The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Read online

  Praise for The Bargain

  Aaron Gansky’s The Bargain questions the lengths we will go to in order to save the ones we love and shows us the lengths that God will go to in order to draw us to Him. Gripping, thought-provoking, and gritty in its depiction of humanity, The Bargain reads like a modern day retelling of the story of Sodom. This story has teeth that latched on and wouldn’t let go even after the final page. Highly recommended.

  Jason Brannon,

  author of The Maze

  Aaron Gansky’s The Bargain is as much a study in the human condition as it is a fascinating, captivating story. The characters are so real and their lives so intriguing I forgot I was reading fiction. This book should be on everyone’s book shelf . . . after being read thoroughly and enjoyed completely.

  Mike Dellosso,

  author of Fearless, Frantic, and Rearview

  Aaron Gansky writes in prose so tight, you can twang it like a rubber band.

  Maurice Gray,

  author of To Whom Much Is Given and All Things Work Together

  THE BARGAIN BY AARON GANSKY

  Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN 978-1-938499-77-7

  Copyright © 2013 by Aaron Gansky

  Cover design by Ken Raney, www.kenraney.com

  Interior design by The Fast Fingers, www.thefastfingers.com

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:

  www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: www.aarongansky.com

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words.

  When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “The Bargain by Aaron Gansky published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Brought to you by the creative team at LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com:

  Eddie Jones, Maurice Gray, Rowena Kuo, Meaghan Burnett, and Brian Cross

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gansky, Aaron.

  The Bargain / Aaron Gansky 1st ed.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  The act of writing a novel is a labor of love, and, contrary to what many believe, an act of will on the part of a community of a people. While my name appears on the cover, several more names deserve recognition as well.

  The idea of this novel came to me in college in a writing class taught by Bret Anthony Johnston. He helped me form the concept, and taught me how to write well. He took my immature, amateur writing, and turned it into something I could be proud of. To this day, his voice echoes in my ears as I write. In that way, he still guides the construction of my prose. Think of him as my Creative Obi Wan Kenobi. I already do.

  The primary composition of my manuscript happened while I attended Antioch University of Los Angeles. And while I had several mentors and friends to help me along in the process, none helped more than Rob Roberge, who kept my prose honest, free from melodrama, and tightly woven. Steve Heller, director of the MFA program at AULA, also has his fingerprints on my work, as does Gayle Brandeis. Dennis Fulgoni is a constant reader of my work, encourager of my prose, and identifier of stale clichés.

  If my words are fresh and unique, it’s at his bidding. In the same line, Steve McLain, co-host of our Firsts in Fiction podcast, never failed to encourage me and act as a very insightful sounding board throughout the writing process.

  Lastly, and most importantly, I owe the completion of this book to my loving and supportive wife Naomi Gansky, who, for two years while I taught full-time and worked tirelessly on my MFA, never failed to pick up the slack I left around the house, and never once complained about how much time I spent at the computer.

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, September 2nd

  I hadn’t been in Hailey more than a day when my sister-in-law Aida insisted I meet “a fan.” While this wouldn’t have been shocking if I were some Hollywood celebrity or professional athlete, I was neither. I was a writer, a journalist actually, for World News Weekly. I’d spent the last few years making my niche as a chronicler of the human condition. Even after winning the George Polk Award, I didn’t get many “fans.” Most I ever got were some complimentary e-mails, and those were few and far between. For the most part, the world ignored me.

  Aside from directions and the name Mason, she gave me no more information. My wife Nadine and I had just arrived at Aida’s house the night before after a marathon sixteen-hour drive from Denver. I suggested stopping halfway to break up the trip, but Nadine insisted we press on. Her urgency and determination likely were the result of sickness—ovarian cancer is never gentle. Had I been more observant at the time, I would have realized that she was trying to tell me something—this urgency was an unspoken message, a presage of the severity of her disease. Perhaps I was hopeful that seeing her sister would do her some good. Likely, the thought was a byproduct of my wife’s terminal optimism. Regardless, I was ignorant, but not blissful—maybe just uneasy.

  The weather in the California desert shifted quickly. Yesterday, it felt like I was back in Darfur under an angry African sun. Today the sun felt lazy, as if, rather than baking the sands beneath, it simply reheated them like yesterday’s leftovers. The wind swept warm across the desert. Hailey wasn’t close to the same elevation as Denver, but it was almost four thousand feet above sea-level, high enough to bring snow in the winter. One doesn’t normally associate snow with the desert, but Hailey was a town of contradiction
s, a hypocritical town that prided itself on its consistent inconsistencies.

  Mason lived off of Highway 29, the only paved road in Hailey. It paralleled the underground Mojave River. Multiple sets of train tracks flanked the cracked pavement.

  The beauty of the riverbed provided a stark contrast to the otherwise depressing landscape. Golden cottonwood trees and creosote bushes grew interspersed throughout the winding, sandy trail. The trees, not as dense as a wood or forest, provided an undulating shadow of semi-constant shade.

  Hailey was a town to drive through, not to stop in.

  Rolling up my window, I steered off the highway and onto a dirt road.

  Fantastic. Nothing more obvious than dust on a black car.

  I thought of my wife, sick to the point of exhaustion, sleeping at Aida’s. Meeting the fan meant pleasing Aida, which would please Nadine. I hoped the visit wouldn’t take long. Maybe I could sign a copy of the latest World News Weekly and be on my way, but something told me it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Mason’s mobile home fit the architectural fashion of Hailey—ruinous and in disarray. A chain link fence surrounded his property as if he had something of value he wanted to protect, but the rusted gate hung open.

  Maybe he expected me.

  I drove to his sagging patio and parked. His front door opened before I made it up the three steps. He looked exactly as I expected, like a man who lived in a dump. His faded jeans had no knees. His T-shirt had more wrinkles than an octogenarian. He kept his fisted hands shoved deep in his pockets, like two apple-sized tumors on his thighs. He’d shaved his head, but not his face. Black stunted whiskers grew on his cheeks and chin like a dying lawn.

  “Mr. Reedly?”

  “You must be Mason. See me drive up?”

  He shook his head. “Felt you. House shakes whenever someone pulls in.” He waved me inside, and I followed.

  The interior of his house matched the exterior—ignored and in disrepair. Apparently, the olive shag carpet and paisley couches had journeyed together from the seventies to now and showed signs of the long trip. Dusty paintings of desert sunsets hung on the walls next to over-the-top action movie posters. Dirty dishes decorated the Lilliputian kitchen. If he had a laundry basket somewhere, he’d not been trained in its proper use.

  “Don’t mind the mess. Aida hasn’t come by yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grabbed a pair of old jeans from an ancient recliner, tossed them across the room, and motioned me to sit. I did, reluctantly; the chair slid back uneasily, unsure if it should recline or not.

  “She comes by once a week and cleans the place up. I’m not one for cleaning really—suppose you can tell. Besides, the water in this town is horrible. Ever try getting dishes clean in brown water? You gotta boil the water first; then you can wash in it. It’s really an all day ordeal.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You should see how much money the market makes on paper plates. It’s outrageous.” He sat on the couch facing me. “That’s the first thing you learn about business in a town like this—sell what the people need. Paper plates, purified water, the usual.”

  “You’re a businessman?”

  He cracked each of his knuckles in turn, twisting his fingers to one side or the other. “Own the gas station off 29.”

  He didn’t need to stipulate, since Hailey only had the one Gas ‘n Go. Nadine and I stopped at it on the way to Aida’s last night. She slept in the car while I made a pit stop. The restroom reeked of urine boiled under the pressing heat of the waning summer. Graffiti covered graffiti, brown water dripped from a rusted spigot, and a fan hummed, but did not spin. I’ve seen better welcome wagons.

  “How’s that work for you?”

  “Good. For most people this town is just a place to stop on their way to bigger and better things—the big cities. Only reason they’ll stop is to get gas or take a leak. That’s where I come in. Business is steady.”

  “So you get a lot of travelers through here?”

  “Not like we used to. Hailey used to be the popular stop on the way to Vegas. Highway 29 was one of the major roads up that way. But then, about twenty years ago, they built the I-21. It cut about an hour off of most people’s travel time. Only those looking for a bit of nostalgia come down this way.”

  I crossed my legs and leaned forward, not because his story interested me, but because I worried if I leaned back anymore, the recliner would snap in half. I’d have to wash my clothes the second I got back to Aida’s. Judging by the smell in the room, I’d wager he had a cat locked up someplace, maybe hiding under the mounds of clothes or stacks of dishes.

  I wanted to get back to my wife. Each second here was another away from her. I tried to steer the conversation toward a point, rather than listening to anymore of his brochure-babble. “Aida says you’re a fan?”

  “Yeah. Read all your work, especially the ones you did after 911 and Katrina. Makes me feel smarter. The way you show the people’s determination and resolve to rebuild; it’s inspiring. Really.”

  I fidgeted. Couldn’t we get to the point? I didn’t want to sound rude, but he pushed me closer and closer to snapping with each word. He spoke like a man hiding something. I’d had enough conversations with criminals and thugs to recognize the stalling tactic. He wanted to say something, but he wouldn’t get to it unless I pressed. “Listen, I appreciate the opportunity to meet you, but if there’s nothing else, maybe I can sign a magazine and get back to Aida’s. My wife—”

  “Is dying. I know.”

  Anger surged through me. Instinct told me to pick him up, to throw him against the cardboard-thin walls. But, I refrained. I knew what it’d do to Nadine if she heard I’d attacked the man Aida wanted me to meet. I’d caused her enough grief in our seven years of marriage. I didn’t need to add more now.

  I took a deep breath and tried my best to behave rationally. “Aida told you?”

  “There are no secrets in Hailey,” he said. “Not from me anyway. I’m a bit of a town historian. I keep my ears close to the tracks.” His smug attitude soured my stomach.

  “You’re proud of that?”

  He sighed. “You seem upset. You want a drink? I should have offered you one when you came in.”

  I unclenched my jaw and fisted my hands. “Stop dancing around questions and start telling me what you know. You didn’t call me here for an autograph.”

  “Okay. Long story short, this town’s my responsibility.”

  “Your hobby, you mean. Responsibilities are assigned by someone in authority. So unless you’re secretly mayor of this cesspool of a town, you study it because you like it. I can tell by the way you talk, like you’re some sort of deranged tour guide.”

  “Don’t get all upset. I meant exactly what I said. You’re anxious to get back to Nadine; I get that. You’re worried about her. You’re scared.”

  My words came out in a dangerous whisper. “You pretentious snake. Don’t pretend to know me or my wife.”

  Mason put his hands up slowly, like I’d drawn a gun. “You’re getting all red. Take a breath, man. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let me try this again.”

  He extended his hand to me, slowly, like he thought I’d throw a punch. I thought about it. Instead, I counted to ten and took his hand. I had to keep cool for Nadine’s sake, no matter how much this man needed to be taught to respect my wife’s and my privacy.

  He shook my hand. “My name is Mason Becker. I’d like to hire you to write ten articles.”

  The corner of my mouth curled up. “I’m not exactly a work-for-hire kind of guy.”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Even if I were interested, you’re not making a very strong case here. Twenty-five hundred per article isn’t much. You’re talking to a Polk Award winner. WNW pays me quite a bi
t more.”

  “Twenty-five thousand each.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Can’t tell by looking, but I’m good for it.”

  “You rob a bank? What’s a man like you doing with a quarter of a million dollars to throw around?”

  “I’m going to assume you meant that in the nicest possible way.”

  “I didn’t.”

  He cracked his knuckles again, kept his eyes on mine. “Aida said you might react this way. I’ll be clear and quick. Ten articles in eight days. Each must focus on a citizen of Hailey and highlight his or her good qualities. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars each.”

  “I’m not interested in community-interest pieces.”

  He continued, as if I had summarily agreed. Either he wasn’t listening, or he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Either way, he’d end up disappointed. “There are two conditions. You can’t tell anyone what you’re doing, and you can’t ask where I got the money.”

  I turned to the door. “We’re done here.”

  “You can’t afford to walk away.”

  I turned, unsure of what to say. Wisdom told me to get out of the house before I did something I’d regret, but he kept pushing, and I wanted to push back. I spun around quickly and covered the short distance between us. I was taller and stronger and wanted to make sure he knew it. I stood inches from his face and breathed, “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t afford?”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you don’t do it, Nadine will die.”

  I snapped. Grabbing his shirt with both hands, I lifted him off the ground and threw him toward the kitchen. He slid back to the counter, but hardly blinked. I raised my fist high above my head, waiting for him to give me a reason to strike. “Are you threatening my wife?”

  “We will all die,” he said. “Nadine, Aida, you, me. Everyone in Hailey.”

  I lowered my fist. “You’re out of your mind.”

  He stood up and straightened his shirt. It’d torn near the collar and sleeves. “Guess I do sound pretty crazy. May I explain?”

  I took a few deep breaths and unfisted my hands. I gave in to curiosity. “Make it quick.”