Page 87 of Cash

“Not a fucking thing.”

After we checked with Goose and again with Baker, Tito and I searched the last remaining rooms. Ten minutes later, we had found absolutely nothing. The four of us met in the hallway.

“I fucking swear,” Baker seethed. “If we don’t find anything, I’m going to light this son-of-a-botch on fire.”

“Okay by me,” I said.

He sighed heavily. “You and Tito take the kitchen. Check that motherfucker with a fine-toothed comb. Goose and I will take every picture off the walls and check behind them.”

“Got it,” I said.

We did what we did for various reasons. Baker perceived himself as a modern-day Robin Hood, giving a good portion – if not all – of his proceeds to charity. Ghost did it for the thrill, looking at the financial gain as an added bonus. Tito did it because he enjoyed computer hacking, and he used the successes of each job as a means of measuring his abilities.

Goose did it because it was what the rest of us did. He lived in a modest home, spent a little of his earnings on landscaping and upgrades to his yard, and invested the rest.

Reno did it because he loved seeing things explode. Knowing what I now knew, I couldn’t help but wonder if his affinity for setting off bombs had something to do with his parents, and the childhood that he was forced to live.

Being angry with one’s parents was a common thread with people who enjoyed explosives.

Me?

I did it with the hope that one day I could buy a home big enough to enjoy living life beyond the MC. I dreamt of a home overlooking the beach but knew it would never come to fruition. It didn’t hurt to dream, and it was dreaming that fueled me to be the best I could be through the course of our ‘jobs’.

Tito and I spent an hour in the kitchen, which was fifty minutes longer than most thieves spent robbing an entire house. After finding nothing more than some fine dinnerware and a collection of expensive tequila, we looked at each other in wonder.

“How big was that safe upstairs?”

“It was one of those cheap Wal-Mart fire safes that you bolt to the floor.” He shrugged. “Maybe two feet square. It was in the closet, why?”

“Probably kept his jewelry, pocket money, and watches in there,” I said.

“Probably.”

“Drug dealer like this ought to have a big safe. If he’s peddling big dope, he’s got to have big money. Big money requires a big safe. You know he doesn’t keep that shit in the bank.”

“Only place left is the garage,” he said.

“We ought to take that fuckin’ Ferrari.”

“We’d be caught before we got on the freeway,” he said. “That thing’s so rare, the cops would know it’s his. My guess is it’s the only one in this part of the country.”

“You haven’t seen anything weird or out of place?” I asked.

“Other than his bedroom smelled like ass? No.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Smelled like he just decontaminated it. Probably mopped blood off the floor and cleaned it with bleach and Pine-Sol.”

“I can’t stand the smell of cleaning products,” I said. “Surprised you could smell shit, with that broken nose.”

“I can smell, it’s just, I don’t know, different.”

Because the smelly bedroom was the only thing that stood out as being suspicious about the entire home, I decided I wanted to smell it for myself.

“Let’s go up there,” I said. “I want to smell it.”

He turned toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”