Zombie Drug Run

  Chapter 1: The Meeting

  Frederick Paol pushed away from the bar and checked his watch. He was meeting the new guys in the Warehouse District and the information handed down was slight to say the least. Such was the business. He had the plane to move whatever needed to be moved and the balls to do it. Standing up, he felt the three whiskeys scratching at the back of his throat, but even so, it helped him feel more secure. Discomfort was like that. Never let yourself get too relaxed, that was the motto, brother.

  He had a little less than an hour.

  He shuffled out to the sidewalk, watching the traffic mash by on Magazine. Soiled newspapers lined the gutters, flyers on every street pole, people pressing themselves into every commercialized niche they could possibly squeeze themselves into. Not even four o'clock in the afternoon and already some bum had fashioned himself a rotten, cardboard pallet in the alcove of a deserted porn theater. Fucking loser. Better to let him rot where he lay.

  Frederick made his way to the curb for a taxi. He was meticulous about his dress when conducting business; he'd seen tourists in their ridiculous, garish outfits stand with their dicks in their hands for hours waiting. He’d seen failing salesmen sweating in bars over botched assignments. The cab rolled over to the curb in about a minute.

  It splashed a muddy spume across the sidewalk, narrowly missing a strolling couple nearby. Then it idled in a wet hunch near the Bus Stop, fuming noxiously while Frederick walked up. He grabbed the handle and opened the door.

  "Where to, buddy?" the cabby said, all the while digging some grotesque chunk from between his teeth. Frederick grimaced and turned away, closing the door to stare out the window.

  "Corner of St. Claude and Poland."

  "The docks, eh?" Quizzical mouse-eyes peered back at him hungrily by way of the rear-view mirror. The smell of cigarettes, stale coffee, and body odor hung in the air like a load of clothes fermenting in grease. Frederick nodded and cracked the window.

  The cabby pulled away from the curb. "Got business out at the docks, do ya?" he insisted.

  Frederick gave the man a cold stare and cleared his throat. "Here’s the deal, buddy. I need to be at a meeting very shortly and I don't have time to dick around with small talk. Do us both a favor and step on it, could you?" Then he turned back to the window. The cabby shut his mouth, although he did find a grating and ill-defined radio station that was almost as bad as his chatter. Frederick let it go, taking the lesser evil, continually watching the buildings that passed so he could center his thoughts on something besides this shit-crate.

  When the cab exited St. Claude to Poland, Frederick leaned forward and touched the cabby on the shoulder. "This is far enough," he said. The cabby pulled over to the side of the road, fuming but thinking better of voicing any opinion. Even though they were still several blocks away from his destination Frederick could take no more; the smell inside was claustrophobically rank.

  He flung the door wide and stepped out to the curb, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. He balled up a twenty and plunked it in through the open passenger window. The cabby grunted like a pig, throwing in some incoherent comment under his breath which Frederick also let slide as he waved the guy off and walked away, never looking back. The cab peeled out to the street and sped away.

  He kicked along the dirty sidewalk, summing up the neighborhood right and left. Derelict buildings lined both sides of the road, but just ahead he could see block after block of warehouses. Trucks rumbling along the roads. Square miles of choked, confined space rich with rats and inventory, whether hospital beds or brown heroin wrapped neatly in vacuum-sealed packages. An immediate sharp burst from the whistle of a huge freighter somewhere close on the river. Then the ominous chop of a paddlewheel either docking or leaving the wharf.

  Shortly ahead, he caught sight of the office-front sign. Franklin Warehouse. Lincoln had told him the old man owned a sizable chunk of the international shipping trade passing into and out of the Port of New Orleans, and as far as he knew, the old man was on the up-and-up. It was his two sons Frederick was meeting. Lincoln had also told him they diverted the old man’s money not infrequently to charter private planes. And that’s where Frederick came in.

  This contact, Lincoln Thomas, was a Vietnam vet who'd been in and out of prison ever since the waning days of Nixon. Even so, Frederick had let him set up the meeting. The difference now was he hadn’t been pinched in a while and times were tight. Somehow the old hippie knew these rich assholes. As ridiculous as it seemed, Lincoln had at least a passing knowledge of every scumbag and assorted deep-pocket this side of the Mississippi River.

  Frederick had the 9mm stuffed snuggly at the base of his spine. He knew if the guys were professionals they'd find it, but he liked the insurance in case they weren’t. This way, if they didn't let on they knew he was packing, he'd know they were a bunch of fucking amateurs (in which case he'd decline their business), and if they did, they'd also know he wasn’t messing around. If it all went to hell he had a knife in his boot.

  Frederick strolled into the parking lot. It was littered with trash from a recent festival and the northeast wind that trailed among the District’s corridors. At a corner of the building he noticed an old black man with a gas-powered blower in his hands, hastening the trash into an adjacent vacant lot. He lifted his head and offered a small nod as Frederick came on.

  Three cars were parked near the entrance. Two of them late model clunkers, but the one situated directly in front of the door was a sparkling, forest-green Lexus. The temporary tag was still taped to the back windshield. Frederick ambled slowly past, pausing only slightly to gaze inside. Sure enough, loaded. Fucking rich kids. The bastards had probably never worked an honest day in their lives, or needed to, but for some unknown reason, they chose to dabble in the drug trade. His background was somewhat different.

  He'd returned from 'Nam with a monkey the size of Rhode Island on his back and a pilot’s license in his pocket. The later was just fine, but the former had spurred a mindless robbery ten years ago that had served him up eight, piping hot years in Angola State Penitentiary. He had ceased fearing any retribution for evil deeds after this time in hell; those dark nights and brutal days were something that just never left. But since then no legitimate airline in the States would even consider giving him a job, so he'd been forced to take up other pursuits.

  On the up side, however, he'd never taken another drug since. That is, if you didn’t consider alcohol a drug. One had to make allowances.

  He came to the door and pulled it open, noticing the distinct beep of the alarm system as he passed inside. He looked at the smiling girl behind the desk. Frederick didn't figure either of the clunkers outside was hers; she probably balled the guy who owned the Lexus. She looked it; she had the right mouth, and you could just get a hint of cocksucker in the way her eyes flashed. Right now she had the phone to her ear, but motioned that she'd be with him in a moment. He stood idle, sizing up the room, moved over and sat down in a plush leather chair which still smelled of the manufacturer. He placed his hands in his lap and watched her with a shadow of a grin on his face. She caught his attention again and in fine fashion made a face that silently affirmed the person on the other end was a jack-off she’d be glad to be rid of. Frederick wondered how many times she rolled her eyes like that in a day.

  The walls of the office were crammed with black and white photographs of massive, sea-going vessels. Some showed strange men on expensive rigs holding up glittering speckled trout and amberjack. The more recent shots were in color, but in fewer numbers. Frederick guessed the novelty of such dominion had worn off sometime around the advent of colored film, and the subsequent memories had been washed over by the effervescent and cloying scent of money. He was still scanning the wall when the secretary addressed him.

  "So how can I help you, sir?" she asked.

  He looked across the room with the same grin, suitably expanded, already feeling his dick stirring from the sheer weight of
her voice, and that was quite a trick.

  "I believe you can," he replied. "I've got an appointment to see William Franklin, Jr. I'm a little early, I know, but if you would let him know I'm here."

  "He's in the back," she said shuffling through a heap of papers on the desk as if something important might suddenly escape. She pulled something free, glanced at it, and then turned her attention back on him. "Mister Frederick Paol?" she questioned, crucifying the pronunciation horribly. He corrected her politely. “It’s Pay-ole” he said before nodding. The girl blushed and assured him she was sorry. "He's meeting with Samuel and Tom right now, but he told me to send you in when you got here." She made a move to stand but Frederick stopped her.

  "No, please. Don’t bother. If you’ll point me the way I’ll do just fine.” She smiled back before pointing to a beat-up shop door off to the left and down a short hall. Frederick could hear no sound of labor within. "Yes ma'am," he said with the greatest care. "You have a good day." He passed through the hall and pushed the door open. Walked into the dusky warehouse within, leaving her staring at his back as the door slowly closed.

  It was a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street. Two five-ton ceiling cranes rested quietly overhead in their greasy tracks, and most of the floor space was packed with row upon row of heavy metal shelving, extending practically to the ceiling like monolithic steel trees. Cardboard containers of all sizes and shapes lined the expansive shelves, and Frederick wondered briefly at the cost of maintaining something like this.

  Over to the right he saw a small office. A thin glow of light threw itself against the grimy window. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear voices inside. Frederick walked over and tapped lightly on the door jamb. The sound of voices ceased immediately. Then, after a beat: "Frederick Paol?" pronounced right.

  "That is me," he replied, pushing the door open and stepping inside. There were three men, two of them impeccably dressed, the third enveloped in a pair of soiled workman's overalls. This one loomed in a reversed, broken-backed chair set slightly apart from the other two. The butt of a cigarette hung limply from his mouth. One of the nicely-dressed young men stood up and offered his hand. The overalled Bull stood up too and walked over. Frederick knew the routine. While he shook the nicely-dressed man's hand he held his left arm away from his body so the sweaty Bull wouldn't have trouble frisking him. Frederick felt the hand reach the small of his back, grimaced a little as his coat was whisked back and the 9mm extracted. He turned with to watch the lackey examine the gun.

  The handshake ended. "Nice piece," Hand-Shake affirmed as he offered Frederick a seat next to the man who could only be his brother. Frederick grunted a languid assent as the Bull shot the magazine from the butt before handing the gun back. Frederick accepted it silently, studying the man's eyes. This was one you’d not want to turn your back on.

  "Yes, it is," Frederick replied. The Bull turned around and made his slow way back to the chair. Frederick leaned forward, moving aside his coat as he slid the unloaded gun back to its former resting place. Hand-Shake sat down and lit a cigarette. He pulled deeply before letting go a violent stream of smoke.

  "Frederick Paol," he said again, placing the freshly-lit cigarette in the ashtray before him. "My name is William Franklin, if you haven't already guessed, Bill to my friends." He smiled and pointed a ringed finger at the similarly dressed, silent man sitting across from him. "This is my brother, Samuel, and this," he said, gesturing toward the Bull with the work clothes "is Tom Fields. I hope he didn't offend you, but you know how things are. This Lincoln Thomas, Mr. Paol? He a close friend of yours?" He paused with the question hanging in the air.

  "More an acquaintance than a friend, Mr. Franklin.” Frederick looked at each of the men in turn. “I trust him to a certain degree.”

  "Yes, well I'm sure. Trust is a hard thing to come by these days."

  "I very much agree."

  "So then," William said, grabbing the cigarette back from the ashtray. Frederick took a moment to size up Samuel quickly, sitting like a shadow a few feet away. This is the truly dangerous one, he thought. William was too clean and the Bull too goddamned stupid despite his size, but this one... Frederick was glad he still had the stiletto in his boot; he could feel it resting reassuringly at his calf. Fucking amateur Bulldog asshole, he thought.

  "So fellas, let’s cut to the chase," he said, sitting forward and resting his elbows on the table. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm a busy man. I'm sure you can understand." He heard the Bull blow between his teeth, but did not take his eyes from the brothers.

  "Very well, Mr. Paol," William began. "No need to waste precious time. I've known your buddy for a while and on several occasions they've been rather productive." Frederick didn’t have the slightest idea what the man was talking about. But that’s not what he was interested in. There was also a subtle change in character now; the slick-suit manner now more machine-like now. Potentially lethal. The eyes sharpened on Frederick but he held the gaze. "He gets into trouble now and again, I’m sure you know that,” William said as Frederick nodded. “And several times we've gone out of our way to help him." He noticed the look on Frederick's face and held out the hand with the cigarette. "I know this really doesn't have a damn thing to do with you, but I'm just giving you the word. How your name came down the pike to us." He crushed the half-burned cigarette out. "He says you do good work and I trust him."

  Frederick leaned back in the chair. "As you said, trust is a hard thing to come by. I've been fucked over by it in the past."

  William's face broke into a genuine smile. He pawed the table top softly. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Paol, but in this world who can truly know…you know?" He raised his eyebrows, enjoying his little pun. "Anyway, he says you have a plane and you're hell in the air. I've got a product I need moved. Could be you're the man I'm looking for."

  "Could be. Where to?"

  "Southeast of Bogota, in Colombia." William studied Frederick's face. "Any problem?"

  "No." Brevity allowed his mind full rein. "So...?"

  William examined his fingernails. "You want to know how much?"

  "Yeah."

  "Five kilos."

  "Where's back?"

  "New Orleans, of course."

  "I don't guess Lincoln told you, but I fly out of Thibodaux. You’ll have to handle it from there." Frederick dug in his coat pocket, producing his own pack of cigarettes. As he packed them the as-yet silent Samuel Franklin snapped open a Zippo and held the flame in front of Frederick’s face. Frederick leaned forward when he got one set in his mouth, careful to maintain eye contact the whole way. Neither man blinked.

  "That might cause an inconvenience, Mr. Paol."

  "Sorry," he replied, pulling deep and waiting a moment before letting go. "But that's just the way things are. I fly my fields and everything begins and ends in the air." Having said his piece he went back to smoking.

  William smiled again, eyeing the ashtray where the corpse of his cigarette lay. “Just like wearing the same jock-strap if you're winning ball games, I expect," he said.

  Frederick allowed the slight mocking attitude, but his eyes hardened. "I suppose."

  "Well…that’s fine, but the price--"

  Frederick cut in before he could continue. "The price stays the same," he said. The Bull's eyes widened, and Samuel's glinted darkly in the thin light streaming down from the naked 60 watt. "Quality, gentlemen," he continued. "I'm the best. Lincoln isn't lying. I'll get the stuff over here, but I'm just not driving around with it. I'll handle the hard part, the rest is in your court." He drew hard on the cigarette again. Looked at each of the men in turn, casting over the Bull quickly. It was clear who the real players were.

  As if to clear the growing tension in the air, William said, "I did tell you that Lincoln says you're a man to be trusted?"

  "You did, and he's half-right. We all know the rules of the game here, and I'm not gonna promise you something you know is bullshit. You don't know me
from Adam." He paused to let this sink in. "I'm telling you I'll fly whatever you got right into your back yard, but you'll have to come and pick it up. Thibodaux's as far as I go.

  "I've done all this before gentlemen. You consider yourselves professionals and I do too. You want it; I'll get it, but the price stays the same, and Thibodaux is end-game for me." He offered an obligatory smile before reaching over to crush out his butt in William's ashtray.

  "You've got a lot of balls, Mr. Paol." This time the observation didn't come from William, and Frederick turned his attention to Samuel. The previously silent partner was now leaning in toward him. "You come in here and start blowing smoke about how things are gonna go." The Bull was more intense now; his breathing faster, it seemed he should have a spiked collar tight around his throat. Frederick began thinking again about the stiletto in his boot.

  Across the table, William lounged comfortably in his chair, casting a somewhat morose stare at his brother. Frederick brought his leg back so his hand was closer to the blade, but he knew his chances were slim to none if everything went to hell.

  Samuel continued, "You talk a lot of shit, but so far we don't know you from the fucking Wizard of Oz. Lincoln’s been known to fuck up." He leaned even farther in to encroach on Frederick's space. His voice carried a strange inflection, one far different than Frederick had ever heard before. It breached a surprisingly odd and disjointed gap between violence, elegance, ruthlessness, and a certain twisted form of respect.

  "So maybe you are our man," Samuel said, smiling now, sitting back. "Lincoln's never fucked us before, but like you were saying, who's to fucking trust? There's always a first time." He sized up Frederick as he stood, casting an eye towards the Bull. Immediately the dirty man’s breathing slowed and he folded himself carefully back into the chair.

  "You're not scared of much, are you?" Samuel asked with his right thumbnail pressed at his front teeth.

  "Not usually, no," Frederick said.

  "Not even three strangers in a small room in the back of a warehouse?” Samuel took his thumb away from his mouth and smiled.

  "Not especially," Frederick replied. The muscles in his neck bunched into a tight knot.

  The comment hung in the air. Each man looked around at the others until the silence was suddenly broken by Samuel's laughter. The sound had a damping effect that strangely smoothed all the uncomfortable wrinkles out of the room. Of course, the Bull still looked disturbed, but he didn’t even fucking count.

  "I’ll say one thing. You are one ballsy motherfucker!" Samuel said and laughed long and hard. And with that the tension, or at least most of it, drained away. "Maybe you are the one we’re looking for," he affirmed, looking toward his brother for the word. "What do you think?"

  William looked at Frederick a long, hard moment before turning back to his brother. "We'll talk about this further,” he said, letting the statement sink as he nodded very faintly at Frederick. "Now that we know a little about you, and the conditions you insist, I'm sure you'll give us a while to mull this thing over.” It was very clearly not a question.

  Frederick nodded, signifying he had no choice in the matter. But he did look back at Samuel. "I'm the man, all right." He stood up slowly, holding his hand out to the Bull for the 9mm clip. The Bull looked dourly at William who gave a brief tick of his chin. The Bull handed it over and Frederick stuffed it into his coat pocket.

  "Thank you for your time, gentlemen," he said politely, turning toward the door. "I hope to be hearing from you soon."

  "That’s fine, Mr. Paol," William said.

  But before he left the room Samuel spoke up again. "I know about the blade in the boot," he said.

  As he stared into the darkness of the warehouse on the other side of the door, Frederick stopped short. "I knew you did," he said, though he hadn’t, and left.