Page 12 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

BEN

“ T ime for Plan B,” I say once I hop back into the RV where Alexei is waiting. “He wouldn’t take my money. Said ‘ it’s a crematorium, not a drive-thru’ . Apparently, only next of kin or the executor of the will can pick them up.”

My friend lets out a sigh of relief, then starts the car. “Thank God. This was a terrible idea anyway—a bad omen. Let’s go home and think of a better plan.”

“Oh, no,” I respond, turning the car off again. “We’re still stealing the ashes. We just need a different approach.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Stealing the ashes of a dead person is a bad omen. More than an omen—it’s bad. Very bad!”

“You never struck me as the superstitious type, Alex.”

“I’m not! Which should tell you just how bad of an idea this really is. Even a rational person like me is saying so.”

For a second, I question my plan and whether I’m completely losing it. But then I picture myself back at the museum, standing in front of that painting again, next to her. “No, we need the ashes. You should’ve seen her. This is our way in. And coincidentally, it’s also the right thing to do.”

“But aren’t we already in?” Alexei asks even more exasperated now.

He’s right, of course. Technically. But he doesn’t know what I know.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “I just need you to trust me on this, alright?”

My friend takes a deep breath, flails both arms dramatically, then decides to say nothing.

“I’m glad we agree. Now move over—I’ve got an idea.”

He releases another deep sigh before reluctantly getting up, sliding into the passenger seat, and plopping down with a heavy thud.

I barely move in time before his butt can use me as a cushion.

Then I drive us about twenty minutes down the road to an underpass we saw on the way here.

I hop out of the car with Alex close behind.

“You can wait here,” I say over my shoulder as I slide down a steep slope of grass.

“And wait for you to get stabbed, you mean?”

I leap over a makeshift fence of wooden crates and barbed wire and land in an old can of paint, filled with a mix of mud and stagnant water.

I shake it off my foot, leaving my shoes covered in dirt.

The muddy water seeps into my socks immediately.

“Fine, come along then. If I get stabbed, feel free to use my ashes to finish the plan.”

Alexei huffs, shakes his head, mumbles the word ‘plan’ a couple of times, then veers a few feet to the right, opens a makeshift door, and leaves me behind, standing ankle-deep in the muck.

A few yards down, the first tent of many is pitched against one of the columns that support the highway above. We pass a few more until I finally find what I’m looking for: a big barrel, likely used as a bonfire once the temperatures drop.

I nod toward it. Alexei nods back, finally looking a little more impressed.

“You actually had a good idea,” he says in a high-pitched voice. He kicks the barrel once and crosses his arms. “No one would know the difference anyway.”

I nod. “Exactly. We’ll just grab a bag of this and swap it out with the real stuff at the crematorium.”

My friend’s expression immediately darkens again. “She wouldn’t even know the difference!”

“I can’t lie to her!” I say, louder than intended, loud enough to draw a few glances from people hanging out in their tents nearby.

“Ha!” Alexei lets out incredulously and then responds even louder. “You’ve been lying to her this whole time!”

I‘m about to explain to my friend just how wrong he is, when I suddenly feel something solid jab me in the back.

“Now, now,” a voice says from what sounds like behind a thick scarf, “no funny business, and we’ll have no problems here, pretty boy.”

I slowly raise my hands and glance over at Alexei, who just shrugs and crosses his arms again. “See? I told you. Bad omen.”

“Now, turn around slowly…” the muffled voice instructs, pausing until I do. “So that I can hug you better!” Then the person wraps his arms around my chest and squeezes me like a ketchup bottle. “What brings you to my humble abode?” he asks, tugging down his scarf to reveal an old friend.

“Dusty!” I exclaim.

“You had him going there for a second,” Alexei says and leans in for a hug as well.

Dusty Rhodes used to live in our neighborhood, but vanished a few months back—which, I suppose, isn’t that unusual. He tells us how he had to disappear to avoid getting picked up by the cops again, and how he’s been staying around these parts of town to lie low.

“Cops’ll roust you for sleeping, but if you get stabbed?

Eh, that’s a ‘civil matter’ , ” he explains.

“And the shelters? Either full of people, full of bedbugs, on fire, or run by a guy who thinks ‘ donations ’ means pocketing your last pair of socks.” He grins, patting a dented shopping cart.

“But hey, rent’s free if you don’t mind hypothermia or the occasional meth-head philosopher who’ll explain the meaning of life at 3 AM. ”

Alex and I listen and catch up with our friend for a while, before we get ready to leave. Dusty gives us a trash bag for the ashes and I leave him an address for where to go tonight, along with the bribe money I’d originally budgeted for the guy at the crematorium.

Which is where we pull up a little later once again, parking across the street and making sure no cameras can capture what we’re about to do. It’s already past 7 PM, and the place looks deserted.

“You sure this is necessary?” Alex asks again as I start picking the lock on the back door. Luckily, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, so the odds of us getting caught are fairly slim.

Helena’s puffy face pops up before my eyes again, the tears slowly sliding down her cheeks without her even noticing while we’re standing in front of the painting.

“You should have seen the poor girl yesterday. She wasn’t just crying,” I explain as the door finally opens.

“She was… it looked like part of her was still dying inside, you know?”

“Yeah, well,” Alex sucks in a quick breath of air that makes his shoulders lift, “such is life. You live a little, then you die a little. And in time, everyone moves on. I don’t see how this has anything to do with us.”

I lead the way through a dark hallway, ears pricked for any noise, eyes scanning for a door labeled something like the ‘Powder Room,’ or maybe the ‘Burn Ward.’

“We both know you don’t mean that,” I whisper and open ‘Storage A.1’ instead.

We’re greeted by a room that’s filled to the brim with cardboard boxes in different kinds of colors. Most are beige, some red, some green. Alex checks one of them while I remain at the door, making sure we really are alone.

“This must be all the unclaimed remains. What was his name again?” he asks, inspecting the little labels that are glued to the front. “And, even more important, what difference does it make that we steal the ashes? It’s not like she can’t just come here and pick them up herself.”

“Edward Frame.” I close the squeaking door as quietly as possible and get to checking labels myself.

“And, yes, she could come here herself, but you know what she said when we were talking about her grandpa? She said—and I quote— ‘you know how we always think that the dying is the worst part? But then the next day comes, and you still have to be a person? You still have to have your shit together, not fall apart, and pick up your grandpa’s ashes at the crematorium the next town over, despite not even owning a car, which is why it would take you half a day to even get there, when all you wanna do is just eat pizza in your dirty PJs and cry into your life-sized emotional support pillow that looks like the statue of David.’ ” I take a deep breath.

“Her exact words, not mine. So, yeah, we’re doing this so she doesn’t have to.

It’s barely illegal anyway. Stealing dirt. We’re not getting into trouble for?—”

A loud noise makes me jump up and spin around—only to realize it was Alexei who intentionally slammed one of the cabinet doors. He looks at me with an evil grin.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Timing was too convenient. Couldn’t resist.” Then he reopens the cabinet again and pulls out a roll of plastic bags. We use one to transfer our bonfire ashes and resume the search for the real ones.

Two minutes later, we find them stacked on top of a pyramid of more boxes, and, after exchanging the bags, it takes another two minutes to get back to the RV.

A synchronized breath of relief slips from our lips as we sink into our seats. As expected, we didn’t get caught.

“So,” Alex says, tossing the little plastic bag into my lap, “what’s next?”

“Next… we need an urn,” I mutter, my eyes instinctively drifting back to the crematorium. “We can’t give this to her in a plastic bag.”

For a second, Alex stares at me with his mouth open, then he quickly hits the button to lock all the doors. “Nope. We’re not going back in there.”

“I don’t know. Seems like a bad omen to just carry these around without a proper container, doesn’t it?”

Alex grumbles quietly for a beat, then punches the steering wheel.

“Oh, hold on,” I say and buckle myself in. “I have a better idea. We need to go back to Dusty. Let’s go.”

My driver, relieved he doesn’t have to break back into the crematorium, doesn’t even question why and starts the car.

A few minutes later, we’re back at the underpass where I retrieve the old can of paint that I had stepped in earlier.

I even find the lid a few feet from it. After thoroughly washing both in the nearby river and scrubbing them with my own shirt, I place the ashes inside and seal the can.

Then I hop into the back of the RV and grab a pen and notepad.

From the corner of his eyes, Alexei observes me struggling to write something that makes sense of this situation—something that doesn’t make me sound like a dead-person-stealing-psychopath.

“Dear Helenka,” Alex says eventually, “after delivering you some food the other day, I figured I’d make it awkward by also delivering you your grandpa. You’re welcome. Benedikt.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of this whole situation. It’s so absurd, it might actually work. Helena is not the trusting kind, but my gut says that this might get me an in with her. And I still do believe that it is actually the right thing to do.

“That not it?” he asks. “No problem: Dear Helly, I don’t know the proper etiquette for gifting someone their freshly toasted relative, but hey—this is express delivery with no shipping fee. Also, no need to thank me. Ben.”

I shake my head. “Not quite there yet, I’m afraid.”

“Alright,” he tries again. “Dear Hells-Bells?—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I cut in. “I don’t think bringing up hell is going to get us anywhere under these circumstances.”

Alex nods, turns on the radio, and drives the rest of the way in silence, only interrupted by him humming along to some tunes and munching on some cookies.

I manage to write a message explaining what I have done—sort of—and once we make it to the building, I creep up to her apartment, place the can gently on her doorstep, knock once, and hurry back down the stairs.

For some reason, it feels wrong to stick around and watch her find her grandpa mysteriously appear outside her door.