Cold Cash

By Dan Yokum

A Thriller for Teens and Adults

 

SHE THOUGHT SHE KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO HER BROTHER. SHE WAS WRONG.

 

It's a tough life for 18-year-old Betsy Racine, trying to take care of her disabled grandfather and alcoholic mother. Even worse, over a year ago, her brother disappeared in a snowstorm, and now she learns that he had with him more than three million dollars of someone else's money. Someone who just got out of prison and will do whatever it takes to get it back. Others join the hunt and they all want Betsy to help them find the cash. But why would she? She doesn't care about the money and her brother is dead…isn't he? As new clues surface, she begins to wonder. Just to make sure, she tags along with a group of seekers and finds herself sucked into a world of danger far greater than anything she could have imagined.

 

The setting splits between the wild Adirondack mountains of upstate New York and the gritty streets and underground of New York City. If you like quirky characters, fast-paced action with uncertain outcomes, family issues, and a bit of romance, then this is a must-read.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Yokum
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989117901

Book preview

Chapter 1

W e’re already a half hour late, Roy Collins said. We’re never going to get there.

Ethan Racine ignored him and slowed the car down a touch.

They passed the snow-covered Leaving Adirondack Park sign and Roy said, We’re only at the park border. Maybe we should turn around. He dug his phone out of his coat pocket and looked for the bars. Like the last time he checked, still none.

Stop looking at your phone. You can’t call ‘em so chill out. He took a hand off the steering wheel and gave Roy a gentle poke They’ll wait for us. Nobody’s leaving in this mess.

Just keep your eyes on the damn road. I thought winter was over. And now this.

It’s all good, man. No worries. A few more hours and we’ll be all done. Three pounds of the best cannabis. We’ll double our money by next week.

If nothing goes wrong.

It won’t, man, Ethan said. I have it covered. Don’t I always have it covered? Those dudes are solid. That last haul was awesome.

The wind blew the snow with enough force to cancel most of their visibility and the old station wagon’s headlights barely made a dent in the swirl and darkness. A few hundred yards ahead, a county snow-plow truck with orange flashing lights dumped salt and sand on the road. The truck kicked up even more snow and Ethan kept his distance. Following any closer would surely have made driving impossible.

The car’s old heater fan functioned with two choices: on full or completely off. Every few minutes, Ethan flicked the control from one to the other in an attempt to balance the blasting heat with the icy cold. He drove with one gloveless hand on the wheel, the other tapping out some rhythm on the side of his seat to a scratchy song struggling to reach the radio. When for a few moments the song found a better connection, he shook his upper body and head, swinging his long brown hair from side to side, doing what he called his ten-second seat dance.

He turned the heater fan off and Roy, parka zipped tight, hat pulled over his eyebrows, said, Leave it on. I don’t want to freeze.

Well then fix the damn thing like I’ve been asking you all winter.

Roy picked a brown duffle bag off the floor, pulled out a large, unsealed envelope, and set it in his lap. He removed a loose stack of ten- and twenty-dollar bills and began counting them.

Ethan asked, How many times have you counted that? Roy didn’t answer. Ethan continued, Seriously, Roy. This will all work out. These guys are okay.

Roy let out a sigh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s nice dealing with Canadians. René and Norm are good guys, aren’t they? A hell of a lot nicer than those creeps from downstate we bought from last time.

That’s for sure. Ethan gave a small laugh. But Norm’s American so you still have to watch out for him.

The radio connection devolved to an annoying rumble and Roy turned the dial, searching for a new station. He settled on something coming from somewhere in Quebec, on the other side of the border. A woman’s muffled voice, speaking in French, faded in and out.

A minute later Roy asked off-handedly, or what he hoped sounded like it, How’s your sister doing?

My sister?

Uh, yeah. You know? Her name’s Betsy? Last time I checked, she was your sister.

Man, you are so transparent. You’re obviously way into her. And she’s much too young for you.

She’s sixteen, gonna turn seventeen, and I just turned eighteen so what...

Don’t even think about it. You’re not her type.

Oh yeah? Well, what is her type?

Not somebody like you.

You’re such an asshole, Roy said.

Ethan sighed, loud and dramatic, then said seriously, "That was kind of assholish of me but Betsy really isn’t your type. She’s always been kind of different, right? You know what I mean. But lately, she’s been a lot different. I mean, I’m all about the outdoors and all that but she’s been taking it to a whole new level. You know the old camper thing in our driveway that’s on the back of the dead pickup truck? She’s been sleeping out there. The window hardly closes and there’s no heat."

Wow. How come?

When my Grandpa moved in with us, we were short a bedroom so I offered to switch off and on sleeping on the couch. We did it for a while and then, about a month ago, she took all her stuff and moved it outside. Said she likes to hear the animals at night.

How much does she know about all this, you know, dealing weed?

Uh, not much. He hesitated. It’s like this. I don’t ever talk to her about it. I know she’s happy we have some money coming in so she acts like she doesn’t know. But this deal we’re about to do. She’d be so pissed if she knew about it.

Why?

Just don’t ever tell her.

A half-hour later, they turned into a small nearly empty parking lot next to a metal-walled warehouse. One floodlight made a vain attempt to break through the snow and darkness and brighten the un-plowed lot. Ethan barreled in—snow tires and all-wheel drive, he always said, will take you anywhere—and parked next to a company cube van. He picked up the duffle bag and hurried around the corner of the warehouse to a door at the front.

Roy followed but turned back to the parking lot. I have to take a leak, he yelled. I’ll be right in."

I’ll wait for you, Ethan yelled back.

While Roy peed, he absently looked at the side of the van and read the words, Matrox Imports, Montreal PQ and LaFrond, NY. He started back around the corner of the building, stopped, and turned his head. The front of another vehicle, a black SUV with a New York license plate peeked out from the other side of the van. The plate holder read, Bridgely Auto Sales, Yonkers, NY.

I’m going in, Ethan yelled.

Wait! No. Hold on.

It was too late.

ETHAN WENT THROUGH the door and into a dark entry room filled with cardboard boxes. Some of the boxes were opened, and arms or legs of dresses, pants, and blouses hung out over the edges. An overhead light shone a dim path through the boxes to a set of double doors on the far wall. He pushed his way into another poorly lit room, this one much larger, with a chipped concrete floor and a high ceiling. It was filled with racks of clothes, packing tables, more packed cardboard boxes, and an old forklift.

About fifty feet away, a floor lamp illuminated two men standing next to one of the tables. Both wore long black woolen coats, and one had on a fur hat. Stacks of shoebox-size packages crowded the tabletop and surrounded a small pile of something white. A large propane heater stood next to the table.

Hey Norm, René, Ethan said, walking forward. Is that you?

It was René, sitting on a chair, his hands in his lap.

Ethan stopped. You okay?

Just as Roy crashed through the door, Ethan saw the guns, both pointed at René.

One of the black coats swung around and fired toward them. Roy dove into the clothing and hit his head on the hard metal base of one of the racks. As the other black coat aimed at Ethan, he also pitched into the racks, dropped the duffle bag, and knocked over a rack that fell on top of him. He hit the floor and his deceptively stylish glasses, without which his vision was a blur, flew off and out of reach. Three shots whizzed over his head.

René pulled a gun out of his jacket, shot one of the black coats in the stomach, and slid down behind the table for protection. Bleeding, dying, and in extreme pain, the black coat picked up his duffle bag and tried to run. He made it halfway to the door and fell on the floor, dropping the bag and sending his gun skittering into Ethan. René lifted his gun but the fur hat got him first and René’s shot hit the propane heater, putting a hole in the supply line. The fur hat calmly put another bullet into René and headed toward the door. As he passed by the other black coat, he poked him with his foot, picked up the duffle bag lying next to him, and continued toward the front entrance.

The fur hat hesitated and sniffed the air. He turned back to the heater, crouched down, and sniffed some more. He pulled a dress off one of the racks, draped it over the heater, took a lighter from his pocket, and lit the dress on fire. Then he turned back toward the door, this time moving a lot faster.

He passed by Ethan, twenty feet away and covered in clothes. Ethan picked up the gun that had slid into him and fired.

The fur hat fell and Ethan jumped up and ran to Roy. Blood covered Roy’s hair and face and pooled onto the surrounding floor, and he lay there, unmoving.

Aw no, man. Ethan cried.

He ran back to the fur hat who was now sprawled on the ground, moaning.

The fur hat tried to stand. You little shit. You shot me in the leg.

You killed him! Ethan screamed. I’m gonna kill you now. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.

Ethan picked up the duffle bag and ran out the door into the blizzard. He scrambled into his car, threw the bag on the seat, rummaged through the glove compartment for a pair of back-up glasses which were thankfully there, and drove off.

The duffle bag. In his pumped-up escape, he didn’t notice how much heavier it was than the one he had brought in. He tried to lift it off the seat. It had to weigh four or five times as much as before. It wasn’t his, wasn’t the one he and Roy had brought. It couldn’t be.

He drove for ten minutes, having no idea where he should go or what he should do. He pulled onto a dirt side road and did a U-turn. He hoped he wouldn’t be seen by a passing car and could spot the fur hat if he came that way. He unzipped the duffle bag and tried to reach his hand in but wasn’t able to because the bag was full. He pulled out a bundle of bills and attempted to examine it in the darkness. He felt the thick crisp rough-textured paper and the band of tape holding the bills together, and when he put the bundle up to his nose, smelled the distinctive fragrance of new money. He couldn’t make out the denominations, but when he put his hand back in the stuffed bag and touched a few more of the bundles, he did grasp that, whatever was in there was an unimaginable amount of money, more than he or anyone he knew had ever come close to having.

A large black SUV crept by but didn’t stop. Ethan couldn’t bring himself to kill the fur hat but the fur hat would have no problem killing him. He hopped out of the car, opened the trunk, and re-arranged a few things. He pulled out the winter gear he always stored there: extra clothes, better boots, backpack, one-person tent, low-temp sleeping bag, freeze-dried food. He debated snowshoes and decided they weren’t worth it. As bad as the snow was coming down, it didn’t seem that deep. Helps to be an outdoor type. In five minutes, he suited up, filled the backpack, and left.

THE FUR HAT, WHOSE name was Walter Lazrove and who was well connected with the big city drug trade, picked up the duffle bag next to him, shook it, unzipped it, and pulled out the envelope with Ethan’s and Roy’s money. What the hell, he yelled. This isn’t my bag. That little shit took my money.

He hobbled out the door, still carrying the wrong bag, the money still in it, and threw it in the snow. He pulled himself into his SUV, and followed the tracks out of the lot and onto the road. Blood covered his pants and his leg hurt so much he had to fight to keep from passing out. But no way was he going to lose his money.

A few minutes later, he spotted the station wagon parked on an unpaved farm road. The kid didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. He would sneak up on the little shit and take him out. He continued past the car, did a U-turn in the middle of the road, and pulled over about a hundred yards from where the kid was parked.

Lazrove figured the kid still had the gun, but he wasn’t worried because he had already seen that the kid was a wimp about using it. He limped up to the car, dragging his bad leg through the snow, yanked open the front door, gun drawn, and looked in. The kid and the duffle bag were gone. He opened the rear door and crawled inside. Nothing there, either. He leaned over the back seat, and tried to evaluate the rear cargo area but couldn’t tell much because the light was too dim. He squirmed back out and opened the rear hatch. Nothing there but a blanket and a pair of snowshoes.

He screamed and swore into the howling wind. He attempted to run down the farm road, trying to follow the path of the already disappearing footsteps, but could only manage a slow, stumbling gait. After a few hundred yards, the footsteps took a dramatic turn up a steep embankment and into thick woods. He grabbed onto saplings and rocks, pulled himself up the embankment, and kept going. At a tiny, nearly frozen stream, the footsteps disappeared. He used the flashlight on his cell phone and trudged, first upstream, then downstream, but found nothing. The snow fell so fast that his own footsteps, his breadcrumbs leading the way back, were also vanishing. He finally gave up and slogged back to where he had started.

When he came to the kid’s car, he fought the urge to empty his gun into it. Instead, he took another look inside, made it back to his SUV, and stormed out of there.

Chapter 2

Seventeen Months Later ....

Hey Pepe, Betsy Racine called from the kitchen, You want a cup of coffee? He had almost finished his lunch and would want coffee but she always had to ask. He banged on his metal TV tray one time, signaling a yes. She loaded up the coffee maker, turned it on, and went into the living room. She pointed to a rusting woodstove and said, That thing’s too big for this little trailer. It’s too hot in here. Pepe shook his head and hugged himself to show he was cold.

He sat in an easy chair, watching an old western on the TV, the volume up too loud, and slowly slurped and chewed the last of the tomato soup and sandwich Betsy had made for him. While he ate, she checked the oxygen tank next to him, and with her fingers, traced the clear plastic breathing tube ending in his nose to make sure there were no kinks.

I’m going outside for a minute, she said. Your coffee will be done soon.

The property was not much more than a muddy clearing hacked out of the woods. In the rutted and potholed driveway sat two vehicles: an ancient, badly rusted pickup with a detachable camper on its bed, and a ten-year-old sedan that Betsy shared with her mother. A fresh pile of firewood and a tree stump with an ax slammed into it ornamented the edge of the driveway. The trailer was nearby, it’s underside skirting falling off in many places and the front steps a season away from rotting through. Nearly hidden, Ethan’s old station wagon, no longer driven but still registered and insured, peeked out from behind the far end of the trailer.

Yet all around their small parcel, rolling hills covered with maple, oak, birch, and beech trees gloriously showcased the vibrant beginning of their changing colors. Behind the trailer, a thick stand of pines and spruces acted as a cover for a small path that followed a rocky stream ending at a large pond. Also, although their land wasn’t large, on either side of them were vast tracts Betsy hoped would never be developed. The nearest neighbors were far enough away that she always had the feeling she lived far out in the wilderness. Their living situation was rough and minimal but she never stopped appreciating the seclusion.

Even though the mid-October temperature was in the low fifties, she went out barefoot, wearing only jeans and a tee-shirt. She crossed the driveway, climbed into the camper and turned on a battery-powered lantern hanging on the wall. A bed piled with blankets took up half the space. Crammed into a corner was a small wooden end table, its top covered with milk crates filled with neatly-folded clothes. Blouses, shirts, and a few coats hung on hangers on a clothesline strung across the back wall. On the floor next to the bed were a pile of books, and on the wall hung a framed picture of Betsy and her brother, Ethan, at the top of a mountain, a spectacular view behind them.

She pulled on socks, hiking boots, and a fleece with a hoodie over it, and briefly checked out her face and hair in a small handheld mirror. Good enough for now. Except for the strange blemish thing on her cheek. She usually ignored it, but today it bothered her. Maybe it was the lighting. She pulled a small box out from under her bed filled with various types of makeup and found something to touch up the blemish.

She picked up a tube of red lipstick, examined it, and dropped it back in the box. When was the last time she had put on makeup? Or worn a nice dress? She used to love prepping for a night out before...before Ethan disappeared. When her life still had some semblance of fun and normalcy. When she had dreams of doing something with her future. It seemed so long ago, like a different life that belonged to somebody else. The chaos of the final months of her high school junior year took it all away from her. And, as the sympathy and support of friends and teachers faded away and her home responsibilities spiked beyond something nobody her age should have to deal with, her senior year delivered a whole new life. Barren and lonely. Somehow, she’d made it through, graduating but not attending the ceremony.

She hopped down from the camper and stood in the driveway for a minute, looking around in all directions. The trailer was such a messy contrast to the woods. She did the best she could with it, tried to stay on top of things, even though some disaster always hovered in the background, waiting to make an appearance. The day before, she had replaced a shut-off valve under the bathroom sink, hopefully fixing a badly dripping faucet. She had then worried all night that, if there were more problems beyond what she could learn to repair from YouTube videos, they would need a plumber. And where would that kind of money come from?

When she reentered the trailer, the comforting coffee aroma greeted her, and she brought a steaming cup to Pepe and set it on the tray. Careful, it’s really hot.

Pepe grunted and pointed to the TV.

You want me to change the channel? she asked.

He nodded.

She spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the bathroom and kitchen, doing some laundry in the rusted washing machine, hanging the wet clothes on drying racks in the kitchen, and splitting firewood for the woodstove. When she finished, she said to Pepe, I have to go find Mom. Do you need anything before I leave? Should I help you to the bathroom again?

He shook his head.

She pointed to a small box with a large red button on it, connected to a phone wire. You remember what to do if something happens. Just push the button.

Pepe waved his hand at her, signaling her to go and not worry.

But only if something’s really wrong. You wouldn’t want the ambulance to come for nothing. She kissed him on the top of his head and walked out the door.

She started the car and drove a few miles to a roadside bar called Marcotte’s Tavern. Marcotte’s was one of the few left of ten or more roadside stops that had comprised a route called the River Run. The route stretched fifty miles, with a small city at each end, and as the name implied, mostly followed a river. For years, a standing challenge had been for drinkers to stop at every bar along the way and chug a shot of something wicked and powerful. Before DWI was fully embraced as a public menace, the participants in the challenge often included the drivers of the transporting vehicles. For some reason, as the other stops closed over the years, Marcotte’s thrived, and on weekends, was usually packed with hard-drinking patrons.

Betsy was eighteen, not old enough to be in the bar legally, but the bartenders didn’t object, knowing why she was there. It wasn’t five yet, but the tavern was already half full, mostly with regulars coming in for Friday happy hour. A few gathered around the pool table and the rest sat at the bar or side tables, starting their evening of fun.

Hey, Dewey, Betsy said to one of the bartenders, I have to ask you something.

Evening Betsy, Dewey said. What’s up?

Have you seen Louise?

He pointed to a doorway in the back leading to another room. She’s back there. With Bud.

Aw, damn. Betsy hurried into the back room.

Except for a few chairs and tables, the small room was empty. Louise, Betsy’s mother, lay sprawled out on a ratty couch, one leg slung over the leg of a man wearing a flannel shirt and a trucker’s hat and cowboy boots. A dozen or so empty beer bottles littered the couch and floor around them. Louise had crossed over to the land of the wasted and didn’t notice Betsy until she jammed her hands between them and pushed them apart.

Louise gave Betsy a dazed look. Hi Honey. You know Bud, don’t you?

Yes, Ma, Betsy said. I know Bud very well. Now come on. We’re going home.

Oh, no. Not yet. I’m here with Bud.

I’m taking you home.

Her mom patted the couch next to her. Have a seat and hang out with us for a while.

Betsy put her arms around her mom’s waist and pulled her up. She could barely stand by herself so Betsy tightened her hold with one of her arms and dragged her into the other room. When Bud realized what was happening, he jumped up and tried to stop them.

Hey, hold on. What are you doing?

I’m taking her home.

Bud stepped in front of them. The hell you are. He put his hands on Betsy’s shoulders and tried to push her backward.

Like a patient mother talking to a little kid, Betsy sighed. Bud, listen to me carefully. If you don’t take your hands off of me, I’m going to kick the crap out of you.

Oh Betsy, don’t be so dramatic, her mom said.

Bud laughed and held onto Betsy tighter.

Betsy yelled into the front room, Hey Dewey. Tell Bud if he doesn’t get out of my way I’m gonna kick the crap out of him. She let her mom slip into a chair next to them and grabbed Bud by the lapels, pulling him closer.

Dewey said, She’ll do it, Bud. Better do what she says.

Bud tried to push Betsy out of the way but ended up on the floor, moaning and holding his crotch. Betsy grabbed her mom’s hand, pulled her out of the chair, and calmly walked her into the other room. As she passed Dewey,