Dark Undertow

Wade drove Velda from Southern California over to Arizona, then slipped down across the border into Mexico. Their escape to a coastal hotel eighty miles south had been nightmarish, driving on dangerous winding roads under a hammering rain that wouldn't let up. Ditching their Ford Woodie Wagon after a jagged pothole gashed the front tire had darkened Wade's mood. No spare. He used Velda as hitch-hiker bait to snare them a ride. Left the driver unconscious, lying in the mud.

They waited inside their stolen Packard at the decaying hotel's parking area. Dry in Santa Gabriela, but dark clouds massed overhead. Nothing made sense.

“Are the others coming?” Velda snuggled closer.

“Fenshawe fell off the Brink's truck. Must have gotten caught.” Wade stared out the driver-side window.

“What about the Professor?” Velda asked.

“Thought you convinced him to stay put. He had no reason to run.”

“I did my best.” Velda squirmed. “But you paid him for planning it, right?”

Wade nodded.

“I guess that leaves just Raymond then.” She glanced at Wade. “Shouldn't we go inside?”

“Just making sure no one trailed us down here, and that no one's expecting us.”

Two cars sat parked , but it was off season. Most windows in the three-story stucco hotel remained dark. A loose shutter slapped open and closed in the wind. Palm trees swayed, while husks of palm fronds lay littered through the lot.

Wade turned his door handle. “Lock the car while I check the office.”

“Don't leave me, Wade. I just couldn't...”

“Ditch you, and the ride?” He flexed a clownish smile. “C'mon, babe. Don't get weird on me.”

When he walked inside, the lobby held a yellowy glow from the dim light fixtures and smelled raw, like a wet animal. The moldering furniture and carpeting were relics of decades past. Traditional Mexican music played in the distance.

“Victor?” Wade said when he encountered his old friend slumped on a chaise lounge in the office beyond the front desk. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Mister Wade.” The manager stood and shuffled over; he appeared pale and sweaty. “Did your lovely wife... make it?”

Wade chuckled. “Of course she did.” He signaled Velda from the entrance door to join them. “But Victor, you don't look well.”

“It is the weather. Raining on and off for days, and the red tide. You know, the stink of algae.”

Wade handed the heavy money suitcase over. “Just for a week until we can head south.”

“Of course.” Victor locked it within a refrigerator-sized safe. He showed both of them the combination. “Only we three know.” Victor patted his bulging belly. “And as you can see, I am not going anywhere.”

#

In normal conditions, their room would have been perfect. Third floor with a balcony facing west over the ocean. But tonight, the sea stench along with the wind and crashing surf brought Velda no comfort. Their lumpy mattress groaned under her weight as she studied Wade. He pressed against a window, the room dark beyond a flickering candle.

“Anything wrong?”

“The cars outside had California plates,” Wade replied. “Could be tourists or might spell trouble.”

Velda did her best not to be trouble. They once owned a dog, Mustard. A lovely golden retriever. One day, after Wade noticed the first signs of dysplasia, he drove off with the dog. When his car returned later that night, Wade was alone.

He doused the candle before patrolling their balcony in the intermittent drizzle. “Crouch down and come here,” he whispered.

Velda crawled outside. High tide surged against the breakwall and a stagnant odor of seaweed and algae rose. The slim crescent of beach curved outward on either side of the hotel.

Wade pointed toward guest bungalows on their left and right below. Outside the first, a man smoked a cigarette. Near the other structure, a tall black man paced, staring out at the sea from dark sunglasses. He looked like a sinister jazz musician.

“Who are they?” Velda asked inside.

“Maybe hoods who somehow heard about the heist.” Wade palmed his damp hair back. “Might have seen the first guy playing poker at the Professor's house.” Wade grabbed the room phone. “Victor. Those men outside... Uh-huh, okay.” He joined Velda on the carpet. “Victor knows. We're safe, as long as we sit tight, one of us keeping watch.”

“Victor gave them rooms?”

“No. His cousin Edgar works afternoons and checked them in. Didn't know they were connected. Maybe they aren't.” Wade squeezed her shoulder. “We'll keep the lights off, get room service.”

“And our car?”

“Arizona plates. No connection to me.” His smile turned into a wince. “Hope Raymond doesn't trace us. You'd have to deal with him,” he paused, “what with your history.”

“That's long over. Five years ago, when you were inside.” Velda kissed his neck, then his cheek. Her hand moved down his chest, his stomach, his—

Wade pushed her away. “Not now, got to stay focused.”

Velda wanted to soften Wade's grim expression and prove useful. Prove essential to the operation. During their four-year marriage, several of Wade's associates had accidentally died or mysteriously vanished. “I can't last a week here doing nothing.” Velda instantly regretted her words.

“Really?” Wade frowned.

She wondered how many times a day he considered her value and weighed her baggage?

Wade checked his gun's clip then paced the dark room. “Get some rest and spell me at dawn. Maybe we can leave sooner.”

She couldn't sleep. The absurdity of violent, dishonest criminals embarking on a theft together and then believing the splitting of their spoils would all be done fair and square.

#

Before 6 a.m., the sun hadn't risen but Wade heard the spattering rain continue. Neither stranger was outside and both bungalows looked dark. He scoped the surroundings from their balcony before patrolling the third-floor hallway. All clear. One extra car sat in the parking lot. Texas plates. .

Velda padded out of the bathroom when he returned. “Before you sleep, can we get breakfast? Haven't eaten in twelve hours.” She was always hungry, for something.

Wade sat on the bed and propped two pillows behind him. “Victor?” he said into the clicking phone that seemed to function then fail.

“Yes, my friend?”

“Can we get a big breakfast for two?”

“Of course,” Victor said. “Coming soon.”

After a solid meal of ham and eggs, Wade stretched out across the mattress. Velda nuzzled next to him, stroking his legs. He jackknifed up and pushed her away. “Come on, I need rest. Wait till we're in the clear, kid.”

#

While Wade slept, Velda scoped out the hotel. She tied her hair in a bun and wore owl glasses. A frowzy, shapeless dress helped hide her voluptuous figure. Her housekeeper disguise.

She got startled by a guest emerging at the end of the third-floor hallway. He looked harmless, the wan, bloodless writer type with a high forehead and Coke bottle lenses.

Velda continued on, pressing her ear to the room doors. She heard only the surf and seagulls' cries. The third floor seemed mostly vacant. Good. Wade would be pleased. She walked the second floor until a door creaked behind her. A giant hand cupped her mouth, then pulled her inside a room. Velda gripped the razor she carried, but didn't wield it. Yet.

The large man reeking of a familiar cologne spun her around.

“Raymond,” she said. “I was hoping you made it down.”

“No thanks to you.” He released her. “You were supposed to—”

“I couldn't. Wade was watching me like a hawk. This is the first time I've been on my own.”

Raymond appeared handsome when asleep or just waking, but grotesque when thoughts of imminent violence distorted his face, made veins bulge on his forehead. He rested his hands on her hips. “I never know whose side you're on.”

“Yours, of course.” She stroked his scratchy, unshaven jaw. “I had to play along with Wade, until after the robbery.” She hoped he'd believe her. Someone would come out on top from this heist, and whoever that was, Velda wanted to land next to them. A woman couldn't survive long alone in the wilds of Mexico. “If he even suspected I still loved you, we'd both be dead.”

“How did you break free to wander around?”

“I slept while he kept watch, and now Wade's sleeping upstairs.”

“Maybe it's time for the big sleep.” He gripped her neck. “Where's the money hidden?”

Velda realized, unlike Wade, Raymond would abandon her once he got the cash. So just like at the roulette table, she had to put her bet down on a single number. “It's locked in a solid suitcase beneath the bed,” she replied. “Wade keeps the key under the pillow he's sleeping on.”

“Sounds simple enough.” He peered out the window. “You wait here.” He unfastened then lifted off her bulky dress to stare at her. “We'll have a little reunion celebration when I return, before I, I mean, before we hit the road south.”

“Sure, Ray.” Velda embraced him and played her leg up slowly between his. “Come back quick. I've missed you.”

“Right, right.” Raymond loaded his Colt .45 then departed. Velda dressed quickly. No time to warn Wade, and yet she didn't picture a future with Raymond. She needed money, a house, a new identity, and to stay as far away from Tehachapi Women's Prison as possible. Velda saw men like cars. She looked for a dependable model to get her to a better place. Once there, they could be traded-in, or ditched by the side of the road.

She waited ten minutes. Wade was a light sleeper, always on the brink of awareness. A survival method that had served him well. She often feared he might rouse out of violent slumbers one night and strangle her.

Velda crept up the fire stairs. All quiet on the third floor. The maids had left a large laundry hamper on wheels twenty feet from their room. It sat piled high with towels and sheets. Nothing out of the ordinary until she noticed the size 13 brogue jutting from the mass of laundry. A shoe attached to Raymond's lifeless foot.

No time to ponder its significance. Wade held a finger to his lips and waved her over from their cracked door. “Did you know he was at the hotel?” he asked in a loud whisper, once they were locked inside.

Velda wondered if Raymond revealed anything before his demise. “I thought he would follow us, somehow,” she said. “That's why I didn't want to stay put a week.”

Wade's eyes tried to penetrate into her soul. “I'm sorry, I had to,” he said. “You know I don't like to be startled in my sleep.”

She nodded. “I understand. He got greedy.”

He showed a puzzled expression. “I wonder why he tried to get under my pillow? I keep a gun there. You know that.”

“I'm glad you survived—”

“Are you?”

Velda began to sob and fell into Wade's arms. “It's you and me, always. Raymond was years ago, a mistake, he meant nothing...” She wasn't sure if her tears were manufactured, or were for Raymond, or were a rehearsal for if anything bad happened to Wade. It didn't really matter, as long as she could summon them.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I'll deal with the body, you keep patrolling. Shout 'Servicio!' if anyone is coming to find me.”

#

Wade wheeled the heavy cart into the manual elevator with its accordion door. Jesus, Raymond weighed a ton. He descended to the hotel's dank, unlit cellar. He moved as quietly as possible by the utility room with a janitor napping on a cot, then followed the rising heat toward a metal door at the far end. He lifted and heaved Raymond's bulky corpse into the loading bucket then levered him into the furnace of the trash incinerator. It was one of the distinct bonuses of staying at Victor's dilapidated hotel.

Wade abandoned the laundry hamper in the elevator for housecleaning staff and headed for the front desk. Being ten a.m. and off-season, no one loitered around the lobby. Victor snoozed in a nearby anteroom; he came to attention.

“Senor Wade? Is your room phone not working?”

He glanced behind him. “The guest in Room #214 checked out.”

Victor's eyes bulged in alarm. “He left without paying? This is a disgrace.”

“Don't worry, I'll cover his bill.”

“You will?” A slight tremble inhabited Victor's voice. “Not coming back?”

“No, he checked out—permanently.”

“Ah, I see.” Victor paused. “And no trouble with the policia?”

“Nope. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Victor half-smiled with instant understanding. “Good, but be careful. You should stay locked in your room until you wish to leave.”

Wade headed for the staircase.

#

Velda searched Room #214 to make sure she hadn't left a lipstick-stained cigarette butt behind, then continued her rounds. She finally made it down to the north wing off the lobby. Again a deathly quiet. She felt a presence. A tall scarecrow figure stood in the corner shadows. She gasped. The Professor.

“Well, my little chickadee,” he said through his bushy silver mustache. “I bet you didn't expect to see me again.”

No, she hadn't. Wade had told her to be kind, to dissuade him from leaving America. That he would get his cut for planning the heist after the heat cooled down. A few kisses and caresses to placate the impotent codger, the junkie. It hadn't been that simple. The old goat injected himself with amphetamines and aphrodisiacs, then had his way with her. He also gave Velda a shot that made her groggy. Sodium Pentothal? Was that how he learned of this hotel? She shuddered, imagining his bony hands, his scrawny old body.

“Let's not cause a ruckus in public.” He escorted her into his room. “I brought my medicine bag along too.” A lascivious smirk. Needles lay on a night table next to wax-shrouded candles, tinfoil packets, and test tubes.

Velda bit her lip. Possibly, the Professor would be the sole survivor of the aftermath of their heist. If she could just lead him on, with promises of pleasure to come, then once on the road, he'd be easy to dispatch.

He reached for her.

“I need to go back upstairs,” she said. “If Wade finds out you're here...” She lowered her voice. “He just killed Raymond.”

“Good riddance to that brute,” he said. “Okay, run along then, girly.” He pinched her waist and she slapped him. He scrutinized his stash. “Well, we have long nights of fun ahead of us.”

Velda stayed with Wade inside their room. Both were vigilant but no strangers lurked on the beach below them. At eight, a teenage maid brought them dinner.

“Aren't you afraid of getting poisoned?” she asked, as Wade munched on his stringy chicken and rice without a care.

“As long as Victor is in charge, we're perfectly safe in that regard.”

She nibbled at her food, but the ocean stench and events of the day had ruined her appetite. Later, she pressed against Wade as he read some pulp novel with a lurid cover. “I can't make it without you,” she confessed. “If something was to happen, well, I might as well just swallow all my sleeping pills.”

“Hush now.” Wade slapped her leg with the paperback. “I'm not going anywhere, and no one's getting close enough to take me out. How do you think I made it all the way to forty?” He tickled her. “You're the only one who'd have even a remote chance, but you're too smart to try.”

She punched his arm. “Don't even joke about that. I married for love. Did everything you asked.” She tried to tear up, but no moisture came. “I never killed anyone, not intentionally.”

He laughed. “Let's get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

#

Wade hadn't slept well, waking at sounds of waves, critters crawling on the roof. Wondering how things would shake out with Velda. He needed coffee, a lot of it. Wade squeezed her naked thigh. “I'll order breakfast.” He thought for a moment. “We're leaving today.” He waited as the clunky line rang and crackled, then a cough. “Hello, Victor?”

“No, this is Edgar.”

“Oh.” Wade felt disappointment. Edgar had no loyalty to anyone, money his only interest. “May I speak to your cousin?”

“No, Victor he is very sick,” Edgar said. “He eat the shellfish, you know. Not good during the red tide. He is resting now.”

“Sorry to hear. Can we order breakfast?”

“Of course,” Edgar replied, then breathed. “But prices went up. It's ten thousand a day for lodging, food, and your protection. I think the men outside in the bungalows very much wish to see you, senor.”

“Is that how it is?” Wade contained his rage. “Bring breakfast and we'll discuss terms.” He hung up, tucking a stiletto into his boot.

“You don't plan to—”

“Incapacitate him,” Wade said. “That's all.”

#

Velda heard the knock. “Come in.” Wade waited, crouched in darkness.

Their door creaked open and a breakfast cart wheeled inside, Edgar held a pistol. Velda watched Wade sneak up behind, bending the man's head back until his neck snapped. Wade dragged the thug cousin out onto the oceanside balcony.

The room door swung in again. Another man limped into view.

“You're still alive,” she said. “I thought you got caught.”

“I fell off the truck, but escaped.” Fenshawe shoved her aside and piled on Wade.

Velda rushed out to the deck to join in. Wade brandished his stiletto, slashing the air madly, but Fenshawe took it away. After some wild thrusts, he lodged the blade in Wade's chest.

Velda threw her weight against Fenshawe to launch him off the balcony, but instead he wedged against the others. The railing buckled, sending all three men plummeting.

Down below, Wade and Edgar lay bunched together bobbing in the surf. Fenshawe's head had impacted against a rocky outcrop rising from the wet sand.

Velda bolted downstairs. Wade would want her to retrieve the money, whether he was alive or... She found Victor balled-up inside the safe, greenish and goggle-eyed, so she removed his gag.

“Senora.” Victor panted and wheezed. “You are, leaving?”

“Your cousin, and then Wade...” What was the point in explaining? Velda ransacked the office, scooping up fifty-thousand into a nylon zip bag. Damn, all the other rubber-banded stacks were worthless paper disguised by real bills. News reports said they stole five hundred large.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor above.

Velda dashed across the lobby to the Professor's suite in the north wing. Only he could transport her out of this nightmare. The door sat ajar, so she pushed inside and gasped. He was splayed across the unkempt mattress. Beyond the rubber tourniquet, a stuck syringe dangled from his arm. He looked mummified.

Noise came from outside, so she rushed down the hall. Two young Mexicans in scrubs hustled through the fire exit carrying a stretcher. A van serving as an ambulance idled in the parking lot. Velda ducked behind the potted tropical plants to observe. The two men from the bungalows entered and scribbled notes down on small pads. They weren't hoodlums. More likely investigators working for Brink's, to bring back the stolen truck money. Or maybe to keep it for themselves. Did they have the missing $450,000?

She hauled the bag outside, to the slim beach and endless ocean. Run, run. Pain throbbed upward. She felt a wet spot just above her hip. Velda bled from her side. Somehow Fenshawe had sliced her during the confused struggle upstairs.

She splashed through the shallows, heading toward their stolen Packard, toward the southern tip of Mexico. Something tripped her leg and she toppled into the thick swollen tide, landing atop a lifeless body. Wade's fingers had somehow caught her ankle, his handsome face submerged and ghastly in death. Velda's flimsy bag tore open and waves floated hundred-dollar bills atop their foamy swells.

The rest of her life would involve running, squalor, imprisonment, pain. Or she could just relax and let the red tide carry her out to sea. When she looked back, the same strangers from inside stood on the northern bluff, motionless. As if they were watching a matinee show and were waiting for the credits to roll before moving.

Velda recalled their Vegas wedding day. “Till death do us part,” she told Wade.

Her husband laughed. “Not even then, babe.”

BIO: Max Talley was born in New York City and lives in Southern California. His writing has appeared in Atticus Review, The Opiate, About Place Journal, Iron Horse Literary Review, and The Saturday Evening Post. He won the 2021 best fiction contest in Jerry Jazz Musician for “Celestial Vagabonds.” Talley's hippie crime novel, Peace, Love, & Haight, launched from Three Rooms Press in 2025, and his hardboiled detective thriller, Santa Fe Psychosis, was recently published by Lazarus Media.

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