It was late at the Artie’s Café, closing time. Only a few customers remained. I sat alone, savoring the dregs of the last coffee of the day. This had not been a great day. The job Jerry had said was a sure thing, wasn’t. Artie said he would hire me, but he has no openings.
My rent was due two weeks ago, and I don’t have the money to pay for it. I was getting desperate but was sure something would turn up.
At the table behind me, three men sat. They spoke in low tones. I heard snippets of the conversation. “They live alone in that ancient house on Harbor Street.” “The one near the dock?” “No, the one on the bluff overlooking the sea.” “The Golchuck place.” “The old man and woman…” “Supposed to be rich.” “Extremely rich.” “They’re feeble.” “How feeble?” “Very.” “Security?” “What?” “Is there alarms, cameras?” “There’s a fortune hidden there.” “Where?” “Somewhere in the house.” “Where’d the money come from?” “I don’t know. It’s there, I swear.” “Have you been there?” “I walked by.” “I’m goin’ there.” “If there’s a pot of gold I want some.” “I’m gonna get me some.”
I stood, nodded to Artie. He’d put my coffee on a tab.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk and began walking. At Harbor Street, I turned the corner, headed to the docks just three blocks away. Once there. I continued toward the beach and the headland beyond.
The Golchuck house loomed ahead, silhouetted against the last rays of the sun. It was hulking and bleak. I heard no sounds. I saw no lights shining out the windows.
Turning around. I retraced my steps. I had had enough excitement tonight.
Two nights later I continued to be unemployed and returned to Artie’s Café. The dinner crowd had left. Only two patrons remained. They had been here before. I took my seat and ordered coffee.
Their conversation drifted my way. “Where’s Jack?” “Haven’t seen ‘im all day.” “He had somethin’ ta tell me.” “Said he was goin’ to do something and would soon be rollin’ in the dough.” “He says what?” “No, that was yesterday.” “He’ll show up. He always does.”
I sat sipping my coffee, savoring the rich bold taste. The two men paid their bill and exited the café.
Finishing the coffee, I stood, nodded to Artie, and left the café. I was soon walking along Harbor Street headed toward the Golchuck house. What I’m going to do I’ve done before, but the haul had never been as big as this promises to be. I thought of the fortune the house concealed and the old couple. I was sure they were no match for me or anyone else, It’s a piece of cake.
This time I mounted the steps and walked toward the front door. I stopped short. There were fresh marks on a windowsill, the kind a pry bar makes. The window was open. Someone was here before me. Someone from Artie’s?
I thought of my father’s words: People are stupid. They forget to lock their windows and then their stuff gets stolen. They don’t worry and go buy new stuff. Stupid people get what they deserve. This amused me.
Making no sounds, I followed the burglar and heaved myself through the open window. I turned on a small flashlight and surveyed the dark room. A crystal vase on a small table. I’ll bet this is worth a few bucks. I set it by the open window.
Screaming in my head warned me that something wasn’t right. There were no sounds, not even the creak of my footsteps as I crept towards the stairway. Adrenaline flooded through me. An angry voice shattered the silence., “Hey, what are you doing here?”
My eyes snapped straight to the source of the sound. At the top of the stairs, someone flicked a switch, bathing the room with the light from a chandelier. An old man stood, glaring down at me.
“You’d better leave right now!” the old man said, shuffling toward a phone sitting on a small table.
“Don’t!” another voice commanded. One of the men from Artie’s Café emerged from the shadows. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small pistol. “You’re not calling anyone, old man. Come down here.” He held the gun on the man as he slowly descended the steps. With his gun, he motioned toward a small couch. I saw terror in the old man’s face. I wondered if fear showed in mine.
“You,” he motioned to me with his gun. “Help the old man to the sofa.”
“Please, please don’t hurt us,” the old man pleaded. “We haven’t much. Take it, just leave us alone.”
“Us, who’s us?
“Me, my wife, Alma,” the old man answered. “She’s upstairs sleeping. Don’t hurt her.”
“No one gets hurt if you do as I say,” the man with the gun said. Just then an old woman wearing a bathrobe appeared at the top of the stairs. “Harold are you down there?”
“Yes, dear,” the old man said. “On the couch. Come, dear, the man has a gun.”
The woman obeyed, stepping slowly down the stairway. At the last step, she stopped. The man waved the pistol at me. “Help her,” he said. I stepped forward and took her arm. She took small measured steps across the rug. When she reached the couch, she sat down next to her husband. I stood beside them.
The man moved toward us, waving the pistol toward their faces. “All right, where’s the money? Show me, I don’t have all night.”
“We have a little cash,” the old man offered. “It’s in a cookie jar in the kitchen.”
“Go get it,” he pointed the gun at Alma. The old woman got up slowly and walked with short, slow steps across the room. She paused at the kitchen door and looked over her shoulder at the thief.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt him. Now, hurry!”
He wheeled around facing the closed door on the other side of the room. “What’s that noise?” he demanded.
“Oh,” the old man said. “That’s Fluffy. She’s our, uh, dog.” From behind the door, we could hear a scratching sound. “We keep her in that room at night.”
“A dog?” the robber said, looking at the door with its chain secured by a heavy lock. “What kind of dog?”
“Fluffy’s a terrier,” the old man answered. “She’s not very big, but she’s got a loud bark. We’re careful. We keep her in there at night. She can be real mean.”
Alma shuffled into the room clutching a roll of bills. The robber grabbed the money and counted.
“A lousy twenty-three dollars!” he bellowed. “Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all we’ve got,” Alma said. From behind the door, a thumping sound began.
“That the dog?” the man asked.
“Oh, no,” Alma cried. “He woke up Fluffy.”
Harold put his arm around his wife. “Oh-oh, you know how she gets when she’s awakened.”
Alma faced the robber. “You’d better leave before Fluffy starts barking.”
He looked at the elderly couple. “Oh, I get it. What they say at Artie’s is true. You do have a pot of money. The big money is in there. You think a little dog can protect it. I’m not afraid of no terrier. Open the door!”
“We gave you all our money,” Harold said. “I swear to you that’s all we have.”
“I want to see for myself,” the thief said. “Now open the door!”
“Please don’t,” Alma said. “Don’t let Fluffy out.”
“He’s got a gun.” Harold stepped forward and opened the lock that secured the door’s chain.
The man laughed, “No terrier can keep me away from a big payday.” He waved his gun. “If your mutt gets in the way, she’ll get a taste of this. You all stay put. I’ll be right back.”
He cracked open the door. The thumping noise got louder. He pushed the door, pointing his gun at the darkened room. With his other hand, he pulled a flashlight from a pocket, switched it on, and played it into the darkness.
The thief walked into the room. We heard a bloodcurdling scream and his gun and flashlight clattered to the floor.
The couple and I peered into the darkness. We saw blackness and heard a loud thrashing sound. After a minute, all was quiet. A large bloody scaly body moved quickly in the doorway’s void and then the door closed.
“You with him?” Alma asked.
“No, I saw him open the window and followed him, hoping to stop him.”
Harold closed the door and locked it. He smiled at Alma. “We warned him, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we surely did,” Alma said. “Just like the other burglars, they didn’t listen. Kind of stupid.”
“Stupid people always get what they deserve,” I parroted my father.
“Stupid or not, Fluffy always gets a good meal.”
I made quick goodbyes and headed to Artie’s Café. I was glad the thief had arrived before me. I decided to not be stupid, I would somehow persuade Artie he needed to hire me.
BIO
K. Rathburg lives in Michigan. After a fifty-year hiatus, he recently resumed writing fiction. Currently, he teaches English at Oakland Community College. He is thankful for the feedback and encouragement from his wife, Jan. He also is appreciative of the members of Detroit Working Writers who have critiqued his work.
