, all below a blue sky. The house's visitor could almost hear the train's vibrant whistle shooting through the frame.

And through the mirroring of the framed picture, there was a reflection; in the trees, in the mountains, among the birds, and on the train, the reflection of a man in a dark brown suit.