Story code: ST-000082
Part 2: The Price of a Fifty
The hard plastic edge of Evelyn’s phone collided with Marcus’s knuckles just as Tommy’s fingers closed around the cash. The sudden impact, coupled with the glaring flash of the camera, made the teenager flinch as if he’d been struck by lightning. Tommy’s trembling hand jerked backward, completely fumbling the hand-off.
The crumpled wad of worn bills slipped from his grasp, bursting apart in the humid air. Faded tens and twenties rained down onto the oil-stained concrete of the driveway. Among them fluttered the single, crisp fifty-dollar bill, drifting lazily before settling directly between Marcus’s work boots and the front tire of the BMX bike.
Evelyn didn’t miss a beat. She lunged forward with surprising agility for a woman in an immaculate tennis outfit, bringing her pristine white sneaker down hard onto the fifty. The thick rubber sole pinned Ulysses S. Grant flat against the hot asphalt.
“Gotcha!” Evelyn crowed, her voice vibrating with the absolute thrill of a hunter springing a trap. She angled the phone downward, ensuring both her shoe and the trapped cash were perfectly framed in high definition. “Attempted distribution of illicit funds. It’s all on video!”
Tommy let out a strangled gasp, dropping his bike so violently it clattered against Marcus’s shins. The boy scrambled onto his hands and knees, frantically scooping up the scattered twenties and tens, shoving the dirty paper into the front pocket of his grey hoodie. But his eyes remained locked in sheer terror on Evelyn’s shoe.
“Marcus, please,” Tommy choked out, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wheeze of panic. “They said exactly three hundred. If it’s not the whole three hundred, they’re gonna-”
“Quiet,” Marcus snapped, stepping forward to shield the boy’s face from the camera lens. He couldn’t let Evelyn’s microphone catch the rest of that sentence. The people waiting for Tommy didn’t care about neighborhood drama, and they certainly didn’t care about HOA disputes. They dealt strictly in consequences, and if Tommy showed up even one dollar short, the punishment would be swift and brutal.
Evelyn tapped the screen of her smartwatch with her free hand, never letting the phone waver. “Siri, call 9-1-1 on speaker.”
“Calling emergency services,” the robotic voice chimed, loud and crisp in the quiet cul-de-sac.
Marcus’s chest tightened. He looked down at the desperate teenager. “Go. Get to the canal. Now.”
Tommy hesitated, his eyes darting from Marcus to the trapped fifty-dollar bill, then to the glowing face of the smartwatch.
“I said go!” Marcus barked.
Tommy scrambled backward, hauled his bike off the pavement, and practically threw himself onto the seat. The pedals spun wildly as the teenager launched himself down the slope of the driveway, the chain rattling furiously as he disappeared down the street, heading toward the drainage canal at the edge of the subdivision.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?” a dispatcher’s voice crackled from Evelyn’s wrist.
“I need officers at 442 Elm Street immediately,” Evelyn announced, her tone ringing with righteous authority. “I have caught a grown man executing a suspicious, likely narcotic-related transaction with a local minor. I have secured the physical evidence under my foot, and the suspect is acting highly aggressive!”
Marcus stared at the bright white shoe. The forced choice paralyzed him for a terrifying three seconds. He could step back, walk into his house, and wait for the police. He had no drugs on him. A thorough search would eventually clear him of Evelyn’s ridiculous charges. But that process would take hours. By the time the police finished running his background and tearing apart his living room, the five o’clock deadline would pass. Tommy would face the people at the canal alone, fifty dollars short.
Or, Marcus could get the money. He could cross the line of no return on high-definition video, virtually guaranteeing his own arrest, to save a kid who wasn’t even his responsibility.
The faint, distant wail of a police siren began to rise above the drone of the neighborhood air conditioners.
Marcus dropped to his knees.
“Don’t you dare touch me! I’m warning you, I have this all on tape!” Evelyn shrieked, taking a slight half-step backward, but keeping her weight firmly pressed down on the heel of her shoe.
Across the property line, Stan, the next-door neighbor, stepped out onto his front porch holding a garden hose. Stan froze, his jaw dropping open as he watched Marcus kneeling on the concrete, appearing to lunge at the HOA president’s legs. The public execution of Marcus’s reputation was now complete.
Marcus ignored Stan. He ignored the glowing camera lens. He wedged his fingers directly beneath the foam sole of Evelyn’s sneaker. She gasped and ground her heel down violently. The abrasive asphalt tore into the skin of Marcus’s knuckles, sending a sharp, burning pain shooting up his forearm. He gritted his teeth, feeling the warm slide of his own blood against the concrete.
He gripped the edge of the fifty-dollar bill and pulled.
The paper slid free with a sickening rip. Marcus stumbled to his feet, holding the crumpled bill. A small triangle of the bottom corner was missing, left behind beneath Evelyn’s shoe, but the serial numbers were intact. It would have to do.
“Assault! Assault and destruction of evidence!” Evelyn screamed into her watch, backing away toward the safety of her brick mailbox. “He just attacked me! Hurry!”
The wailing of the sirens was much louder now, echoing off the vinyl siding of the suburban houses. They were less than a mile away. Marcus calculated his odds. His sedan was parked in the driveway, but Evelyn was standing right behind it. If he put the car in reverse, she would undoubtedly throw herself against the bumper and claim vehicular attempted murder.
He had to go on foot. The drainage canal was a half-mile away through the thick, overgrown woods behind the subdivision. If he ran, he could bypass the winding suburban streets and beat the police cruisers to the drop point.
Marcus shoved the torn fifty into his pocket, where it brushed against the crushed neon-orange HOA citation. He turned his back on his home, his sanctuary, and broke into a dead sprint across his front lawn, plunging into the tree line as the first flash of red and blue lights reflected off the neighborhood street signs.