Lucky find

Greed, baby. Greed.

“You know, this is a nice place,” Miguel said while Frankie taped up another box. Now that the clutter was going, he could see just how spacious the living room was. “I wonder how much the rent is.”

“Forget it, man.” Frankie grunted, putting the box on top of the others on the dolly. “You could never afford a place like this. And besides,” he said, breathless. “That landlord is a fucking piece of shit.”

“So? They’re all pieces of shit.”

Frankie clicked his tongue. “Come on, man. Stop it with this. Don’t make me do all the work, again. He’s only paying us til two and we haven’t even started on these other rooms yet.”

“Chill, man, chill. We’ll get it.”

“Yeah, because I’m doing all the work. Here—“ He flipped Miguel one of the folded-up boxes. “Get to it.”

“Fine.” He started folding out the box, nodding at the walls in appreciation. “Still, it’s a nice place. I think I’m gonna see what he’s asking.”

Frankie rolled his eyes. Only way he could afford a place like this is if he won the lottery. “Be my guest. Just make sure you do it after the work is done.” He looked at Miguel, still in the process of folding out the box and snatched it from his hands. “Give me that. Just— get some of these boxes downstairs.”

For once, Miguel did what he was told. He grabbed the handles of the dolly, began to turn it towards the door, when another whistle stopped him.

“Hey man.”

“Wha-at?” Frankie said, exasperated.

“What are we gonna do with the bird?”

Frankie followed his gaze to where it sat perched on the mantle, a splash of bright green against the beige, its beak an inflamed red. Miguel had spent almost half an hour downloading an app to see what kind it was. An Indian Ring-Necked Parakeet, turns out. Big deal. Most of what it’d done since they got here was strut around above the fireplace, watching them go about their work.

Well, watch Frankie go about his, anyway.

“I don’t know, man. We’ll ask the guy.”

“I hope he don’t put it in storage, too. It looked pretty hungry.” Miguel had been feeding it some potato chips earlier— that had taken another half hour.

“He’s not gonna— man, would you get to work, already? Who cares about that fucking bird, anyway? It’s like—”

“Two million.”

Frankie fell silent, looking at Miguel. Miguel stared right back. But neither of them had spoken. The words, delivered in a croaking voice, had come from the bird.

Miguel moved forward, backs of his fingers tapping against Frankie’s upper arm, distracted. “Hey man,” he whispered. “That’s one of those talking birds, man.”

“A parrot,” Frankie muttered.

The bird let out a three note melody. Croaked. Then: “Two million. Hidden away.”

Miguel turned to face Frankie, eyes wide. “Dude. What… the… fuck?”

Frankie sniffed. “It’s probably just repeating some shit he heard on TV, man. Calm down.”

“Man, look at this place. Whoever lived here musta had some serious dough. Rich people are always stashing cash. Who’s gonna know about it, except that fucking bird, man?”

Frankie could see the fever of the idea taking hold in Miguel’s eyes as he was talking. Was just about to open his mouth to tell him why that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, when the parrot spoke again.

“Two million.” Croak. “Margrave.”

Frankie frowned. “Wait. Margrave… I know that name. How do I know that name?”

Miguel had whipped out his phone, started typing while Frankie searched his mind.

“Here’s something,” Miguel said. “Paul Margrave, CEO of Eh.. Ehkta—“

“Ektakos!” Frankie finished, seizing on the memory. “Yeah. He was this big finance guy. Went to prison for ripping off his clients.”

Miguel didn’t paid him any attention, kept swiping through whatever article he was reading, mumbling some words and fragments his eye caught on. Then his voice slid up in volume.

“… and to this day autho— authorities… believe that Margrave has taken steps to ah—assure—“ he broke off, held out the phone. “Here, man. You read it.”

Frankie skimmed the article to find the pertinent part. 

“And to this day authorities believe that Margrave has taken steps to assure his ill-gotten gains will not be uncovered. Rumors abound about what has happened to the millions. The search for any off-shore bank accounts held by Margrave or his accomplices still continues, but so far there is little hope of restitution for the investors the hedgefund managers defrauded to the tune of some eighty million dollars. Some sources close to the case have speculated that Margrave— who is rumored to be obsessed with the Prohibition Era mobsters— may have buried all or part of his fortune, in the style of the late Dutch Shultz.”

The article continued but Frankie had read enough. Looking up from the screen, Miguel stared at him with a stunned expression.

“Holy shit, man,” he breathed. “I mean— Holy shit, right?”

“Yeah.” The word dragged. Then it dawned on him. “Wait— You think the bird… you think it knows where the money is?”

He spluttered, started laughing.

Miguel made a face, snatched the phone from his hand. “Whatever, man. Watch the bird.”

Still giving to fits of laughter, Frankie watched as he tiptoed across the room. “What are you doing now?”

Giving him a look that said it was obvious, he pointed at the double doors leading to the terrace. “I’m gonna close ‘em, make sure it doesn’t take off.”

Frankie held up his hands. “And then what?”

“What do you think, man?” he said when the doors were shut. “When we’re done—“ he pointed to the mantle “—I’m taking that motherfucking bird.”

Frankie laughed again. “You’re crazy.”

“We’ll see, man. We’ll see.”

Frankie shook his head. It was pointless to argue with him when he got this way. “Before you do anything, can you please get those goddam boxes downstairs?”

---

“Money? Can you talk about the money?”

“Christ, man,” Frankie said, leaning forward to find the remote in the landfill Miguel called a coffee table. “Can you quit it maybe five seconds with that bird? I’m trying to watch this.”

“You can always go home.”

“Fat chance,” Frankie said, crinkling through the empty bags of potato chips. It was bottom of the third and the Mets had pulled ahead against the Marlins. McGill had just gotten racked up his seventh out of the game. A tiny sliver of a silver lining in this absolute turd of a day.

As expected, the work hadn’t been anywhere near finished by the time the landlord came up. A heated exchange of words had led to a swift termination of their work order and a promise to call their supervisor. That call had come in while they were en route to the lot. After a lot of noise, Hiram said they were off for the rest of the afternoon— without pay. Wether or not they even had a job anymore, was a matter he’d sleep on.

While Frankie was being chewed out, Miguel had been next to him, cooing to the cardboard box on his lap. 

A stand of beer bottles went over like bowling pins. When he was too lazy to get up (always), Miguel used the half-drunk beer bottles as ashtrays. Now a lukewarm mixture of beer and cigarette ash gurgled over his hands and the trash on the coffee table as he tried to contain the spill.

“Fuck, man!” Frank yelled, flicking the filth from his hands. “Why don’t you ever clean this mess?”  

“Chill, man! You’re freaking out the bird.”

Frankie’s face darkened as he turned to Miguel. One dripping index wavered in the air, while he tried to get to the words. Then he pointed at him. “Listen to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t give a shit about that fucking bird! All I wanted was to watch this game in peace and pretend I still have a job to go to in the morning. Although we both know that’d be a miracle.” 

He grimaced, spying a wet filter wrapper glued to his finger like a bandaid. Peeling it off, he threw it to the floor with revulsion. 

“Now can you please get a rag or some shit so we can clean off that fucking table?” As much good as that would do; the liquid was pattering onto the carpet even now. Judging by the color, it wasn’t the first time.

“Yeah, man, shit. It’s in the kitchen.”

“You get it. I’m gonna wash my hands, take a leak. I’ve done enough today on account of your lazy ass.”

Miguel had more to say, but he’d had enough, stalked up the hall to the bathroom. All he wanted was to watch the rest of the game, maybe drink a beer or two (provided there were some left that weren’t serving as makeshift ashtrays), before he had to get home and explain that he might be out of a job. 

Frankie sighed, washed his hands in the stubble-caked sink before flipping up the lid on the toilet bowl with one boot. Looking up at the ceiling, he relieved himself. Didn’t even bother flushing; Miguel didn’t either.

Coming back out, Frankie sighed to see the coffee table was still in a state. The game had gone to commercials. He could hear Miguel puttering around in the kitchen.

Frankie ducked his head into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I’m trying to find some food for the bird, man,” Miguel said, standing on his tiptoes to look up on the upper shelf of one of the cabinets. “What do you think he likes?”

“I don’t know. Birdseed? Fucking look it up.” He paused. “Where’s the rag?”

“Right here,” he said, picking up a limp thing of undetermined color, holding it out.

“I’m not touching that. And I’m not cleaning that fucking table.”

“Christ, man. You’re the one that spilled the bottles, you know.” When Frankie didn’t respond, he blew out a breath, pulled back the rag. “Fine, be like that. I’ll come and do it in a minute, okay? I know I’ve got some crackers or some shit around here somewhere.” He frowned. “Birds eat crackers, right?”

Frankie shook his head. “I really don’t care. Just hurry the hell up.”

Leaving Miguel to his search, he sat back down on the couch, looking over the mess with a twist to his mouth. Searching for the remote, his eye fell on the bird, sitting on the easy chair at the edge of the carpet. 

“Welcome home, I guess.” He huffed. “I bet you’ll be dead by next week. Dumbass has no clue. About anything.” 

The parrot let out a low squawk. Whistled.

“Yeah, I’d be worried too, if I was you.”

Frankie threw a disgusted look over the table. “Fuck this,” he said, standing.

“2 million, hidden away,” the bird croaked.

“Shut the fuck up,” Frankie said. Began to look for his phone.

The bird let out a two-toned whistle. “2 Million. Sixth floor.”

“I don’t care,” Frankie sang back, rooting through his pockets, until he found it.

“What’d you say, man?” Miguel called from the kitchen.

“I wasn’t talking to you,“ Frankie yelled back. “I was—“

“Rosewood,” the parrot said. “Hidden away.”

Frankie words stuck in his throat. His head turned to the bird. 

“Say that again.”

The bird whistled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” Frankie snapped back over his shoulder. Then he lowered his voice to the parrot: “What’d you say? Did you say ‘Rosewood’? Say something, you motherfucker!” 

The bird hopped from side to side. Croaked. “Hidden away. Hidden away.”

“You stupid—“ Frankie hissed, but just then Miguel returned from the kitchen. 

“Found the crackers. Let me just feed the bird, then I’ll get on the table, okay?”

Frankie didn’t hear. He plucked at his bottom lip, deep in thought.

“You okay, man?”

“Hunh?” He blinked. “Uh—Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I think it’s time I hit it. Face the music, you know?”

“Now? But I thought you wanted to—“

“No, man.” Frankie rubbed the back of his neck. “Michelle is gonna be pissed enough already. Coming in late is only gonna make it worse.”

“Okay,” Miguel said slowly. “So… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“We’ll see, I guess. The way Hiram went off— I don’t know.”

He started moving for the door. 

“But… we’ve got the bird, man. If we can find out where the money’s at—“

Frankie chuckled. “No, man. That’s all you.”

“I’ll let you know, just in case, man,” Miguel called after him as he left.

---

When he was sure the coast was clear, Frankie got out of the truck and walked across the street, where the dark shape of the Rosewood stood waiting. Not a single light burned in any of its windows. Not surprising, because the building had been sealed two years prior. He knew all about it, having worked a job across the street in the days before good old Miguel. So he’d recognised the name. 

A quick Google query had informed him that the building had been seized in the wake of a messy trial. Who the current owner was, he couldn’t say. But before the seizure, it had been owned by a holding that, with some twists and turns, could be traced back to Ektakos Financial— and Paul Margrove.

And so it turned out the parrot had been useful, after all.

Frankie had been studying things for a good half hour. The street was quiet, the night allowed to take up space on account of all the broken streetlights; it was the kind of down-on-your-luck neighborhood where people had learned to mind their own business. If he wanted, he could probably take a crowbar to the front door, bold as you please, and no one’d say boo. But he wouldn’t. That was a Miguel move.

Part of him wondered why Margrove would want to invest in a place like the Rosewood anyway. Thinking back, the building had had its fair share of boarded up windows even back then. A shithole that spoke of hard living and misery, from its grimy brick facade to the weeds pushing up through the concrete beneath the ground floor windows. Neglect had been obvious even back then; it had only gotten worse since.

After a glance down the sidewalk in both directions, Frankie hastened through the alleyway to get to the back. His footfalls bounced off the stone walls rising up on either side. Too loud. But the shadows were deep enough to make sure he wasn’t seen by anyone. 

At the corner he stopped. Peeked. All good. 

Slipping from cover, he started to look for a way in, which didn’t take long. There was an empty window to the right, chest-high. There didn’t seem to be any shards left in the frame but he pulled on the heavy work-gloves, just to be sure. Grabbed the frame and pulled himself up.

Shattered glass gritted underneath his boot as he lowered himself inside, making him cringe. Heart beating fast, he listened to the silence. When it remained undisturbed, he swung in the other leg and hopped down.

By the scant light he could see a mattress slumped in one corner, the floor littered with crumpled cans of beer and the usual good-time litter. Miguel would’ve felt right at home. He just hoped he wouldn’t run in to anyone here; the last thing he needed right now was prying eyes.

The floorboards squeaked and creaked, no matter how careful he moved. Pushing open the bedroom door, it let out a groan that picked up his heart again. Fucking spook house! 

The room beyond still had some furniture left. A couch loomed up from the shadows, as broken and exhausted as the rest of the place. The dark held fast here, forcing Frankie to use the flashlight on his phone. Through the swirling dust, he could see shreds of wallpaper curling from the walls. A staved-in dresser, standing next to an open door. Beyond, the hallway to the front of the apartment.

He picked his way across the room. The floorboards voiced their protest with every step. At one point, his boot scuffed on a raised section, the sound raising his skin in harsh gooseflesh. Somehow, disturbing the deep quiet was worse. 

In the hallway, he almost tripped on some sheets wadded up against one wall. Two steps later, the tip of his boot kicked a beer can, sent it clattering while his heart raced in his chest. From then on, he scanned the floor before he took another step. 

There were more sheets spread out in the front room. More cans and bottles. From a string hung between two corners, a single sock dangled. Somebody used to live here but not recently, judging from the coating of dust on the floorboards.

The door to the main hall was to the left. Frankie inched it open, hinges giving a low squeal. He listened. A half dozen slow hard beats later, everything was still quiet and he slipped out. 

The staircase was right there. More litter lined the steps, rising up into the darkness at the edge of his flashlight’s reach. Six floors up an old wooden staircase, past apartments that may or may not contain homeless lunatics or fucking junkies, or rats. 

I must be outta my fucking mind, Frankie thought. 

But another, more seductive voice whispered: Two million.

Frankie stood indecisive for a few seconds, before hefting the crowbar. His face grew set in the gloom.

He started to climb.

---

An hour and a half later, Frankie stepped out of the first of the two sixth floor apartments. He was sweating, covered with grime. Standing on the landing, he rubbed his face, thinking. Doubt had begun to seep in, and as he looked up at the weak light seeping through the skylight, he wondered again just what the hell he was doing here, looking for a million dollar payday on the word of a fucking bird.

He’d been thorough. Or as thorough as circumstances allowed, at least. Now that he was more or less sure the building was abandoned, he’d scoured every inch of the apartment, trying to find the money. He’d even taken off the baseboards and pried up half the floorboards in the back rooms, just to make sure. There was nothing.

Unless it was in the walls. There had been a hollow sound along the bedroom wall… and he did have the sledgehammer in the truck downstairs. 

Frankie had a sudden vision of himself, covered in plaster dust, his eyes burning with mad obsession as he tore down the walls, and he sighed, shaking his head. It would probably be for the best if he left right now, gave the whole thing up for the bad deal it was.

But—

Two million. Hidden away.

—it wouldn’t hurt to check out the apartment next door, seeing as he was already here.

With another sigh he walked over and opened the door. 

Like the other unit, the place was clean compared to the ones downstairs. Made sense, perhaps. Should the cops roll up, you had a better chance of getting away. It made it easier to check out the rooms, look for anything out of the ordinary before he started tearing up the floor. 

If he’d even bother. The living room and the kitchen looked about the same. So did the hallway and the bathroom. That didn’t mean much, of course. The money could be stashed in a hundred places, even in a shithole apartment like this. Hell, the money could be stashed in a hundred separate places. He might have to tear down the whole sixth floor just to get it all.

If it was even here.

He was just going through the motions at this point: no longer sure he would find it but also aware he would be kicking himself if he left without taking the time to check, only to find out some other asshole happened upon it some years down the road. That— that would be too much. 

The bedroom door was shut. He turned the knob and pushed it open, threw a disinterested glance inside—

Until he saw the ragged hole in the bedroom wall.  

His pace sped up as he stepped inside the room. The wall had been all but torn down, only a thin rind of plaster still clung to the corners, hung from the ceiling. Inside, a mass of pipes led down. 

Coming closer, a breeze blew across his sweat-covered skin, making him shiver. The bedroom window was broken, jagged pieces reaching to one another around a melon-sized hole.

Frankie trained his flashlight back on the torn wall, but his initial excitement had waned. It was just the plumbing chase. Sure the space was a little bigger than usual. That didn’t mean—

He’d been throwing the light around, checking the edges of the opening. Now he stopped. There was something stuck in between two floorboards, a corner peeking out. Frankie bent and teased it out. Let out a surprised breath.

In his hand, he held a hundred dollar bill.

He stuffed the bill in his jacket pocket, shone the light into the crevice again. There! there was another one, caught behind one of the pipes, further down. 

Son of a bitch!

Grunting, Frankie moved on his stomach, edged out across the drop. He couldn’t make out much more, couldn’t even see the bottom. But was that a… light he saw down there? Or was it the reflection of his own flashlight bouncing off one of the pipes? He couldn’t tell.

Still trying to see, his blood turned to ice water when he heard it. Frozen, he stayed on the floor, breath held, praying he’d been wrong. A few seconds of frantic heartbeats passed, and he started to relax…

… then it came again. The sharp sound of a stair riser, cracking under someone’s weight.

Fuck.

Frankie got up with care, snuck across the room to take up position against the wall next to the door. Meanwhile, the groans and cracks continued downstairs. Closing his eyes, he prayed to whatever still gave a shit that whoever it was would turn and go. Would leave him to figure out how to get the millions out of the wall. He couldn’t be discovered here, couldn’t risk losing his chance now that he was so close. He wouldn’t.

His hand grew tight around the steel of the crowbar.

Insides crumbled away into a hollow as he listened to the noises coming closer. Definitely up to the sixth now.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Heart trip-hammering, he heard the steps scuff to a stop on the landing. Maybe the intruder would go into the other apartment and he could make a break for it. But then, wouldn’t they wonder what he’d been doing here, come upon the hole in the wall and decide to check it out? Frankie squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.

The whole thing was rendered moot when he heard the steps coming towards the apartment he was in. The floorboards creaked in the living room, sounds growing distant… before coming closer again. 

Breath went in as a slow groaning step announced the stranger’s arrival at the start of the hallway. Blue light threw a fan across the floor. Another scuffing. Blood rushed in his ears as the footfalls came up to the bedroom. The light grew stronger.

Frankie raised the crowbar.

The stranger stepped into the doorway. Frankie tensed, prepared to bring down the steel at the first sign of discovery, when:

“Oh, fuck yes. This is it, man!”

Frankie hesitated, long enough for the light to wash over him. There was a scream, the light swinging as the he stumbled back against the wall. Then:

“Christ. Frankie?”

“Yeah, Miguel,” he said, resigned. “It’s me.”

“Jesus, man. You scared the shit outta me.” There was a pause while his mind connected the dots. “You motherfucker! You were gonna steal that money!”

“Like you weren’t about to do the same.”

That took the wind out of his sails. “Yeah… maybe— Hey, hang on, man! You said you didn’t want any part of it. All you, that’s what you said, you fucking piece of shit!”

“Fine, I lied. You caught me. Now can we find a way to get the money out of the fucking wall?”

“It’s here?” Miguel whispered, excited. “You sure?”

Frankie jabbed a thumb at the wall. “I think it’s down there.”

Miguel moved to the opening, taking the light with him. “You’re not sure?” 

“There was some money— Man, what’d the bird say?”

“You know,” Miguel said, crouching by the hole to aim the light down into the gap. “Rosewood, sixth floor.” He paused. “Same thing he told your sneaking ass, probably.” 

Ignoring the jab, Frankie said: “Nothing else?”

“Nope. Shit, man. It’s deep, huh?”

“Are you sure?” Frankie pressed.

“Yeah, man. Shit.”

Frankie considered. “Alright.” he pulled out his keys. “The truck’s downstairs. Get some rope.”

Miguel looked up at him, uncomprehending.

He sighed. “We’re gonna have to climb down there, genius. We can’t use the pipes; they’re rusted as shit. Now get moving. I don’t want to be here all night.”

---

“Okay,” Frankie said, after snapped the rope taut a few times. “This oughta do it. Let’s get to it.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Frankie tipped his head towards the hole. “Let’s go.”

Miguel eyes followed his gesture to the ruined wall, then moved back at his partner. 

“Forget it, man. I’m not going down there.”

“I’m bigger than you. Stronger, too. Are you going to lower me down there?”

Miguel looked at the hole again. Let out a breath of anxious laughter. “Come on, man. I— I can’t.”

“Look,” Frankie gritted. “I’m not leaving here without that fucking money. Sack up.”

Miguel gave him a sick grin. “There’s got to be another way, man. Maybe—“ he brightened. “Maybe we can go downstairs, make a hole in the wall there.”

“We don’t even know where it is! It could be stuffed between the floors. Who knows what the fuck’s down there. If we start pounding down the walls, it could end up gone.”

“I don’t know, man—“

“It’ll be fine, Miguel. There’s plenty of room. First sign of trouble, I’ll pull you up, promise.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “But we need this. You know we do. What are you going to do, leave it here for some other guy to come along and take what should be ours? Huh?”

Miguel looked up, doubtful. “No,” he said in a small voice. “I guess, no.”

“I need you to do this, man.” Frankie shook him by the shoulder. “That money belongs to us. Think of what you could do with that cash, man. A million dollars.”

A terrible hopeful light wicked in Miguel’s eyes, began to beat at the shadows of fear. 

“All we gotta do, is get it outta there.” Frankie shrugged. “That’s all. Just a quick little climb down and then we both walk away with a million dollars.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “No more lifting, no more moving. No more fucking Hiram. You could be your own boss, man.”

Eyes on the middle distance, Miguel said: “I was thinking of getting a sweet car, man. Something nice and slick.” His mouth twitched. “For the ladies.”

“That sounds good, man. Real good.”

Miguel looked at him, hesitant. “You promise it’ll be safe?”

“You know I don’t make mistakes with knots, man.”

“You swear you won’t drop my ass?”

Frankie placed a hand on his heart with a flourish. “On my mother’s grave.”

They held each other’s eyes for a beat or two. Then Miguel breathed out: “Fuck, man.”

“Take the rope,” Frankie said. “Okay, now just… ease yourself down. Not too fast, okay?”

His cellphone was in his breast pocket, flash facing out. By its light, he watched as Miguel lowered himself down, his shadow a huge and bloated scrambling thing on the pipes behind him, until only his head stuck out above the edge of the opening.

Hanging on the floorboards, he looked up at Frankie, his face a pale oval in the blue-white glare. Brow wrinkled with worry, he said: “Don’t you fucking drop me, man.”

“I won’t. Just— give me the weight easy.”

The rope snaked across the floor, growing taut as Miguel began to sink beneath the floor.

“That’s it,” Frankie said, straining. “Easy, now. Easy.”

Only his hair was visible now, the rope bent tight against the edge of the hole. Frankie grunted. He had he full weight now. 

“Jesus, man,” he managed. “How much do you weigh?”

“Don’t, man,” Miguel’s voice came from the wall. “I’m not in the mood.”

Frankie let out a breathless chuckle. “Okay, just climb down. I got you.”

“Okay.”

He felt the jerking in the rope as Miguel lowered himself. The crack about his weight had only been half a joke; the little fucker was heavier than he looked.

An unexpected slacking made him stumble back. Then the burden returned all at once, dragging him forward four quick steps before he knew what was happening. Wrapping the rope around his left forearm, he leaned against it, lips pulling back from his teeth. The rope sawed against the wood. But he had it.

“What the hell are you doing, man?” he panted.

There was a tight spot,” Miguel’s voice drifted up, sounding hollow. “I’m past it now.”

“Warn me, next time.” He considered adding that he almost dropped him but thought better of it. “Do you see it?”

“No, man.” Scuffs and coughs came from the hole. “But there’s a light. Something gotta be down there.”

“What about money? Do you see any money?”

A pause. “No.”

“Fuck,” Frankie breathed. “It better be there, or I’m grilling that fucking bird!”

“Can’t, man,” Miguel’s echoed up. “Fucking thing flew off when I went out the door.”

Typical. “Just— keep an eye out. It might be stashed between the floors. Look for openings.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s dark in here.” There was a pause. The rope in his hands thrummed as Miguel slid down the wall. “Whoo! It smells fucking mierda in here!”

“Probably a cracked sewage pipe,” Frankie yelled back. Grunted. “Would you hurry up? You’re not getting any lighter.”

“Yeah, man. It’s just— the smell is—” There was a gagging, choking sound.

“Get it together, you—”

That was as far as he got before something hit him in the face. All at once, the lights went out and the air was alive with furious movement. Frankie screamed as sharp lines of pain raked across his cheeks and forehead. 

In his surprise, he forgot about the rope, and brought up a hand to beat the thing away.

Next thing he knew, he was pulled from his feet and dragged across the floor by the tether lashed around his right wrist. Frankie yelled, his free hand grasping for purchase on the floorboards. Fingernails broke and tore off as they gouged splinters from the aged wood, but it did little to slow him down. Speeding across the floor, he hit the inner wall hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. 

For a second or two, he lay wedged in the gap, crying out as his dislocated arm was pulled taut in its casing of muscle and tendon somewhere beneath him.

Then he was falling. Scraping against the walls and banging off rusty pipes, stale air whooping in his ears. For an instant, Miguel’s excruciating weight was lifted… and then the ground came up to meet him.

---

Frankie let out a ragged cough, followed by a hitching, shallow breath. A wetness in his mouth, tasted like metal. Everything felt broken inside.

He was standing, his shattered legs held up by the walls pressing close. Every movement made him go cold all over, forced panting painful breaths from his dry throat. If only he could lie down. But he couldn’t. Wedged between the rubble piled between the walls, he was forced to keep upright, knees digging painfully into the wall as he slumped in the crawlspace.

Somewhere beneath him, Miguel was screaming, a high, blood-curdling sound. Every time he squirmed, more red-hot fire licked up his broken legs, tearing a scream from his own lips. 

The light had gone out, no doubt because Miguel had landed on it when he fell. But the phone was still in his pocket. Taking it out was an almost impossible task. When he managed, the light shifted and he saw the grey face leaning close to him. Letting out a grunt of surprise, he almost dropped the phone.

He looked at the corpse, at its blind, bulging eyes. Maggots crawled over its lips, wriggled inside its mouth. He gagged, and another bolt of pain went tearing through him.

The phone, then. Looking at the screen, he felt his heart sinking. No signal.

Miguel was still screaming, long thin wails of agony. Frankie sobbed, despite the pain.

Between cries, there was a sound. Frankie looked up, couldn’t make it out.

Groaning, he held up the phone, caught their visitor in its light.

---

Sitting on a curved pipe, it waited until it was done. Dark eyes drank in every last movement, until there was only stillness between the walls again. Seven now, buried in a mangled heap at the bottom of the walls, atop two million dollars in hundreds and fifties.

It rose up from the depths. Landed on the floor and tucked another bill between the floorboards at the edge of the hole.

Then it was up and out the ragged hole in the window, soaring high above the city, until it spied an open window. 

From the windowsill it observed them, weighing. When it was satisfied with what it saw, it made itself known.

One of them came to the window.

“Oh my god, honey. Come look! There’s a parrot on the windowsill!”