Where art meets crime.

Sparks glitter as Frank Bridgeman strikes the flame on his welder’s torch.  He ignites the flint to steel before he dons any safety equipment.  Frank secures the work area in a hell of creativity.  The sculpture studio is constant, is contrast—risk creates safety, safety activates risk.  Leather gloves, goggles, Frank checks the regulators on the oxy-acetylene tanks.  Once supine on the dolly, he lights a joint with the blue cone of the torch.  Relaxed, he rolls under his 1986 Dodge Ram Van.  Some coins fall out of his pocket.

In no apparent design, scrap clutters the workspace: a dozen 55-gallon drums marked FLAMMABLE, a small jet turbine, and a 17 foot aluminum canoe.  A fire extinguisher looks pathetic, disabled, next to the fuel drums and other incendiaries.

On a wiry and metallic build, Frank wears dirty jeans and the permanent sunburn from the bright heat of the weld.  The polarized goggles protect his eyes, but have left pale spots on his face much like an albino raccoon.

Suspended from a block and tackle, the body of the vehicle hangs from chains.  The van appears as a flatbed with a crane mounted in the center.  The van rests, axles jacked up, on 2-ton hydraulic lifts.  Frank works underneath, secures the jet engine to the chassis.  One weld remains, one tiny stitch.  Frank’s hands, calm as a surgeon’s, coax the bead of molten metal back and forth to fuse as one.

Reaching for the last bracket, the hoses tense, the tanks teeter on the hand truck.  Not enough slack, six inches span between the bracket and torch tip.  Frank tugs and the tanks teeter, closing the gap by inches.  The tanks rest and Frank tugs again, and again another two inches.  Frank tugs, pulls, yanks the hose, impatience and gravity getting the best of him.  The oxygen and acetylene wobble and warp like a metronome as Frank notices from the corner of his eye.  One last whip sends the tanks off balance.  A moment of recognition, a fine line between creativity and destruction.  Frank’s head darts in a panic, connects with the undercarriage of the van.  He blacks out briefly before the flame singes his hair, the burnt smell revives him before the crashing sound of the oxy-fuel canisters.

***

Clack!  An empty highball glass hits the bar accentuating the note deny.  Scott Coltrane, handsome, polished, stands out against the musty wood grain of the Swannanoa Tavern.  He forces the glass down next to his sketch book.  Feeling the whiskey, Scott summons a moment of cheer.  Around him, older friends recite the zombie version of Jolly Good Fellow.

Denise and Fred work the bar as they have since the mid 80’s when they met and married.  They fill another round.  Local barstool, James Fulp, shares the moment.  Hard to tell how long he has been coming here.  Enough to end two marriages, maybe three.  They pause for Scott to say a few words.

Off guard, Scott extemporizes.  “Here’s to the best watering hole on the banks of the Swannanoa, here’s to good friends, to making it, to getting out.”  Scott regrets his tone.

Denise covers his slip, “Oh, don’t say that, you know you’ll miss it.”

Fulp lightens the moment, “Yeah, I don’t know why anyone would leave all this for Paris.”

The scattering of mid-afternoon patrons laugh at the joke.  Denise blanches, “You know what I mean, it’s his home, we’re his family.”  She stings at her words.  “I mean, you know we are always here for you.”

Silence follows, punctuated by Scott gulping another shot and placing his glass down.  “I know, Denise, y’all are great, been real good to me.”

Scott rises and pulls some coins and crumpled bills from his pocket.

Fred interrupts, “No, no, your money’s no good.  Put that away, save it for your trip.”

“Thanks, Fred.”  Scott tears a sketch of Fred from his book.  Like Scott, the likeness, the representation, is exact, meticulous.  He tenders the drawing.

“Thanks, big guy.”  Fred smiles, tacks up the sketch next to a similar one of his wife on the bar next to a business license and other permits.

Fred and Denise take care of the few others drinking on a Tuesday afternoon leaving Scott and Fulp.  Fulp, a monstrous sight, curly hair, thick glasses over a lazy eye, a booming voice, holds up an empty glass.  “Another?”

“Thanks, but I gotta run.  Told Frank I would help him move some equipment.”

Upon hearing Frank’s name, Fulp cringes.  “Maybe you will be able to stay out of trouble when you’re in Paris.”

Scott grins, “Hey, come on, Frank runs a legitimate business.  You’re a lawyer, you should know what that means.”

“Lawyer?—titles and escrow.  Paint by numbers.  Only law left in this town is real estate.”  Fulp pushes his empty glass to the business end of the bar.

“So, you’re saying I am smart to get out while I can.  No offense, but the river district is going down the drain.  Pun intended.”

Fulp looks longingly at Denise and Fred, “Some people make the best of it.  I am just saying I want you to stay out of trouble.  Frank is. . . Frank has been known. . . I would hate to see. . . You never know.  My god, losing you to the French.  Maybe you’ll bring a Parisian girl back here, settle down.”

Scott rolls his eyes as if he has heard this too many times before.  “Women are not in the habit of dating broke jokers like me: College dropout, artist, working at the Tavern, doesn’t really say stability.”

The door to the tavern opens, sheds an uncomfortable, polarizing light.  Scott and Fulp turn.  The bar patrons in their natural habitat squint accordingly.  An imposing figure blocks out the light.

“You’re a good guy,”  Fulp reminds Scott.  “Paris.  Your parents would’ve been proud.”

Scott looks at his watch.  In an attempt to change the subject, Scott gathers his things, pats Fulp on the back.  “I gotta run.”

Malcolm McCoy, Fire Chief for the City of Asheville, uniform complete with shiny bald head and bristly mustache, enters the bar.

Denise remarks on one of her favorite patrons as Scott strides toward the door.  “We’re in trouble now,” she says,  “McCoy, you here to make sure we haven’t set fire to the place for the insurance yet?”

“No ma’am.  Routine inspection.”  McCoy sits.  “Shot and a beer, please.  Just making sure our sign is posted, see what the good word is.”  McCoy points to a MAXIMUM CAPACITY 96 PERSONS sign next to the business license and Scott’s drawings.  A routine gesture familiar to Denise.

“Right, here on business.”  Denise claims, playing into the joke of serving a man in uniform.  “Maximum capacity, no threat of filling to half that,” Denise assures him as she pours two fingers of whiskey.

McCoy picks up his glass, “James.”

“Chief,”  Fulp booms as he signals for another drink.

“Looks like ole Walter Kress is going to make his bid,” McCoy reports.  The small crowd groans at the news.

Fred’s index presses into the bar, the tip turns white.  “That son of a bitch Kress will have us all run out of here in no time.”

“How do things get like this?  You vote, pay taxes.”  Denise pleads to no one in particular.  Her sentiment trails off while she folds and unfolds a bar towel.

McCoy shrugs, washes murmur and speculation down with his shot.

Overhearing this, Scott sours.  He pushes the door, sulks out into the overcast light of early evening.

***

Heading for the Auction Road Bridge, Scott drifts through the river district and eyes the disrepair of a section of town fallen to neglect.  A cadre of bums troll under the bridge, a prostitute striding heels and short skirt crosses on the other side.  Old tobacco warehouses display graffiti, broken windows, and weeds; sights of small-town decay under the banner of FORECLOSURE, KRESS ENTERPRISES, CALL 828.555.8276.  Glimpsing the river, Scott sighs a breath of acceptance.

The sound of a four-stroke, full-throttle whine closes in, drowns the murmur of the Swannanoa River.  When Scott steps on the bridge, a motorcycle blurs past forcing Scott close to the railing.    The bike looks like a mid-70’s Honda with cafe-style modifications: low slung bars and an aftermarket seat built for one rider.  The rider fits the bike clad in a brown leather jacket, jeans, boots, and a matte black helmet flashing a gold iridium visor.  It looks unlikely the rider saw Scott as an obstacle, such was the haste of the bike.  Scott gestures his disbelief, the bums look at him as if he is crazy, the prostitute maintains her stride.

“Did you see that?”  Scott inquires to no one in particular.  He bottles up his display when he realizes his audience doesn’t give a shit.

Scott approaches the center of the bridge, notices the Swannanoa below.  A crow leaps from her perch on the railing, glides in the direction of the motorcycle.  On the other side of the river, flashing light pulses from an abandoned warehouse, as bright as a welder’s torch.  Scott crosses the bridge into West Asheville.  As he nears the end of the bridge, a silver Range Rover guns by him in the same direction as the motorcycle.  Scott leaps from the bridge to the shoulder of road to avoid being hit, spouting curses and popping up two middle fingers.

***

In his sculpture studio, Frank rigs duct tape to the oxy-fuel tanks to keep them upright on the dolly.  He sports a bruise on his forehead from bashing into the undercarriage.  The bump draws further attention to the reverse-raccoon sunburn appearance of his face.  In an attempt to self-medicate, Frank drags another hit off the joint, his fears of incineration were short lived.

Scott bursts in against the mellow, pot-incensed, Frank, arms outstretched, pleading inquisition.  “When did everyone around here stop giving a shit?”  

Frank extends the reefer, accustom to Scott’s tirades and nonplussed.  “Good to see you, too.  Wanna hit?”

Scott throws a curious look to Frank’s forehead and then the joint.  “No, you know that shit’s like Kryptonite to me.”  He adds, “Nearly got run down crossing the bridge over here,” and finishes with, “besides, we got work to do.”

Frank takes offense, “Kryptonite?  Whoa, whoa.  Better’n at shit you been guzzling all afternoon.”

“Going away party. . . felt more like a parole tribunal.  You know what makes me sick. . . UGH! . . You know, I just can’t wait. . . “  Scott’s voice trails, knowing how many times he has lamented, soapboxed, this.

Frank digs, “Broke here, same as broke in Paris.”

“It’s not that.  It’s just that everyone here is just so resigned, so, provincial.  Like a Thomas Kincaid painting.”  He pauses, looking on the bright side, “And, if we get that copper, I won’t have to worry about money.”

“For a while,”  Frank reminds Scott as he inhales another puff, “still don’t understand why you are so wound up to leave either?  Your drawings are good, bet you can find nude models here just as easy as you can in Paris.”

“Don’t you start,”  Scott sweeps his hand about the studio, “if you weren’t chained down to five-thousand tons of scrap metal, you’d be outta here, too.”

Having a few years up on Scott, Frank cools back, “just waiting to find the right girl, settle down.  All this, my kingdom, could be hers.”  He spreads his arms to include the derelict and dangerous contents of his compound.

“You are starting to sound like Fulp.  The ‘right girl’ isn’t looking for stoned, dirty, and broke.”

Frank grabs the bow of the aluminum canoe: “clam it, Scotty, give me a hand with this.”

Scott and Frank lift the canoe onto the back of Frank’s chopped van.  They place the boat next to the makeshift crane mounted there and tie it tight.

Scott needles Frank, “You sure he is going to be gone at 7:30?”

“Yes, Arby’s, like clockwork he goes there and gets the five for five roast beef and drives back; giving us a thirty-minute window.”  To add further assurance, Frank pats the canoe, “we float in, creep up, boost the copper, and paddle out.  No one notices.”

“You’ve got everything covered?  No heat, no guns?”

“Yeah, man, it’s cool.”

“Good.  This has got to work out.  Don’t want your lack of oversight to fuck my trip to Paris.”

“You know, you being such a pacifist is stressing you out.”

“Pacifist?  Are you fucking high?  I just don’t think you need guns to make a living doing the dirty work.”

“When did fencing stolen metal to pay off school loans become dirty work?   You Socialist!  What the world needs now is more violence!”  Frank adds to incite his friend.

“Make sense, will you?” Scott pleas before taking charge stamping out the quarrel of the bickering not taking the bait, “Let’s go.”

They both climb into the van.

Frank does not relent, “You said it yourself, this town is going to shit, pretty soon people are just going to lay down in the streets and let the bulldozers crush ’em.”

“God damn, Mister Rogers, beautiful day in the neighborhood.  Let ’em do what ever they want, it’s not my luggage.”  Scott eyes Frank with conviction

Frank puts a Steely Dan cassette in the deck.  Rigged next to the AM/FM tape console is a homemade switch marked EMERGENCY FUEL RESERVE.  Frank starts the van.  The van emits a diesel rumble, gauges and lights synchronize.

***

Auction Road wears a gritty reminder of the tobacco trade: abandoned warehouses, train tracks, fuel depots, and decrepit riverside parks.  Scott and Frank drive upstream past equipment left to rust.

Scott reaches for the toggle marked EMERGENCY FUEL RESERVE.  “What’s this switch for?”

“Famous last words,”  Frank says, then, more animated than normal.  “don’t fuck around, that’s there just in case we get stuck.”

Up ahead on the deserted road, a single skid mark leaves the pavement at a bend in a curve.  Frank stops.

“What are you doing?”  Scott asks.

“Looks fresh.”  Frank gets out of the van, scouts down the embankment.

“Come on, we only got twenty minutes,”  Scott protests, but Frank ignores him.  Scott finally gets out of the van and peers over the edge of Auction Road.

Frank looks upon a crashed motorcycle lying on the bank next to the river.  He walks toward it, but Scott stops him.

Frank lectures, “finders keepers, man.  You know that.”

“We’re on a schedule here.  We’ll get it on the way back.”  Scott misses the connection, misses the fact that he has seen this bike before, somewhere else.

***

At the Swannanoa Salvage, footfalls haul ass and stolen metal.  A ninety-pound German Shepherd and her lesser-pedigreed partner-at-guard snarl after the intruders.  Canine teeth and cunning barred, bred just for this occasion.  Scott and Frank flee as best as they can considering the burden of coiled copper wire they each carry on their shoulders.  The dogs force them up and over a fence, the barbed wire cut for this kind of exit.  The gnash of teeth misses Scott’s ankle by the breadth of a static charge.  This escape only slows the pursuing dogs who divert as if they know of another way out.

Scott and Frank race to the canoe beached on the river bank, the Doppler of barking dogs fast approaching.  Already, scrap metal overwhelms the canoe.  Scott and Frank dump the copper cable into the boat and shove across stones to the safety of the river.  When the dogs arrive, their paws hesitate at the polluted water.

Too tired to paddle, Scott and Frank drift along downstream, out of breath.

“DOGS!?  You said nothing about dogs!”  Scott springs up clumsily on top of the scrap in the canoe.

Frank’s laugh is part adrenalin, part reefer madness:  “Man, they almost got you!”

“You said you had it all mapped out!”

“I said no guns, didn’t think to check for dogs.”  Frank says in his defense.

Scott lets it go, languishes on the boat catching his breath.  Aside from Frank’s wheezing, the night is suspiciously quiet, the river suspiciously calm.

Frank coughs, pats the metal, “we fuckin’ hit the jackpot, though!”

Scott smiles, warms up, and shouts out into the night.  The canoe barely has one inch of freeboard left, so laden it is with copper pipe and conduit.

Frank rallies, “you’re going to have a good time in Paris!”

“Yeah, we still gotta unload this shit,” Scott warns, then asks, “you talked to the contact, where’s he supposed to meet us?”

“Well, she, said to give a call when we got to Rosman.”

“She?  God damn, lemme guess, she sounded hot over the phone?”

Scott sits up in the boat, the gunwales ride precariously close to the surface of the water.

***

Riverlink Park is just one of the few public access points on the way upstream to the dam and to the scrapyard.  The park is abandoned when a silver Range Rover pulls into the lot.  Heavy hitters Nick and Kurt Brazier step out of the vehicle and drag a handcuffed young woman from the backseat.  She wears jeans and a brown leather jacket.  Her blonde hair falls scrappy from the struggle that led her into handcuffs.  Nick, a broad-shouldered presence, trains a pistol on the woman while his younger brother Kurt forces her to her knees in the bright halogen high-beam headlight.

Lorraine struggles, showing her fire, but is outmatched by Kurt whose meaty hands clamp and direct.  She is bound and can’t give much of a fight.  Having her hands cuffed behind her back makes her movements heavy awkward.  Having a weight on her forearms proximal to the cuffs skews the playing field even further.  The weight:  a chain link from a ship’s anchor, at least forty pounds of lead and rust.  The glints of moonlight on the river shine magnetic.

***

Scott and Frank continue to drift downstream.  Copper strewn about the canoe tangles  about Scott’s leg as he places his foot on the floor of the boat.  Frank sprawls at the other end of the boat, exhausted, coughing.

“Pot’s putting a damper on my track and field performance.”  Frank coughs.

“How much do you think we got?”  Scott asks, referring to the scrap.

“Couple grand, easy.”

“What are you going to do with your half?”

“Well, not to spoil the surprise, but I thought I would let you have it.”

“What?  Frank?  No way man, I—”  Scott is moved and shifts his foot into a growing pool of water in the floor of the boat.

Frank interrupts, “—Just send me a postcard with a Parisian hooker on it and I’ll be happy.”

Scott smiles, “Bon voyage a la Pear-ee!  Thanks, man.  I don’t know what to say.  He produces a flask.  Here’s to smooth sailing.  What the. . ?”  Water, spurting up from a tiny puncture in the hull of the boat, soaks into Scott’s shoe.

“Aw, shit!  We’re sinking!”

“What?” Frank’s eyebrows raise in shock.

“Sinking!  We’ve sprung a leak.”  Scott hand bails some water out of the boat, useless.  In a panic, Scott tosses some of the scrap metal overboard.

Frank reacts to the sinking metal.  “What are you doing?”

“We gotta drop some weight!”

“No, that’s money!”  Frank warns, and then, “Oh, shit.  Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“You know I can’t swim good.”

Too late:  the boat dives like a sub, then capsizes.  Scott drops the paddle, ditches the scrap metal, and grabs his friend.  The two float, spill, splash into the river, into the night, and over their heads.

***

At Riverlink Park, in the full brunt of the Range Rover’s headlight, Kurt tears a strip of duct-tape from Lorraine’s mouth.  “Big threat now, aren’t you?”

Lorraine gasps a breath, stunned by the ripped tape.  Before she can assess the sensation, Kurt’s backhand strikes down heavy, flattening her to the ground.  On her back, she gets a short view of several stars before Kurt yanks her back up into the halogen high-beam.  Kurt balks another swing at Lorraine and she cowers in reflex.

From the shadow, Nick speaks: “What I don’t understand is how you knew where the coins we’re going to be in the first place.  Guess it don’t matter much now. . . That is, because soon, you’ll be dead.”

Kurt’s hand falls like a sledge.  Upon hearing this, Lorraine’s fears take shape and take flight as she deflates with a shriek.

***

Scott and Frank slog along the banks of the Swannanoa River soaking wet.  The two drag the canoe through brush thick with mountain laurel and thorny weeds.  Only a few pieces of the precious scrap metal remain in the boat.

Scott is manic with despair, “this bullshit!  I am so fucked!”

“Take it easy, man.”

“Take it easy?”  Scott drops the stern of the boat.  “Easy?  Had I not been dragging you ashore, I would have been able to get more of the copper.”

“Well, you saved my canoe.”

“Canoe?  The canoe is mine to begin with. . . pretty much all I have to sell at this point.”

“We’ll figure something out,  you can’t sell the canoe.”

“What’s to figure out?”  Scott implores, “In three days, come up with a couple grand in three days?  We’ve been planning this for nearly a month!  If your ass knew how to swim, this wouldn’t be the case.  Damn right I am selling the canoe.  Maybe force you to wear a life jacket or something.”

At this point, the report from Lorraine’s shriek breaks the argument.  Frank looks around “What’s that?”

Scott raises a finger to his lips and ducks down.  Frank follows suit.  They both blanch self conscious, figuring that they were alone, hoping they were alone.  The shriek registers too much like distress, keens the senses, alerts the hair on the back of the neck.

Lorraine panics and loses her composure.  To her, being alone sparks the source of her fears.  Like an end to idealism, the gravel parking lot, the taste of blood on her lip.

Nick speaks calmly like he’s telling the time, “forgive my brother Kurt.  As you can guess he’s interested in very little of what you’ve got to say.”  The pause speeds the tempo of Lorraine’s heart.  “But I bet you are interested in what he is about to do.”

As if rehearsed, Kurt unfolds his knife.  “Tell us what you’ve got on Kress.”

“I know he’s jerking you two around.”  Lorraine says with mock confidence as she spits in Kurt’s face.  Nick laughs at his brother as he motions him to not stab Lorraine in his rage.

“I have to say Lorraine, you played it pretty good.  I bet if you would have been a little more patient, we probably would have sold you the coins.”  Nick announces, almost bored with his menace.

It’s Kurt who picks up the pace, “Instead, now, I got to shove this knife in your lung, and roll you down the bank into the river.  So, why don’t you tell us, how much does Kress know?”

Lorraine retraces her steps wondering when and where she lost track,  she wishes Nick had not called her on her lack of patience.

Nick interprets the blank look as a stonewall:  “I would just as soon shoot you, but Kurt here wants you to suffer a bit before it all goes black.  That way you might learn a bit about patience.  You see, the weight there on your wrists, will pull you to the bottom of the river, but since it is behind your back, you will be face up when the water starts to seep into the knife wound.  It’s the Swannanoa River, so you know it’s going to burn.  And if you do survive that, there won’t be much left of you when you go over the falls.  And if you survive that, the Gar and Catfish down there at the bottom are sure to noodle you to pieces.”

Lorraine looks up, malleable, more offended than angry.  Kurt mistakes this for steel resolve.  He grabs the waistline of her jeans, pulls her close, his meaty fingers disgustingly close to her pubis.  Kurt flings open her leather jacket and tears down her shirt exposing her bra, chest, and ribs.  He points his knife a few inches to the left of her solar plexus.  “Tell us.”

Lorraine squirms, whimpers.

Scott and Frank clutch lengths of brass pipe as they watch from the edge of the clearing.  From where they stand, the view is obscured by the bright lights on the Range Rover.  They see enough to make out a figure, a person on their knees about to be executed.

Frank exclaims in a whisper, “we got to do something!”

“Are you crazy?”

“They’re going to kill that dude!”

Lorraine let’s out a shriek as Kurt’s knife dimples the skin on her rib.

“You mean, ‘they’re gonna kill that girl.’” Scott corrects.

“Either way, we just can’t sit here.”

“And we can’t get involved, we got enough to figure, got problems of our own.”  Scott says to Frank, who is about to pop.  Frank’s not buying it, Scott appeals further, “And besides, they got guns.”

Scott points the brass pipe to a figure in shadow whom Frank did not see.  It is Nick standing there keeping watch over his brother Kurt and Lorraine.  Nick’s .45 gleams in the halogen beam, also gleaming on his hand is a Tampa Bay Buccaneer’s Super Bowl Championship Ring.

“Scott, let’s do something!”  Frank implores.

“No!  Simple self preservation, my man.  We don’t know what she’s done to get herself into this mess.  Shit, she may be a serial killer who hacked up that guy’s sister or something.”

Frank can’t take it, he begins to charge.

“Wait, wait, alright.  Let’s think this through at least.  They got guns.  We’ve got. . . shit, nothing.”  Scott offers as the voice of reason.

“We got surprise, we’ll sneak up on them.” Frank interjects.

“And do what, tell them the park closes at dusk?  Invite them for beers, so we can all talk this out?”

Frank will not hear any of it, “I’m going,” he says.

“No, wait. . . you go back to the boat.  Give me a couple of minutes and then I want you to make the biggest ruckus of your life.  Got it?”

Frank is suspicious, “what are you going to do?”

“Don’t know, haven’t thought that far yet.  Couple minutes for me to get up closer and then the biggest racket you can make.  Like a wild fuckin’ animal, hear me?”

Frank nods and ducks off.  Scott takes a moment to compose.  Gripping the pipe, grinding his teeth, he sneaks toward the clearing.

Scott steals in close enough to eavesdrop Nick threatening Lorraine.

Nick holds the pistol with the ease of a dinner fork, “You make it hard to trust anyone, Lorraine—if that is indeed your real name.  You know, I feel like I have been taken advantage of.  I even thought that we we’re getting, you know, close.  But now, I need you to talk to me, I need you to tell me if Kress knows anything.  You see, Kurt and I want to know if when we go to steal the coins, those contracts, and the cash, our boss Mr. Kress will be none the wiser.  Tell you what, you tell us and Kurt here won’t stab you before he drops you into the river.  That way you’ll at least have a chance to Houdini your way out of this.  What do you say?”

Lorraine pales, a nauseous reflex.

Scott hyperventilates on the fringe of the parking lot.  He holds a rock in one hand and the pipe in the other, trying to psyche himself up, waiting for the cue.

Kurt forces the knife point as far as it will go before it breaks the skin.  “Tell us.”

A formal quiet comes, time, the river, a moment, a measure when passion replaces fear.

Then:

Frank hammers his length of brass pipe on the side of the canoe and lets loose a wail to stir the riverbank like a flood.

Nick sweeps his pistol on the dark woods and steps into the beam of the headlights.

Scott raises, hurls the rock at Nick.  The rock misses Nick but tags the windshield.  Scott charges.

Kurt backs off of Lorraine to get a bearing on the situation.  That was a mistake.  Lorraine  seizes the moment, falls back on the weight of the chain link and sends her foot right into Kurt’s groin.  Kurt grunts in pain before he slashes at Lorraine and nicks her ear.

Lorraine staggers to her feet but falls and tumbles down the embankment.  That was luck.  Otherwise, the bullet from Nick’s gun would have pierced her neck.  The report from the gunshot silenced Frank’s diversion.  Scott stops his charge, worried that his friend may have caught the shot.

Nick aims again at Lorraine sliding down the bank, but this time Kurt’s head juts up into the line of fire.  Angry, Nick stalls, considers the shot on his brother before he lowers the weapon.  Lorraine tumbles off of a small cliff into the river.

Hearing the splash, Scott changes direction and dives in after Lorraine; out of sight of Nick and Kurt.

Kurt and Nick stay cautious and alert.  Nick questions his brother, “did you get her?”

“I think so, did you?”  Kurt doubles over in pain.

Nick is furious, “the fuck was that noise?  God damn it, Kurt, why didn’t you stick her when you had a chance?”

“Sorry, don’t worry, the river will take care of her, no way she could survive that.”  The two look over the edge into the river and see nothing, no signs of Lorraine or anyone else.

“No way she could survive that,” Kurt assures his brother.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” Nick scolds.  They walk back to the Range Rover and, after busting out the rest of the shattered windshield, they drive away.

Under its surface, the Swannanoa River is eerie quiet.  Lorraine’s struggles like a dance at half-step as she shimmies her bound arms under her legs to get them out in front.  Doesn’t matter, even in front of her, the chain link weighs too much for one to support.  Lorraine struggles suspended until Scott arrives and together they are able to breach the surface for a quick breath before they notice the falls.

Town Falls, just downstream of Riverlink Park, is a deceptive rapid.  It looks intimidating as a six-foot tall cascade.  Before it was demolished, the falls marked the site of the only bridge that connected the wilderness outside of Asheville with the town.  Metal rebar used in supporting the bridge now remains just below the surface embedded into the razor-sharp dynamited rock.

Turbulent water nearing the rapid pulls Scott and Lorraine apart as they both clutch on to the chain link and kick furiously to keep their heads above the surface.  No match against the current, the two submerge and tumble over the brink.  It’s not graceful, but the two manage to sluice their way through the froth and hazard with only minor scrape.  Exhaustion perhaps saving them as they did not fight the flow.

From the calm pool below, Scott drags a ragged Lorraine ashore and lays her in the silt.  He eyes the weight on her wrists with suspicion.  He takes a moment to pat himself down to assess any damage.  He then hovers over Lorraine, notes the blood trickling from her ear.  Scott prays that he does not have a dead body on his hands.  His gaze lingers too long on her blond hair, cut ear, and exposed bosom.

Through some fancy legwork, Lorraine reverses and mounts Scott, using her unconsciousness as a ruse.  She lifts the chain link high above her head and prepares to smash the thoughts out of Scott’s head.  Fury lights up her face, Scott winces.

Crunching leaves underfoot, Frank springs from the woods and tackles Lorraine moments before the sledge drops.

Lorraine’s fire is full-flame, “Get off me!”

Frank pins her to the sand lucky the cumbersome weight of the chain link is on his side.  “Hey take it easy, sister!  Some thanks, this guy just saved your ass.”  Scott emerges from the terror of nearly having his skull bashed.

Lorraine won’t hear it, “I was fine, had those meatheads.  Now, they’re gone, they’re on to me and months of work down the drain thanks to you.”

Scott shoots a told-you-we-should-not-get-involved look to Frank who looks back in agreement upon hearing Lorraine: “Look, now we’ve got to go get them.”  Gorgeous, mad, and handcuffed—a pretty girl with as much motive as mystery.

Scott tries to ratchet the tension down, “Sorry if you must’ve hit your head when we went over the falls, but it sounds like you need some bolt cutters and some rest and to be on your way.”

Lorraine, outraged, fires back, “No, we’ve only got a couple of days.”

“A couple of days til what?”  Frank asks.

“Until those goons ruin everything.  The coins, the town, everything!  Why are you two just staring at me, let’s go!”

Scott and Frank extol an embarrassed silence before Scott again tries to defuse the situation.  “Hey, your bleeding.  And from the looks of it, not that it’s any of our business, you were about to be cut up for bait.  Now, we can cut you out of those chains, but we’ve got problems of our own that don’t involve rescuing crazy ladies out of the river and chasing down thugs with guns.  So cool your wheels, let us cut you out of that shit, and we will all be on our way.”

Lorraine cools a little, the mention and sight of blood makes her nauseous.  “Why do you have bolt cutters so handy?” she asks.

“What’s the difference, they’re close by, do you want us to help or not?”  Scott volleys, reminded again of how his night has not gone according to plan.

***

At the canoe, Scott clips the cuffs with the cutters.  The weight drops to the ground with a thud.

Lorraine eyes the remaining pieces of scrap metal in the canoe.  “You guys plumbers?” she asks.

“We’re not Olympic swimmers, that’s for sure,” Scott points out, trying to change the subject and chide Frank whom, he feels, was the first link in this descending chain reaction.

Lorraine won’t let up: “Why are you two out here schleping all of this metal around in the middle of the night?”

Scott plays it close to his chest, saying, “seems rather fortunate that we were in the area, don’t you think? doesn’t really matter why it is we are out here.  You know, remember that part where we were helping you out of a jam?”

“Like I said, I had it under control.” Lorraine defends with a particular venom.

“Underwater, maybe. . .”  Frank adds, trying badly to break up the quarrel.

Lorraine keeps Scott in an icy stare, “Let’s cut the crap; let me guess, you guys are fencing copper stolen from the houses in your own neighborhood.  Fucking scavengers!  You think you are pulling a fast one on ‘the man’ or something.  Well, let me tell you this, the man doesn’t care about your nickel and dime hustle.  You are just adding to the bigger problem.”  Her voice trails, losing its steam, feeling it a lost cause.

Scott weighs in, “and just who the hell are you with your public service announcement?” He inquires, adding, “Get your facts straight, we didn’t steal shit from no houses.”

“Yeah, we stole it from the middleman.”  Frank blurts, and Scott cringes at the incrimination.

“You guys are pathetic:  Let people come into your town and take over while you scratch for some profit in the transition.  Families are losing their homes, soon this place will be teeming with condos and old white people.”

Scott answers, “that’s gentrification.  What business is it of yours?  What’s your grand scheme for righting this injustice, running for mayor?”

“No, I’ll tell you. . .” Lorraine pauses as she considers her options.  She realizes how far back this night could have set her against Kurt and Nick.  She advances, figuring it best to get the cards out on the table, “I am going to rob the Blue Ridge Savings Bank. . .” she announces as if it were her name, surprised to hear the words from her mouth, finishing it off with, “. . .and, to be honest, I could use your help.”

Scott takes this in with a raised eyebrow, “Let me get this straight, you’re harping on us for stealing stolen scrap metal and you want us to help you rob a bank?”

Scott rolls his eyes in disbelief, looks at Frank expecting him to play along.

Instead, Frank bites, “How much, what’s the take?”

“Whoa Frank, what do you mean ‘how much?’  ‘How much’ jail time? ‘How much’ surgery to remove the bullets?  ‘How much’ is the casket going to cost?”

Lorraine clarifies, “it’s not about the money,” she says, “it’s about saving your town from Walter Kress and his good-ole-boy crony network,” adding with less emphasis, “that, and retrieving some rare gold coins.”

Scott has heard enough, “Look, what did you say your name was?”

“Lorraine.”

“Look Lorraine, we’d love to help, honest, but I think our best bet is to find your medication.  Don’t get me wrong I could sure use the money.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Right, ‘not about the money,’ what’s it about then. . . practice?”

“It’s about evidence, a safe-deposit box with evidence that could put Walter Kress away for good.”

Scott tunes to that name, recognizing it as the same one he heard Fire Chief McCoy mention when he left the bar earlier.  “Who is this Kress I keep hearing so much about?  What is he, some old boyfriend did you wrong?  And when did bank robbing become a public service?  Look, sorry Loretta—”

“It’s Lorraine.”

“Sorry, Lorraine, but we got reality-based business deals to attend to.  You’re welcome for the help, good luck and good night.”  Scott grabs the bow of the canoe waits for Frank to do the same.  Frank does with some hesitation and the two begin to go on their way.

Lorraine stops them in their tracks, saying, “Good luck?  Good luck meeting your friend in Rosman.”

Scott and Frank look to each other and then back to Lorraine.  How?

“Let me guess, her name is Emily and she’s from southern California,” she says, and the puzzled look on Frank’s face confirms.  Lorraine continues, “I have been following the metal trade in this area for a year now trying to get closer to these coins, so don’t think I don’t know about your small-time heist.  You guys are disgusting.  You would probably only botch my plan up anyway.”  Lorraine storms off into the night.

Scott and Frank share a bewildered look until Frank chides, “Well, Scotty, there goes the end of your money problems.”

Scott won’t buy the irony, “Robbing banks is rarely a cure to money problems, might I remind you.  Even if it is an old minimally-secured building.”

Frank smiles, knowing Scott’s fondness for architecture, but Scott doesn’t take the bait, he mushes forward dragging the canoe trying to sound convincing, hiding infatuation and inspiration, “what a whack job, huh?”

“Who?”

“The girl! Who do you think?  And who do you think this guy Kress is, anyway?”

The aluminum canoe grinds over the leaves as the two make their way out of the woods.

***

Earlier on this same evening in the River District, in land now zoned as commercial due to the expansion of the Norfolk Southern railway roundhouse, Walter Kress watches a ramshackle shanty from the controlled environment of his Lincoln town car.  His silver hair, sharp suit, and silver cufflinks shine a menace.

The house belongs to Brenda Reed, who peers out from behind a gap in the curtain and looks on the car lurking in her driveway.  She is an African American with two young children tucked behind her.  The children stand quiet with palpable anxiety.  A silver Range Rover pulls up next to the sharp Town Car.  Kress’ car is made more impressive sitting next to a early 80’s Datsun B210.

Nick gets out of the Rover looking over into the backseat.  “Stay put, sweetheart,” is all he says.  Kurt laughs as the two slam the doors.  The passenger bound in the backseat is Lorraine, cuffed to the armrest.  Her mouth is taped, but her malediction is understood.

As Kress, Nick, and Kurt confer in front of the house, Brenda appears.  She totes a child on her hip and drags one in tow.   “We don’t want any trouble, it’s just. . . there’s no place to go.”

Kress deletes Brenda from his mind within moments, barely noticing her walk out.  He turns to Nick, gets down to business, “Did you take care of the girl?”

“Not yet, she’s in the truck.”  Nick’s answer.

“You idiot! are you a fucking idiot, you mean you brought her here?”

“She’s chained up, it’s OK.”

“I’ll tell you what’s OK.  I don’t know how, but she already knows too much to begin with.  I’ve got a shareholder’s banquet tonight that needs to be flawless—meaning no surprises from her.”

Nick appeals to his boss, “what do you want us to do?”

“Get the tools, we’ll take care of this and then you two better take care of the girl.”

Brenda tries to appeal to a mercy unheard of in Asheville’s most prominent real-estate developer.  “Mr. Kress, I am sorry, but I just don’t have the money.”

Kress cuts her short, “It’s not about the money. . . now get off my property.”

Kurt and Nick forage around in the back of the Range Rover collecting sledgehammers and pick-axes.  Upon seeing this, Brenda clutches her children and shuffles them off to her shitty B210.  No car seat for the little ones, the engine cranks like an old lawnmower.  She drives off in a rage fitting for someone forced out of generations.  “You’re an evil man, this house has been in my family since, since the beginning.  I pray for you.”  Her final anathema as she rolls down the window.  Looking at the Range Rover, she sees a foot in the backseat kicking at the glass.  Brenda drives wild, motivated by fear and protection.

Inside the house which once served as a carriage stop on the way to the Vanderbilt Estate and has since been left to entropy, Kress, Nick, and Kurt deftly make their way downstairs into basement where a old boiler belts out noxious fumes.  Under Kress’ supervision, Kurt and Nick tear into a certain spot in the corner.  The pick and sledge slam into moldy brick until they find what they want: an old tin box.  Nick grabs the briefcase-sized tin and smiles up at his boss, “we got it.”

“That’s it, the coins?” Kress inquires, the business in his voice giving way to excitement.

Nick passes the box to his brother who passes it to Kress who dusts it off and opens it at once.  His face shines with recognition.  “She never knew her money problems were right under her feet.

***

Scott and Frank emerge from the wood with their canoe and the few-hundred dollars worth of scrap that they were able to salvage from the swamped boat.  No bother with the crane mounted to the back of Frank’s van, the two instead hoist the canoe onto the deck and drive off somber and sullen.

Standing over the embankment, Scott and Frank peer over the side where they had found the motorcycle earlier.  The only difference is that the motorcycle is gone, vanished.

“Damn it,” Scott shouts, “what does a person have to do to score a buck in this town?”

“Easy come, easy go on this one, my friend.”

“Shut it, Frank.”

“It’s OK, we’ll go and boost that welder I have been looking at down by Max’s work.  We’ll sell it; and that, matched with the copper we didn’t lose, should be enough for you to get settled in Paris.”

“You’re right. . . thanks, man.  Sorry I am so tense. . . It’s just, I’m sick of it.  You have to make 30 grand a year just to be considered poor.  Maybe Lorraine was right, rob the rich before they take a giant dump on you. . . Let’s go meet Max.”

They get back into the van and drive uptown.

***

The view from the roof top of the Haywood Park Hotel shows lights speckled in the mountains distant and the bustle of street life below.  Scott and Frank consult with Max Salgado, a stocky Latino in his late 20’s who wears the double-breasted garb of a bellhop.  Max and Frank pass a joint as all three observe the sweep and spectrum of the city.  Erupting before them stands the steel I-beams of a condominium construction project that will soon be medium-rise, mixed-use development.  To their left, a window to the Starnes Room partitions the view inside a building adjacent to the hotel.  Beyond the glass a black tie event looks like a scene from a political fairy tale.  Looking off of the roof to the south stands a run down tenement.  A particular window in the tenement switches on its light and frames an obscured figure pacing frantically inside.  The three can’t see who it is in the tenement, they just know that within a year the building won’t be there.  Make way for more worthy real estate.  Past, present, and future, the town, Asheville, spans before them hemmed in by the cold Balsam Mountains and the Walnut Range.  Max hands the joint back to Frank who breathes out smoke caught by the damp night.

Max picks up on the story he has heard.  “So, wait, I’m confused, what does this girl got to do with why you are all wet.  I don’t get it?”

The smoke rises and dissipates.

The tenement window leads to Lorraine’s room.  Inside she tears off her wet clothes and puts on a banquet server’s black and whites.  Her athletic build is foiled by the server’s penguin costume.  The single apartment shows the wear and tear of a crash pad; part hideout, part base of operations.  Clutter covers the sparse furnishings: a hammock, some folding chairs, a glass coffee table strewn with wax-paper food wrappers, books, photos, and notes.  A telescope rests on a small balcony—the lens not sighted to the stars, but on the street below.

Lorraine rushes around the apartment and settles in front of a makeshift vanity.  She tries to put on some mascara after staunching the blood from the cut in her ear.  She applies and adjusts a dark brown wig over her blond hair and adjusts it to cover the wounded ear.  A pair of tortoise shell glasses draw attention away from the bruise at the corner of her eyebrow.  Her accuracy with cosmetics is unpracticed.

In her haste, she glances at a photograph wedged in the mirror.  In the photo, a man stands holding a child, oil pumps and an arid landscape stretch out in the background.  Taking in the sight of the photo stops her cold.  She chokes and a few tears drain from her eyes threatening her mascara.  She tamps down her feelings, touches the photo, gathers a few items, and hustles out the door.

Max reaches for his back pocket and offers a passport to Scott.  The passport declares Swiss citizenship and looks spot on as a fake for Scott.  “Here you go mijo, my best work yet.”  Among Max’s many talents, document forgery ranks high on the list.  It is the reason he now works at the Haywood Park Hotel—part of his parole.  He was in art classes with Scott and Frank before he developed a proficiency with lithographs and printmaking.  He started off with green cards for his family, then graduated to underage I. D.’s.  These were his specialty in college, as were social security cards.  One of the social security cards that he had made someone thought they could improve on it and pasted a photograph on it to make it more legitimate.  Thus, Max’s time in the can. “I don’t know why you want to go, but I hope this helps.”

“Thanks, Max.  Hopefully I don’t have to go this far undercover, but you never know.”

“And for you, Frank, there she is.”  Max points to a Miller D2140 tig welder located on fifth floor of the construction site.  Frank is happy but is more captivated by what’s going on in the Starnes Banquet Center.  Max clarifies, “Some Riverside Re-development event.  Non-tipping putas.”

Scott interrupts and points, “Max, why do they have that pit dug out of the alley over there next to the bank?”

“I think it’s going to be the elevator for the underground parking structure.  They are having a shit storm with that, since they have to dig up the electrical vault next to it.”

Frank catches Scott’s train of thought, “Sounds like someone is feeling persuaded.”

“What’s the difference, stealing an arc welder, robbing a bank?”

“You mean a plasma cutter.”

“Same thing, whatever.  Let’s just get to it, I got a plane to catch in three days.”

Max and Frank grab a wooden plank and slide it to span the width of alley between the hotel and the construction project scaffolding.

Scott objects, “Whoa, hold on, you mean this is how we are going to get across?  Hell no way, you’re crazy!”

“What’s a matter, Scott, can’t you swim?”  Frank chides, thankful for the opportunity.  Frank braves the height like it was nothing, striding across the plank adding a pirouette in the center.  Scott’s head swims in the vertiginous angle, his legs sway uncertain. . .

 

SYNOPSIS

Would you rob your local bank if you thought it was the only way to save a neighborhood from foreclosure?

In the Blue Ridge Mountain town of Asheville, Scott Coltrane watches the gritty river-district and its creative class face foreclosure from outside developer Walter Kress. But what does Scott care? He doesn’t want to get involved. He feels that the town hasn’t done much for him and, since he dropped out of college, has been itching to go any place less provincial. So, he has packed up his sketchbooks and bought a plane ticket for Paris leaving at the end of the week. Like his drawings, everything for his trip is planned to perfection

Good riddance, or so Scott thinks until he accidentally rescues Lorraine from being drowned by the hands Kress’ henchmen. Lorraine, a head-strong treasure hunter, will not let Kress’ thugs keep her from a safe-deposit box where the oldest gold coins ever minted in the U. S. are stored along with sham contracts that show Kress’ rights to the land aren’t worth the paper on which they’re printed. When Scott is seduced into helping Lorraine, he learns the value of his quirky community runs parallel with the real risks of robbing a bank. Scott gets involved with the heist and with the girl, but in the end he learns that the only thing worse than chasing a treasure is chasing a treasure hunter.

The excerpt above is roughly Part 1 of a 3 part story