Below the Surface
I’m not a bad guy. Let’s get that straight right off. Sure, I’ve done things—who hasn’t? But I’m not the monster people like to make me out to be. I just… see opportunities where others don’t. If you think that’s a crime, you’re either lying to yourself or just plain stupid.
Take Ollie. Skinny kid, big eyes like he’s trying to see something just out of reach. I didn’t plan on taking him in. He just kind of… appeared one day. It was raining, one of those East Coast storms that fills the air with wet asphalt and diesel fumes. The gutters choked on candy wrappers and crushed cigarette packs, spitting them into the New York City street like even the trash wanted out.
I was heading back to my garage—a grimy place I rented off 17th where the stink of motor oil gets into your skin—when I saw him under the overpass, hunched over like he wanted to disappear. His hoodie was soaked through, water dripping in a steady rhythm from the frayed hem.
“Hey, kid!” My voice echoed off the damp concrete. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just sat there like the rain might do the job and wash him away.
I crossed the street, boots slapping into puddles. His pale face came into view, dark hollows under his eyes. His hands trembled, fingers clenched tight around his knees like he was holding himself together.
“Get lost,” he muttered without looking up.
“Relax, kid. I’m not a cop.” I held up my hands, trying not to spook him. “You hungry?”
His eyes flicked to the bag of takeout in my hand. Quick, darting. Hungry. Like he hated himself for it.
I tossed it to him. “Vinny’s. Best sausage sub you’ll ever eat.”
He tore into it, stiff fingers ripping the bag apart. The smell of garlic and marinara cut through the wet stink of the city. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the overpass, watching him inhale the thing.
“Never been to Vinny’s,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
“Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go places,” I said. And for once, I meant it.
Ollie was quiet, but he had a knack for finding things. Not just random crap—things other people missed. Things buried under years of dirt and grime. I bought him a secondhand metal detector and set him loose on construction sites, abandoned lots, anywhere people forgot about.
The first time he came back with something good, I laughed. A silver locket, tarnished and bent.
“You robbin’ old ladies now, kid?” I asked.
“Found it under some bricks,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I don’t rob people.”
I flipped it open. Inside was a tiny, faded photo of a woman in black and white. Fragile, like it might crumble if I looked too long.
“Not bad,” I said, tossing him a twenty.
His eyes went wide. “For me?”
“Yeah. Don’t spend it all on Skittles.”
After that, it was like a game. Coins, watches, the occasional ring. Nothing huge, but it added up. Then he found the box.
The tin box was warped and crusted with dirt, its lock snapped clean off—presumably by the kid. Ollie set it on the bench with shaking hands.
“Felix, look at this.”
“Where’d you dig it up?”
“Behind the old factory. Under some slabs.”
Inside were stacks of cash—old cash, bound with paper bands like from a bank. Not just a little cash—enough to make my breath catch. Beneath the bills was a notebook, its pages revealing names, dates, numbers. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they meant—or who it all belonged to.
Local legend had talked about that box and its contents ever since I’d been a kid myself. Heck, men had died over it.
I snapped it shut and grabbed Ollie’s shoulder. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“No…”
“It’s trouble,” I said, my voice low. “The kind you don’t walk away from.”
His eyes widened, and for the first time, I saw it. Fear. The kid had no idea what he’d just unearthed, but he believed me.
“Did anyone see you find it?” I asked
Ollie didn’t know.
But I sensed this was bad—real bad.
Trouble showed up two days later, wearing a greasy smirk and a name tag that read Silas Maroni. Built like a bulldozer, with two goons in tow, he strutted into my garage like he owned the place. Everyone in this part of town knew Silas. People didn’t cross him, not if they wanted to keep breathing.
“Felix,” Silas said, voice smooth as oil. His eyes swept the room. “I hear you’ve been finding things.”
“Just a lot of junk. That’s the business.”
“Funny.” He stepped closer, his boots grinding against the concrete like the slow edge of a blade. He continued. “I feel like you’re lying. I don’t like liars.”
I didn’t flinch. “Look, I don’t know what you heard, but I haven’t got anything worth your time.”
His smirk widened. He glanced at the corner where Ollie sat frozen on a milk crate. Silas’s tone dropped. “Who’s the kid?”
“Just a helper.”
Silas crouched in front of him, his massive frame casting a long shadow. “You been helping Felix? Maybe you found something interesting?”
Ollie’s eyes darted to me. He didn’t say a word.
“Leave him out of this,” I said, stepping between them.
Silas straightened, towering over me. “You’ve got 24 hours to hand over the box. Tick tock.”
The factory was cold and damp, the air thick with mildew. The box sat in the center of the floor, taped up tight. Nancy —my lifelong ride or die, leaned against a stack of crates, her fingers flexing on the tire iron. Nancy has always had my back. From the time I hot-wired my first car to now, she was the kind of person who didn’t flinch in the face of trouble—ever.
“You’re insane,” she muttered.
“Probably.” I gripped my crowbar tighter.
Silas arrived on time, his goons spreading out like wolves. He didn’t waste words. “Where’s the box?”
“Right there,” I said, nodding toward it.
My gut screamed to run, but Silas didn’t leave loose ends. We had no choice but to finish this.
Silas swung first. Fists flew. The air buzzed with the sound of metal on bone. My crowbar cracked his ribs, but he barely flinched. He drove his knee into my gut, sending me crashing into a stack of crates. Nancy swung her tire iron, catching one of the goons in the shoulder. The crunch was sickening.
Ollie, backed into a corner, froze—until something snapped. He swung a rusted pipe, the clang echoing in the cavernous space.
By the end, Silas lay face-down in a pool of blood, his nose shattered. His goons groaned on the ground, broken and beaten.
“You okay, kid?” I asked, my voice raw.
Ollie nodded, wide-eyed, gripping the pipe like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“Good.” I wiped the blood from my face. “Now let’s get out of here.”
The highway stretched ahead, endless and dark. The box sat in the backseat, sealed tight. It wasn’t just money—it was a ticket out.
By the time we hit Miami, the sky was streaked with gold and pink, the air clean and salty. Ollie stared at the run-down motel with a mix of hope and disbelief.
“This is it?” he asked.
“For now.”
We weren’t looking back. For us, New York wasn’t just behind us—it was gone.