Sitting in the Sand

Dusk came early on March the 5th 1989. The rise and fall of breakers. Wind in the palms. He pulled the baggy blue jeans up from the edge of his buttocks. Forgot his belt. Again. He tapped the industrial torch against the heel of his hand. Batteries rattled inside the casing like maracas. It blinked away the darkness. And the things he’d heard in it. Popcorn fireworks. Dogs barking. The roar of the engine. His boots sunk in the sand as he trudged along the coastline. It was like walking on suction cups. Cicadas rattled in the trees. By now, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon. The only light was the torch in his hand that glittered off the waterline. No moon. Even the stars seemed dimmer.

He climbed up a dune. Grabbed onto the beachgrass to help his way up. Calves like hot coals. He bent his knee over his toe to stretch out the muscle. It helped. A little. The light cone caught something in the dark. Something half dug out of the sand. He skidded down the dune to the bottom and fell to his knees and dug out the object. It was a leather brown briefcase with a chrome handle. It was the handle he had seen first. He flipped the metal clasps and opened the briefcase and leafed through the newly minted bills inside. Worth about three million.

“Well, shit.” He shut the flashlight off and tucked it into the back of his jeans. The extra cargo helped keep them up. He shut the briefcase and stood up and climbed back up the sand dune. At the top of the dune he knelt down and squinted through the darkness. Something on the horizon. A ship smoke. The top lights came on bathing the beach in an unwelcome dawn. The engine roared and the speedboat came down the coastline in parallel.

He threw himself down the far side of the dune and slid down and hit the water at the bottom and stood and ran with the briefcase swinging on his arm behind him. The jeans now soaked weighed him down. He ran a few paces down the coastline and tripped over a dog and fell hard on his elbow that folded under him with the momentum. It was a black bulldog. Hole-riddled. Pink tongue lolled out.

Popcorn fireworks. The machinegun fire pierced the night and sent sand shoots into the air that traced up the coastline. The muzzle flash showed they’d be on him any minute. He ran in a squat position with his free hand folded over the back of his neck. He saw on his left boots bobbing in the water. He didn’t see what they were attached to. But he could guess. The pier was about fifty feet away. Lights. People.

The flashlight had as much as it could take and flipped out of the line of his jeans and fell in the sand. The jeans were too loose to stay up and he hadn’t noticed the flashlight fall out and didn’t catch the hemline in time. The jeans fell to his ankles. Tighty whities reflected surrender back at the top lights. He tripped and fell face-first into the sand. The machinegun fire had caught up to him and a bullet snagged the edge of his throat sending arterial spray onto the dunes. He turned over and sat with his hand on his neck. Waiting to die.

The next morning the police tape already had the scene roped off. The Sheriff parked at the edge of the pier and walked the rest of the way through the sand. Boots sank with each step.

“Well this is a damn fine mess ain’t it.”

“I’d say, Sheriff. Fella got no id on him, no keys. Just the briefs over his ass.”

“Fancied an evening stroll, I suppose.”

“I suppose. And we got another one up the way. Cuban fella, same holes as this one.”

“Well that would make sense, wouldn’t it deputy?”

“Yes, Sheriff it would.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just the Cuban’s pet pooch.”

“Same holes?”

“Same holes.”

“Any tracks?”

“No sir. None that we can find which is strange isn’t it Sheriff?”

“Not really. You don’t leave tracks in the water. Looks like machinegun. Uzi most like.”

The sheriff brushed away the sand crabs and picked the torch out of the sand. “This all he had on him?”

“Yessir. I don’t know what it done him other than make sure he was found.”

“Didn’t know what he was in for. Any drugs?”

“A dime bag of Coke on the other fella. Nothing other than that.”

“So if this is a deal gone wrong, it was dealt elsewhere. And these are the fallen pieces of it. Wouldn’t you agree deputy?”

“If you say so Sheriff.”

“I do say so.” The Sheriff stood and handed the deputy the torch and walked a few paces down the beach. He looked across the waterline. A sailboat sat on the horizon. It didn’t seem to move.

“Are you gonna make me ask where the money is, deputy?”

“No Sheriff. Sorry Sheriff. There’s a briefcase on him with around three million in unmarked bills.”

“Show me.”

The deputy went to the tent where the evidence was being marked and catalogued and placed the torch on the table and retrieved the briefcase.

The Sheriff unclasped the briefcase and took out a wad of taped hundred dollar bills and thumbed through them like playing cards.

“Why go through the trouble of killing the man and leave the money.”

“How long was your response time?”

“Not long. I was on my beat when I got the call from one of the shopkeeps up there. Was around half four. Had the place roped off by twenty till. Why?”

“That’s why. Not that it woulda done them much good.”

“How’s that Sheriff?”

“Have a look. Counterfeits. Ben Franklin’s facing the wrong way.”

“Well, I’ll be,” said the deputy, “it’s a goddamn goof-up.”

“Yea. Whoever they was is long gone by now, said the Sheriff and tipped his hat forward. “This boy lyin’ in the dirt. If he’d a gotten away, he’d have about as much as he started with. Exceptin’ for some soiled jeans.”

“Ain’t no point to it, Sheriff.”

“Ain’t no point to any of it.”

The deputy walked back to the tent. The Sheriff stood on the dunes and watched the boat on the horizon until it was blotted out by the dawning sun.