He switched on the lights and flashers and got out to do a series of visual checks, along with bopping the tires with a mallet, checking for flats. At the back of the trailer, he checked the security seal on the doors. To open the doors, the skinny metal strip had to be cut. It was stamped with a unique number that had already been called in to BPM security. The guard at BPM was supposed to come out to verify the seal number, but he wouldn't have to today.
Michael walked toward the front of the box and rolled up the landing gear. He climbed into the Mack, slammed the stick into second, and punched the brake buttons. The brakes released with a great hiss, then he popped the clutch and the tractor roared and jumped ahead, slamming the driver's door closed with a metallic bang, as the trailer slid out of its hole. He was in fourth gear by the time he swept around the corner of the building. At the far end of the yard the security gate was closed. He aimed at it, building speed and pulling on the air horn cord, and the gate seemed to jump before it rolled aside.
Thirty minutes later, Michael was stopped at a red light on Route 106. A hand reached in the open passenger window, pulled up the lock button, and TJ climbed in.
"There's no seat here." TJ crouched, like someone would be right along to bolt a seat to the floor underneath him.
"Close the door and sit on the floor. Get down, will ya!"
"People are supposed to see me so you can say you were hijacked."
Michael had no answer to that, so he just glared straight ahead. The light turned green, the truck lurched, and the matter was resolved by TJ falling on his ass.
At Route 18, they headed south.
TJ stretched to see the sideview mirror. "Is Larry still behind us in the van?"
"Silly bastard is so close I can't even see him," Michael said. "It's like he's skid-hopping me."
"Boy, you're a real grouch. Is it because you're hungover? Or not drinking?"
At the Middleboro Rotary they picked up Route 44 west and had the road almost to themselves.
"That the sign?" Michael took his foot off the accelerator.
"That's it," TJ affirmed. "Weir Brothers Saw Mill."
Michael checked his mirrors, braked, then geared down the transmission and pressed the fuel pedal, swinging into the turn.
"Man, you took that fast. It's a miracle you didn't tip this over."
"We were going too fast to slow down. You go into a turn on the brake and you wreck."
They bumped along a wide asphalt road until it became a single-lane cement dust strip. At the end, in the middle of an enormous hangar wall, was a rusted corrugated sliding door, twenty feet high, forty feet wide.
"We're supposed to drive right in."
"I vote we open the door first," Michael said. He rolled the truck up near the door and stopped.
"Paul said we should drive right in."
"He may have assumed that between us we'd figure out what to do if the door was closed. I think we should try to open it first. I can always crash the truck through it, you know, if nothing else works."
Thomas Jefferson Moran jumped out like a parachutist, landed, and walked toward the door, turning a 360 as he went, glancing in all directions. He grabbed the handle on the metal door with his right hand, leaned all the way to the left, using his weight to slide the door open. He almost fell when the door rolled easily. He turned and gave his accomplice the finger.
Michael put on his headlights to see a wide cement floor inside the hangar. He played the clutch out, and the truck crept inside, TJ walking along beside it. Michael hit the high beams and about a hundred yards off, at the back of the hangar, he could make out piles of unfinished picnic tables. He swung the steering wheel left and right, using the tractor like a giant flashlight, looking for the empty rental trailer that was supposed to have been left inside. Back in the van, Larry had lengths of metal rollers they were going to use to convey the freight from the Triple-T trailer to the rental box. But all Michael saw in front of him was the inside of a cavernous, abandoned saw mill.
Larry pulled the van inside the building, up near the front of the trailer. He stopped and was getting out when Michael jumped down from the tractor.
"Where's the empty trailer?" Larry asked. "They were supposed to leave it by last night at the latest. What's the story?"
"How would I know?" Michael answered.
"Should we just leave this trailer here?" TJ said. "Should we unload it?"
"I don't know," Michael snapped. He walked back to the trailer doors, took out a jackknife, and sawed at the seal until it broke. He opened the doors carefully in case the load had shifted. There was always a chance something could fall out and land on your head. But not today; the trailer looked almost empty, other than some cartons he could see in the nose. "Aw, shit." Michael climbed in the trailer and walked up to the nose. When he returned, he went to the back end of the trailer and looked up at the number stenciled in black at the top inside corner. "Forty-five seventy?" he said.
He jumped down, grabbed the trailer door, pushed it closed, and stared at the four-digit number affixed to the door: 5432. He pulled at the corner of the number on the outside of the trailer door, peeled the decal off, and revealed a different number underneath: 4570.
"He put phony numbers on."
"Who?" TJ asked. "How?"
"How's easy. There're cartons full of number decals in the repair shop." Michael looked at his watch. "Let's go. Quick." He gestured to Larry. "Give me the van keys."
Michael drove the van, Larry rode shotgun, and TJ sat on the floor between the seats.
"What was up in the front?" Larry asked.
"Eight pallets of Cocoa Puffs."
Michael pulled the van into one of the spaces in the drivers' parking lot at Triple-T Trucking.
"You gotta say something, man," Larry mumbled. "What are we doing here?"
Michael looked at his watch. "Good. Five of 8."
"So," TJ said, "are we surrendering or what? You got a plan?"
Michael pointed toward the terminal building, a monstrosity the length of three football fields that had dock doors numbered 60 through 140 on the side facing them.
"See the ramp? And all those red Macks parked in rows? At 8, it's going to look like a jail break. About fifty guys are going to come down that ramp, jump in those tractors, and start driving around, all over the yard. Some will hook up to trailers backed into the dock doors, the rest are headed to the trailer pad in the back to hook up out there. I'm going to go in the repair shop and get a dupe key from the cabinet. Jimmy, the Waltham driver, is on vacation this week and nobody will use his tractor. He eats his lunch in it and throws the bags on the floor. It smells like a restaurant dumpster."
"Why? What are you doing?" Larry asked. "Why don't we call Paul?"
"On what? You and him got shoe phones?"
"On a pay phone," Larry said.
"Okay. Where is he? Where do I call?"
"I don't get what we're doing," TJ said.
"These guys don't screw around. If we want to keep breathing, we need those cigarettes."
"What cigarettes? That's my answer," TJ said. "We don't have none. Never did."
"Which guys? Who we're stealing from? Or selling to?" Larry asked.
"Both, probably," Michael speculated.
"I knew this was a bad idea," TJ said. "My grandmother was right. First time I got pinched, she said, 'Thomas, be careful. Life's going to be tricky for you because you're a complete fuckin' idiot.' I said, 'Me? No way.' She had me pegged."
"Why do you think the load is here?" Larry asked.
"What's a better place to hide a forty-five-foot Triple-T trailer?" Michael said. "They're on 4570. Not the real one, but one here with that number on it. Look, you want to, go home, I'll keep you guys out of it."
"Screw you," Larry said. "We stick together."
Larry looked at TJ, who closed his eyes and nodded. "It's what we do."
The receiving department for Pat's Vending was around the back on a side street
. Although cars were parked on both sides of the road, there were No Parking signs posted near the receiving doors so Michael had plenty of room to draw the trailer up along the curb. He pulled out the plunger on the dash and the engine shuddered and died. He turned the key off and jumped out.
The dock doors on the building were pulled down and a sign read, No Deliveries After 11 a.m.
At the top of the cement steps there was an employee entrance door. Michael pressed a black button inside a brass ring and a shrill bell sounded. He backed down a couple of steps just before the door flew open. There stood a tall, young man. Michael had delivered here many times, and this receiver, Victor, always acted as if he'd never seen him before. Victor sported his usual Sha Na Na get-up: starched white T-shirt, new jeans, and an elaborate hairdo.
"What?"
"I've got a delivery."
"Can you read?" Victor jerked a thumb in the direction of the roll-up door and the No Deliveries sign.
"I sure can. Let me help you out." Michael squinted at the sign and moved his lips. "It says, No Smoking. Okay now, Bowzer, you do me a favor. Go tell Junior I have his delivery."
Victor shifted his weight to his left foot, reached up to grab the doorjamb with his left hand, and stretched his right out to grab the other jamb. Michael closed the distance between them and, using both hands, grabbed Victor high on his arms and pressed his thumbs into the nerves on the inside of Victor's biceps. Michael pushed him inside the darkened warehouse while Victor emitted a series of high-pitched yips.
"You gonna boot me in the kisser?" Michael said. He grabbed the front of Victor's T-shirt with two hands and twisted it hard to the right, and the man toppled to the side, almost to the floor. Michael held onto him, then lifted him back up and released his shirt. He pretended to smooth out Victor's tee and dust him off.
"Now, Victor," Michael smiled and patted him on the cheek, "go get Junior, or so help me God I'll muss up your swirly hairdo."
He shoved Victor backwards, just as another man came out into the warehouse from the office. This man had a confused and unhappy look on his face. "Hey, what's going on? Who is this guy?"
"I'm Michael Mosely and you're Junior. I have a delivery for you."
"Oh no. No. You didn't bring them here." He ran to the exit door and looked out. "Is that them? Tell me you didn't. Mr. T. is on his way here. We're all dead."
"Give me our money. I'll drop the trailer. You can give it back to Mr. T.," Michael said.
"No!" Junior raised his hands in the surrender pose. "No. I'll give you the hundred I promised your brother, I have the cash, but you gotta screw, with the truck."
"Okay. Get the money."
"No, get out of here and come back later."
"And what, you'll give me a check?" Michael said.
Junior walked over to a tall, gray metal desk against the wall, opened a drawer, and pulled a pistol out. He pointed it at Michael. "Get going. Move."
Michael walked down the steps, over to the tractor, with Junior right behind him. Michael opened the door to the tractor and turned. "Where do you want it?"
"Take off, or I'll shoot you where you stand," Junior said.
"Don't be hasty. I'll get the trailer out of here after I get the money. My pals in the van across the street there have guns pointed right back at you."
Junior kept his weapon on Michael and pivoted around in a half-circle. The back door of the van was open. TJ and Larry were inside on the floor with pistols aimed at Junior.
At that moment, a bright yellow Lincoln Continental came around the corner and rolled to a stop right beside Junior and Michael. The rear window on the driver's side slid down to display a very old man who looked as if he had been poured into the folds of the leather seat. He had an inert, baggy face, and the thin, wispy hair of a newborn.
"Junior, is that my driver you're menacing with a firearm?"
The Lincoln driver's tinted window stayed closed. The engine burbled, and Michael imagined a couple of slicked-down gorillas in the front seat pointing their guns at Larry and TJ.
"We're just kidding around, Mr. Tortello," Junior said. He bent down and looked in the backseat. "I didn't know until late last night these cigarettes were yours. I called Pop to ask him what I should do."
"Your father called me from Atlanta, Junior. He's green-lighted you, if I feel I've been insulted. You weren't trying to insult me by stealing from me, were you?"
"Goodness no, Mr. T." He put his hand on his collarbone and raised his eyes skyward. "I would never."
"Is that my load of cigarettes?"
"Yes sir, it is," Junior said.
"How much money do you have inside?" Mr. T. asked.
"I don't know exactly. Maybe two hundred thousand."
"How much were you going to pay this fella?"
"A hundred. But honestly, Mr. T., I had no idea--"
"A salesman from my company offers you a hot truck and you didn't ask yourself if it could be mine?" Mr. T. shook his head. "Sadly, Junior, I believe you. Do you know why? Because it's a well-known fact you're an imbecile. Your poor father is in prison because you're an imbecile, but why should I do his dirty work? He can kill you himself when he gets out. Go in and get my money, Junior."
"Absolutely. How much should I get?"
"All of it. Take whatever cash your employees have on them too. You can reimburse them later."
"You bet, Mr. T." Junior ran over, vaulted up the cement stairs, and passed by Victor, who was holding the door open.
Mr. T. looked at the driver in the front seat of his car. "Help me get out."
The driver's door opened and a skinny, older blond woman in a chauffeur suit hopped out and opened the back door. She helped Mr. T. peel himself off the seat and pulled him to his feet, then edged him toward her and closed the car door with her knee. She leaned him against the car like a board and fixed his tie. His trousers were pulled up so high that his belt practically bisected his shirt pocket. It didn't look like he was wearing a pair of pants, as much as it looked like they were devouring him. The blonde stood at his elbow.
"You're Mosely's brother? Your father worked for us too. The three of you were there when we bought the Boston operation from Blaney," Mr. T. said.
"Yeah, until your terminal manager fired him for poor production. A sixty-two-year-old guy."
"Well, that stinks. But in our defense, he's a drunk, right?" Mr. T. asked.
"He used to be. He's in AA now, so he's an alcoholic."
"Well, your brother never said this was about revenge."
"It is for me," Michael replied.
"I cannot respect suicidal stupidity for purposes of money," Mr. T. said. "But I can for revenge, especially on behalf of a father. Very much so. Tonya, tell Chuck and Brucie to pull the other Mosely out of the trunk."
Michael felt like he'd been bitten by an electric eel.
"Relax. He's fine," Mr. T. said. "He said he didn't know where the load was so he's been manhandled a little. He'll need to be delumped before he goes looking for a new job."
Two very large men got out on the passenger side of the Lincoln, front and rear. Over the roof of the car, Michael saw Larry and TJ get their toy weapons up, as if ready to squirt water at the two goons. Tonya keyed the trunk open and a bloody Paul, bound and gagged, was lifted out. He was conscious and he looked extremely pissed off.
The men set Paul on his feet and one produced a switchblade to cut the rope around his legs and wrists. The other guy peeled the tape off his face. Even the sound of it hurt, but Paul was silent.
"See, Paul," Mr. T. said, "this is why I have a rule. No cigarettes or liquor. They are just too tempting a target for shenanigans."
Paul said nothing, and Larry and TJ came over to help him back to the van. Paul got in, and the other two turned to keep an eye on Chuck and Brucie.
"In case you're wondering," Mr. T. said, "you're fired too."
"Okay, but now I really need that hundred thousand. Then I'll go quietly."
&n
bsp; "Why would I pay you? We're going to deliver the cigarettes this afternoon," Mr. T. said.
"No, you're not. You'd have called the cops. Instead you switched the numbers so I got the wrong box. You're stealing it too. Your plan was to keep the smokes, file a claim with the insurance company. They'll pay Blue Ribbon for the missing butts."
"You're a shrewd one. When Raymond called last night, I thought this was a chance to make lemonade from lemons. Brucie was going to take the real cigarette trailer out of the yard after the 8 o'clock driver rush was over. But he couldn't find it, so we figured out where Paul was making a sales call and picked him up. But he didn't know anything, so he said. Now Brucie will take this truck down to Jersey. We'll sell the cigarettes there. Cigarettes are way too tempting. But I promised myself I'd just have one."
"Famous last words," Michael said.
"And I'm entitled to collect a fine from Junior. Sounds like it will be about two hundred thousand."
"May I suggest a way to make an additional fifty grand?" Michael asked.
"Please do."
"Keep the tractor and trailer down in Jersey, put new numbers on them, and file a claim for lost equipment."
"You are a smart kid. You'll go far, if someone doesn't kill you first."
"I know it won't be you," Michael said.
"How do you know that?"
"You need me to talk to the insurance company so you can get your claim paid. You don't want to have to pay Blue Ribbon out of your pocket. If I'm found dead right after talking to the FBI and the insurance men, that won't be good."