A beam panned the overpass like a search light and a truck whined past. Reality, in a dose pure and unadulterated, struck me cold and hard. The webs clogging my brain blew away.
I rolled onto my knees, all queasy and disoriented. A blast of wind mussed my hair. Great gobs of rain splatted against my face.
I got up and plodded through the sopping weeds, fighting the wind, my jeans collecting burrs and hitchhikers. Marble-sized hail pelted and stung. A lightning bolt cracked into the low hills across the highway, not an instant of lag between flash and thunder.
“Go ahead! Fry my ass!” I displayed both middle fingers to the sky. “See if I care!”
I crossed the overpass and spotted my truck still stranded on the shoulder, illuminated by the occasional passing headlight. I felt buoyed to see it, though I’m not sure why. I wasn’t going anywhere without that radiator hose.
Still, it might be nice to go down and curl up in the cab. At least it would be dry inside. I could towel off, scrounge a pack of chewing gum or even a Slim Jim, from the deepest recesses of the glove compartment, something to calm the pangs cramping my stomach.
I had at least one bag of clothes protected under plastic. My books, though, had only cardboard between them and the elements.
No biggie. I was getting used to shedding possessions. With every loss, I had a few less things to worry about.
The glow of my watch showed me it was a little after five a.m.—two hours before the garage opened up. What the heck? I supposed I might as well take up the owner’s offer to call in that parts order and come and tow me to his shop. I was going to be late getting to Cleveland now, no matter what.
Jared had said his bosses had zero tolerance for lateness. What would they do, would they whip me once for every minute I was tardy? Fine me? Unleash their pit bulls? So why should I bother?
It made me think I might be better off taking whatever I could carry from the truck and walking away from everything. I could get on a bus and go to California, or maybe Canada. Somewhere tucked away in all my stuff was a valid passport.
Problem was, that truck was linked to me—perhaps criminally. And eventually, some cop would find the booty hidden under that liner and track me down. I might be better off drenching it all in gas and torching it.
Who was I kidding? As if I could ever bring myself to inflict such harm on the Temple of Roy.
Maybe I should just skip the all the suspense and turn myself in. Given the likely scale of my haul and the semi-stolen nature of the vehicle I was driving, that would probably land me in prison.
Which, in and of itself, didn’t bother me much, but it would likely cost Jared’s employers a ton of profit. They probably had people in the pen who could take me down, as an example to others if not merely for spite.
It looked like I had no way out of this mess. All of my options were crap.
At least the storm seemed to be easing. Only the edge of it seemed to have brushed Alford. The main body was passing north and from the looks of those clouds, those poor suckers had tornadoes to worry about. I was no stranger to strong storms in Central Florida, but this thing looked like a different sort of beast altogether.
I turned up the surface road that led past the farmhouse with the old lady who had thought I had come to see Brian. A truck was now parked next to the barn. Apparently, Brian was home.
It took me a moment to realize, but this wasn’t just any old truck. The chassis was jacked up high on monster wheels. Chromed dual exhaust stacks gleamed under the floodlights. And from that white scripted blue oval smack in the middle of the tail gate, I was pretty sure I was looking at a late model Ford 150. Inside that hood was a radiator hose that Brian wasn’t using at the moment.
***
I snuck up the driveway, keeping tight to the rain-drenched yews that lined it. I was sopping wet. Every breeze that kicked up gave me the shivers.
The lights were all dark in the house except for one dim bulb in the kitchen over the range. I took a deep breath and darted out from the bushes, diving low onto the damp gravel, crawling on my elbows under the front bumper.
A calico cat trotted by, stopping in its tracks when it saw me. It crouched on its haunches and stared a while before deciding I was no big thing. It sat up, swished its tail and started licking its paws.
All that ground clearance beneath those monster wheels was a blessing. It gave me plenty of room to work from below, though the upper hose was a bit of a stretch. I undid the clamps with the screwdriver on my pocket knife and yanked. A gush of warm antifreeze sloshed down the front of my shirt and splashed all over my face.
That dang stuff tasted sweet. I sputtered and spit out the traces, remembering someone telling me how toxic it was.
I was worried that Brian’s F150 might be too new, its radiator hoses incompatible with Dad’s, but it looked pretty much the right girth, with bends in all the right places.
I was about slide out from underneath when the screen door creaked open.
“Suzy! Breakfast! Soo-ZEE!” the second syllable soaring like she was calling hogs.
“Better go have your chow, Sue,” I whispered. “Momma’s callin’.”
The cat ran off around the corner of the barn. I heard the screen door slam. But then a pair of fuzzy, pink slippers appeared, scuffing along the gravel drive. Threadbare pajamas rode up swollen ankles.
I squirmed a little farther under the truck, sliding back under the differential. About halfway down to the road the old lady stooped and groaned. Gnarled hands reached for a newspaper in a plastic sheath.
I held my breath as she made her way back to the house, wedding band clicking on the body of the truck as she braced her hand on it. She paused at the corner of the barn, turned and hobbled back slowly, stopping beside a puddle of green antifreeze.
“Oh my,” she said. “Oh my, oh my.”
She trotted back to the house in quick little steps. The door slammed. Clutching the stolen hose, I scrambled out from under the chassis and hurled myself headlong down the grassy sward leading down to the creek, tossing glances over my shoulder as I fled. A light flicked on upstairs.
I found the Pepsi bottle right where I had stashed it, filled it with muddy runoff from the ditch and ran my tail back to the truck, cutting through a patch of pines.
I popped the hood and jammed the hose on, not even bothering to tighten the clamps. Two liters of ditch water were not nearly enough to fill the cooling system, but I wasn’t about to go back for more.
I hopped inside the cab and turned the key. The starter only whinnied at first, but a couple hiccups later and I was rolling down the shoulder getting up to speed.
A barrel-chested guy in boxers came running down the driveway—Brian, I presumed. He swooped down, picked up a rock and heaved it. Dang if it didn’t nearly reach my truck. This Brian had a major league arm. I stomped on the accelerator and made Alford fade in my rear view.
***
Two exits later, I pulled off the highway. I probably should have gone a little farther down the road, but I was hungry and with what little water I had time to add, I didn’t think the truck could go much farther longer without overheating.
As the rising sun bled over the clouds in the eastern sky, I got that hose clamped down tight and filled the coolant tank up to the brim with a gallon of Diamond Springs from a Seven-Eleven. The aroma from the pancake shop across the street made my stomach whine and my mouth weep.
As I was changing my greasy shirt, envisioning the steaming stack of blueberry pancakes in my future, the phone buzzed.
It was Jared, of course.
“What the fuck, James? I go to bed, get up and I’m seeing you’re still in the same spot. What’s going on?”
“Actually, I’m back on the road. Everything’s cool. I fixed the hose issue.”
“It’s been like twelve hours! It took you that long to find a freaking radiator hose?”
“Sunday night. Everything was closed.”
“Jesus, dude! You could have called me. The guys on the other end are freaking out. They just sent a down posse after you.”
“A posse? What are they, cowboys? Listen, the truck’s fixed. I’m on the road again. And I got plenty of time to make it if I go fast.”
“Too late. You just stay put. Some folks are coming down from Raleigh to take over the job.”
“Hold on! I can still be in Cleveland by five. I’ve got this, Jared. I can do it.”
“No way. You’d have to drive a hundred the whole way. You just stay put and do what they tell you when they get there. They’ll be taking the shit off your hands. Oh, and don’t expect them to pay you. You’ve already got all you’re gonna get.”
“What do you mean? You said five hundred—”
“That was for getting it to Cleveland. Halfway means half pay.”
“Fuck you. I’m getting back on the road.”
“No James, these guys, they—”
I hung up.
The phone immediately rang again. I ignored it.
No time for pancakes, I ran back to the Seven-Eleven and got a box of mini-donuts and a carton of chocolate milk. I ripped the orange sticker off my windshield, stuffed it down a storm drain and headed for the freeway.
***
I drove four hours straight at seventy-five—quick enough to make good time, but not fast enough to draw the attention of a speed trap. Of course, my plate number was probably all over their databases by now. I might be just as vulnerable going fifty-five.
The phone buzzed again. This time I answered it.
“Yeah?”
“Okay guy, you lucked out. The Cleveland folks are pleased with your progress. They’ve called off the dogs.”
“That’s … nice.”
“Um … James … in the future … you might want to think twice about taking off without permission. These guys we work for? Wildcats make them nervous. They like team players. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“You got the okay to be a little late. So slow down. They want you there in one piece.”
“When they gonna make up their minds? Do they want me there at five or not?”
“I’m just saying, you can relax. They see you’re back on track. No need to sweat.”
“I’ll get there when I get there,” I said. “I just want to get this over with.”
“Okay, man. Listen. I’m going to text you the address once you get a little closer. Don’t write it down. I want you to memorize and delete it. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
Something about Jared’s call simmered in my craw for the next hundred miles. So they liked their couriers submissive. Obedient. What was I, some pack animal? That’s right, I was a mule.
I wondered how my pay compared to the street price of all the stuff I was hauling. The thousand bucks they were giving me was likely a tiny fraction of their profit. There must be at least a hundred K worth of cocaine beneath that liner.
Karla’s devil of an idea began to sprout. What if I ran off with this stuff and sold it myself? I sure as hell wouldn’t need Uncle Ed’s landscaping job to sustain me. I tucked that option in the back of my mind.
Whenever my thoughts drifted to Karla these days they tended to stick there. There was something about that girl. The way it hadn’t even fazed her to lend me her own skirt. Naked, I wasn’t something to be ridiculed or feared. I was just a boy without pants.
I couldn’t imagine any Ft. Pierce girls reacting that way. It took a lot less to set off their weirdness detectors. They had strict limits as to how one could act, dress and talk without getting branded a geek or worse. It was like walking a tightrope.
Ft. Pierce girls spoke in codes and signals that an out-of-loop homeschooler like me had no chance of ever emulating or deciphering. That’s what I got for having no siblings and a mom who had no faith in the Florida public schools. It was like being raised by wolves.
The possibility that Karla might exist in the flesh somewhere on this earth seemed too much to ask. She was too good to be true, and I still had trouble accepting that Root was a real place.
I chewed up the miles all that morning. Most of the time I drove ninety, slowing down to sixty-five only when people coming the other way flashed their headlights or when the jackrabbits in the left lane slowed abruptly in response to their radar and laser detectors going off.
North Carolina turned into Kentucky. I crossed into Ohio about three in the afternoon. I actually had a chance to make it to Cleveland somewhere near the scheduled time.
I grabbed the phone and called Uncle Ed to let him know I was on my way. I didn’t care what Jared said about not using this phone.
I probably should have called Ed before I left Florida, but no biggie. I was sure he wouldn’t mind me dropping in. This was my Uncle Ed. It wasn’t like I was some stranger.
The phone rang and rang, until finally someone picked up.
“Hello?” It was Aunt Helen.
“Hi, this is James. I was just calling to say—”
“Oh. Hi,” she said, flatly. “Hang on. Let me have Ed talk to you.”
She called into the other room, referring me to Uncle Ed as ‘your nephew.’
Ed cleared his throat. “Hey James. How’s it going down there? I’ve been meaning to call but I forgot to ask who you were staying with.”
“Actually …. I’m on my way up to Cleveland. I’ll be there by tonight.”
“What was that you said?” His voice cracked.
“I’m driving up in Dad’s old truck. I was wondering … would you guys be able to put me up for the night?”
“Uh … well … this is a bit of a surprise. You know this is not the best weekend. We’ve got the in-laws coming over.”
“Don’t worry. I can stay out of your hair. I can sleep in the garage. You don’t even have to feed me.”
“Oh no,” said Uncle Ed. “That’s not how we do things in my house. If we’re gonna put you up, we’re gonna put you up right.”
“So … you’re not gonna put me up at all?”
“Wish we could, and we can … but … like I said, not this weekend. Helen’s parents, they …” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me … they’re kinda … snooty … if you know what I mean. They never liked your mom. Not that they like me any better. But … if you’re gonna be around more than a few days … once they leave … I’ll talk to Helen and I’ll see if you can stay in the spare bedroom. How long is it that you plan to … uh … stay?”
“Um … maybe … permanently? If that’s okay. I mean, not forever. Just until I can make enough to get my own place. The point is, this is more than a visit. I’m coming up there to stay. And to see about that job you promised me.”
“Job?”
“Landscaping. Remember? You said I should come up to Cleveland to work for you. I mean, that’s the whole purpose of my coming up there. You said you had stuff in your office I could do, though I’m perfectly fine doing outside work.”
“James, this was years ago.”
“It was last Christmas.”
“Listen. A lot has happened since then. The economy here’s kinda imploded. Hardly any clients sign up for our enhanced services anymore. I’ve had to scale back. Less fancy upscale gardening. It’s mostly just mowing and blowing now. That’s 90% of what we do. I got five teams of Dominicans out there working and right now that’s all I can handle. It’s hard some weeks keeping all of them busy.”
“I see.”
“Things could get better I suppose, but right now…? I’m sorry, James, but I got nothing to offer you. I wish you would’ve called ahead first. It’s a shame for you to come all the way up here for nothing. But give us a call after the weekend. I’ll talk to Helen. Maybe we can have you over for dinner or something. It’d be great to see you.”
I sank lower in my seat, staring at the reflectors separating the lanes.
“James?”
I could have sworn that
seat belt cinched me down and the shoulder strap made a move to strangle me.
***
The instant I crossed into Ohio, a warble from Jared’s cell phone heralded the arrival of his promised text:
77 to 490W Exit 1B R on 7th. R on Jefferson. R on 3rd 1054 W. 3rd St.
It looked jumbled and cryptic at first glance, but when I parsed it, I found it to be a simple series of directions ending with an address.
The traffic thickened as I approached Cleveland. There were no jams, just slowdowns and bumper to bumper traffic going fifty. I was going to be late and there was nothing I could do but minimize the damage.
It was cool enough that I opened my windows for the first time since leaving Florida. I got off at the right exit, made all the correct turns and it was still 5:45 when I found 3rd Street. It was in a transition residential and industrial zone near the river and train depot. Little factories and warehouses mixed with occasional apartment houses, only a block away from some green residential streets.
The place was an auto body shop, a plain, squared-off building of concrete block with three service bays side by side. A guy in Carhartts stood on the corner. When he saw me coming he stepped out into the street and waved me into the lot.
He was tall and bald and ripped, with a millimeter of shadow on his cheeks and cold, probing eyes with not a hint of humor behind them. He jabbed his finger at the closed bay.
“That door opens, you pull in and get your ass out of the truck!”
***
I rolled into a drive-through garage that opened front and back. Once the overhead door came down behind me I was boxed in, though the back door the next bay over remained open. It looked out into a muddy junkyard full of stripped down hulks of every make and model. There were a couple sheds and a construction trailer in the middle of the desolation.
The guys hanging around were not the Mexican mafia types I expected. They were just a bunch of middle-American Anglos. They were quite a bit older than Jared and me. Maybe they had nicer clothes and a few more tattoos and earrings than the average Joe who worked in a garage, but not by much.
A guy in an over-sized trucker’s cap came up to my window and handed me an envelope.
“Cut the engine. Leave the keys. Robbie will give you a ride wherever you need to go.”
“What about my truck?”
“You can pick it up tomorrow. The Walmart on Steelyard.”