by Jay Harez
Charlie went down to the cantina. It was karaoke night. Fortunately no one had imbibed enough to inspire bravery or delusions about the abilities to take the stage so it was quiet. Charlie had a couple of beers and realized he hadn’t had a drink in almost a year. Tecate hits hard on an empty stomach.
The pre-paid phone vibrated and woke Charlie shortly after nine a.m. The text message read: TIME TO ROLL. Charlie’s head hung halfway off of the foot of the bed. Ten inches from his face were a pair of feet. Four things registered with Charlie simultaneously.
One: sirens, lots and lots of sirens. They were distant and were headed away from Charlie and where he had parked the truck. The other three things were: fat, Mexican, and whore. The whore that belonged to the feet he was momentarily transfixed on. Charlie lifted his head and could see her big round ass in profile between him and the window full of sirens. He immediately formulated a theory on how Tecate could be linked to syphilis. Of course he didn’t have what some smart college kid would call ‘empirical data’ but he did have three things to support his theory; fat, Mexican, whore. Charlie thought he may not have caught syphilis last night but it was always best to assume the worst and plan to survive it. Charlie exited the room as quickly as possible and at the front desk he made sure that nothing else could be charged to his Green Dot card then checked out.
As he approached the truck he could see the column of smoke rising in the distance. Based on his estimate of the distance and whatever the hell was happening he concluded that the column of smoke was at least one hundred feet high.
Although he was a couple of hours or so away from the border, having the Policia distracted couldn’t hurt his departure at all. Charlie plugged in the charger and put the phone on the center console. He mounted the GPS on the dash, found the fuel tank full, and e started driving.
The phone vibrated. It made sense that the GPS could be tracked so Darryl and friends could keep an eye on their vehicle.
“Driver,” Charlie answered.
“My man you need to hurry,” came Darryl’s voice as serious and sober as Charlie had ever heard it.
“I am at least two and a half hours from crossing. So unless your friends are willing to pay whether I get stopped and searched or not that’s how long it’s going to take,” Charlie said. He didn’t know what possessed him to ‘lay it down’ like that but what was said was said.
“Stand by,” Darryl responded.
Again the muffled voice in the background as someone tried to cover the transmitting part of the phone. The gruff voice from the background now spoke directly to Charlie.
“Charlie – this is now time sensitive and extremely valuable to us,” the phone said.
“That truck needs to be near a hospital as soon as possible.” The voice was raspy as if a long time smoker was on the other end and the voice wasn’t asking questions.
“Changes get Drivers killed or worse, sent to prison,” Charlie reflexively responded. Charlie wasn’t angry. He was more afraid of losing the other five thousand for not delivering.
“The five-thousand you were promised is a fraction of what the load is now worth. Follow the new directions down-loading to your GPS,” said the phone
Charlie stared at the phone for a minute. He couldn’t think straight. He had the option to pull over and start for Paraguay right then, six thousand lesser. The GPS device shut down and rebooted. A new destination appeared on the screen that was at least three hours south by Charlie’s estimate.
The truck started to make a high-pitched keening sound. It reminded Charlie of brake pads worn down to the bolts. But this was a sustained noise and he wasn’t riding the brakes just then. As abruptly as it had started the noise stopped.
Charlie was getting back on the road now. He was grateful for power steering and a/c. He was going in the opposite direction now, south, and deeper into Mexico, deeper into the hills that lead to the mountains. Cartel country. That’s when the banging started. Perhaps it was a repetitive bump, either way something was going on in the back of the truck.
Charlie had never run illegals…to his knowledge. The bigger concern, actually the two big concerns were; one, why go further into Mexico? And two, what if one of them was in labor? That would explain the hospital instructions, but…not his business.
The back of that truck could have been in China as far as Charlie’s job mattered. Every Driver knew that under no circumstances did you ever check the load. You drove.
Charlie thought back on a conversation he had had over shitty coffee in the Pit. Cancer John had been the protagonist in this particular chat. John – who sat trembling in the Pit day after day – had opened his truck one day and found a whole bunch of shit he wasn’t supposed to.
Unfortunately, that particular load was several barrels of benzene marked for disposal by the US Army. A couple of the barrels were upturned and when John opened the door he got covered from shin-bone to toupee in the shit. Three months later John found out he had some sort of leukemia and that he was generally fucked. So he sat in the Pit day after day drinking shitty coffee, waiting to die.
Charlie wasn’t going out that way. The banging stopped.
Charlie was feeling worse about this run by the minute. Whatever was happening, the only way out of it was to get this truck where it belonged, get paid and haul ass away from drunk Darryl and new friends.
Charlie wasn’t a fan of Mexican music, Mexico, or Mexicans but he knew from experience that the BBC had a station down there so he began searching for the station. Soon the clipped speech of the BBC announcer filled the cab. The British accent would normally have soothed Charlie during a haul where things were starting to go wrong.
“According to Federal officials the tragic fire at Immaculate Hospital was part of an escape from hospital security. Law enforcement has offered little by way of explanation as to why so random a target would be attacked at all.” Said the radio.
“However a number of hospital staff has painted a grizzly picture of what they describe as the lobos loco,”
“Someone or some people, I don’t know who, released wild dogs into the nursery! Mia Dios! The babies! The babies!” said a panicked nurse to the BBC correspondent.
Then the BBC broadcaster was back in command. “At this time authorities are asking that only the parents of newborns at this hospital call, as all hospital lines available are being used to contact the parents of the infants lost last night.”
So much for being soothed. Jesus fuck! Charlie thought, even in this shit-hole of a country…Jesus! Charlie put the high pitched keening noise, the thumping sound, and the image of mangled and burned babies behind him…just the road ahead, Charlie thought.
He had driven almost two hours. As he crested a hill, a station wagon with the hood up and steam coming off it was straddling the centerline, effectively blocking the road. Charlie thought about going around but a truck of similar size and make was stuck in the sand on the opposite side. It was better to wait. Charlie slowed to a stop. Less than an hour driving to go and he hadn’t seen Policia or Federales for the last forty miles.
Minutes after he stopped the phone vibrated.
“Driver.” Charlie said.
“Why have you stopped?” the gruff voice was made more grating by the phones speaker.
“Accident blocking the road. Shouldn’t be too…” Charlie was cut off mid-sentence.
Three holes appeared in front of the passenger side of the cabs windshield accompanied by three popping noises.
“Ambush! Fuck!” Charlie screamed as he lay across the bench seat. Charlie found solace in the fact that he didn’t lose control of his bodily functions. He actually had the presence of mind to kill the engine and pull the parking brake while he lay there panting.
“What is happening?” the phone asked. “What is going on? Driver! Respond!”
Charlie had never been ambushed before. The worst thing that had happened to him was that he once spent twenty-two days in a Mexican jail and had to
use all of his earnings to buy his freedom. He tried to think of what to do. He had heard lots of advice on what to do in this situation while drinking shitty coffee in the Pit. But few if any of the Drivers had actually ever been ambushed…most just parroted stories they had heard. Hardly anyone had been through one of these.
“Driver remain calm and do whatever they ask,” said the phone.
It was close to eleven a.m. meaning hot as Hell. Charlie gained a new appreciation for the time he had spent in the air-conditioned cab as soon as the driver’s door was opened. The wind blew in and immediately fogged the windshield.
A fat woman with an infant riding her hip in a carrier made from a scarf opened the door with one hand. In the other hand she had a machete.
“Senor, if you make problems my friends will not shoot because the baby…he not like the noises. The machete will make no noise. Si?” she asked.
Charlie got out of the truck and stretched. He was truly surprised at his own calm. He realized that this was actually a relief. As a Driver all he had to offer was the truck, which he would gladly give up at this point. Charlie looked around at the faces of the group. Some hard living had been done by all of them. There were seven he could see. He wanted to look around but kept his focus on the one he had mentally dubbed Machete Momma. The stillness and heat collided with the silence.
“The driver does not have the key to the back of the truck,” said the voice on the phone. Charlie immediately regreted not having ended the call. The ambushers drew closer to see the source of this information, the newly discovered pre-paid phone.
“Who are you Mr. Phone?” asked Machete Momma as she picked the phone up from the floor of the cab.
“I am the owner of the truck and responsible for the cargo and it’s delivery” said Mr. Phone.
Charlie was still having trouble placing the accent. He would have picked a dozen European nationalities had he known any by name.
“If you are the owner how come you not driving?” asked the driver of the ‘stranded’ truck.
“I can arrange to pay a reasonable fee for the release of the truck,” Mr. Phone offered.
“What about your driver?” asked Machete Momma.
“Think about a price,” Mr. Phone said.
Charlie didn’t expect loyalty in his trade but until this moment he had thought he had some value to his employer.
“What could be so important to you Mr. Phone that you are willing to pay for something we have not offered to sell?” Machete Momma asked.
“You can take the truck and the cargo for all I care.” Charlie said.
“I say we go and discuss this in the shade. Maybe even discuss this with Jesus,” suggested a man with a .22 rifle emerging from the hatch of the station wagon.
“Si, Jesus” the group chorused.
“Mr. Phone, we are taking your driver, and your truck, and your cargo,” Machete Momma said and then ended the call.
CAPTIVE
As the hood was pulled off his head Charlie expected to be blind. Although he knew from the relatively cool temperature that he was inside. He couldn’t believe how clearly he could see. The wall and door in front of him had a murky glow to them but Charlie assumed that this was the result of his eyes not having adjusted yet.
The zip-tie around his wrist was cut and Charlie saw the bulk of .22 Rifle moving in front of him. A television behind him was creating an eerie lighting effect and having the sound off made it even weirder.
“Senor Driver, this is your room.” .22 Rifle said as he made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Sink, TV, chair, bed…” he paused and gestured toward the door “…machete,” then he left Charlie alone in the room.
Both the TV channels were in Spanish but one made up for that by having no picture. Charlie heard a vehicle approaching. The room wasn’t large but it had a window with a view of a chicken coop. He could hear voices from other parts of the house. He guessed some of them could have been outside as well but he wasn’t sure.
As he contemplated how far through the desert he could get on foot the massive paws and snout of a Rottweiler pressed against the pane of the window. Well escape wasn’t really in the cards anyway, he thought.
Charlie looked past – or through rather – the chicken coop and saw the front half of the truck. The rear of the truck was backed into one of those pre-fab metal sheds. A Hummer was parked directly in front of the truck. The passenger dangled his cigarette outside of the Hummer and watched the truck from behind sunshades. .22 Rifle returned to the room followed by Machete Momma.
“Senor, your clothes please,” .22 Rifle extended his hand. “All of them por favor.” It was getting darker outside. Charlie thought about spending the night in these hills. It was going to be a cold night, colder than spending the night in the bed of his pickup that was for certain.
Charlie looked around the room, then at the floor. Machete Momma stepped forward with a set of workman’s coveralls.
“We must be sure you have nothing to hide.” She said and sat plumply on the bed. Then she rested the machete across her lap and watched Charlie.
Charlie stripped and gave his clothes to .22 Rifle then stood naked as .22 rifle left. Machete Mamma leered at him.
“Are you cold senor?” Machete Momma asked and then cackled at her own humor. After a minute or so she stopped laughing and lost interest in Charlie. She threw the coveralls at him. Charlie put them on but he wasn’t sure whether to sit on the chair or remain standing. He knew for sure he wasn’t going to sit next to the bitch with the pocket sword.
“Mira” she said standing up abruptly. She demonstrated a speed that belied her girth. As she stepped toward the door she gestured for Charlie to follow. It was just after dark now and as Charlie stepped into the hall he could hear a flurry of agitated Spanish ahead. Charlie was impressed at how remarkably clean everything was. It reminded him of a hospital environment. It even smelled of disinfectant although the room deodorizer was losing the battle with whatever was on the stove for aromatic supremacy.
As he entered the room he heard “You, cabron! How do you open it?” The man was standing over a table that had Charlie’s clothes neatly laid out on it.
“Que?” that was all the Spanish Charlie could summon.
“We speak English here coyote!” the man shouted with so much disdain Charlie immediately understood. Coyotes were smugglers of illegals. They thought he was a flesh trafficker.
“I don’t run illegals and I don’t have the key,” Charlie said. The man who seemed to be in charge reminded Charlie of a very brown Ben Franklin. Not the fat-faced one from the hundred dollar bills but Ben Franklin none the less…even down to the glasses that he wore low on the bridge of his nose and the flowing hair.
Charlie couldn’t figure out why they needed him to open the truck. Bolt cutters would work in a pinch, but if you had time and a place to work there were dozens of ways to…
“Bring me Mr. Phone!” Ben Franklin snapped. He was only a few inches taller than Charlie. Just like a Prime Time TV drug lord, Ben Franklin wore too many rings, chains and gold teeth. To add to the visual mayhem he was wearing one of those shirts mixed martial artists wear.
.22 Rifle left and returned followed by the passenger from the Hummer.
“All charged up boss,” the passenger said as he handed the phone to Ben Franklin. The passenger carried a sawed-off double barrel shotgun in his other hand. Ben Franklin pulled up the call log and pushed Talk.
“Good evening,” came the same gruff voice Charlie had come to loathe.
“I am Jesus. I have your truck. Where is the key Mr. Phone?”
“Do not attempt to open that vehic-” the voice on the phone was cut off by Ben Franklin’s outburst.
“Stop! I will have a price for the return of your cargo once I have assessed its value” Ben Franklin said and started to relax. Charlie realized that negotiations were about to begin.
“Listen to me you imbecile. The content of that truck is potentially
harmful. Do not… “ Ben Franklin had broken the connection. He looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at the phone.
“Follow me,” Ben Franklin ordered as he walked out of the room. Everyone made for the door but Charlie was frozen. He knew his corpse could help make the point that Ben Franklin and his people were not to be taken lightly. Charlie heard Machete Momma whisper something about her blade being dry too long and that motivated him to follow the others.
Down a hall and a left turn took them into the back of the pre-fab metal shed where the truck barely fit through the double barn doors. Charlie had to respect the driver that made that work. Machete Momma gestured with her machete toward the lock. It was a Saker 70 millimeter Round disk Storage Pad lock designed to prevent the use of bolt cutters. It was a good lock, but not impregnable.
“If you have a drill I could…” the cuff to the back of Charlie’s head by .22 Rifle stopped him mid suggestion.
“We already thought of that bendejo! Look closer,” ordered Ben Franklin.
Charlie knelt down in front of the lock. It was the first time he had been near the door and the smell took him back to a night in Vinton, Louisiana.
Charlie had taken a job driving delivery for the Steins grocery chain. It didn’t pay much but Charlie had never been paid much for anything.
Charlie, his wife – and at the time, three girls – lived in a doublewide on an acre of land owned by his brother-in-law. He didn’t have to pay rent or anything as long as he kept the grass mowed. But it was always too hot to mow or Charlie had to work or he would decide to watch Gunsmoke and drink beer.
The doublewide had one TV that Charlie had won for attendance from Stein grocery at a company raffle. Charlie loved that TV. When he won it he knew that he had finally arrived. The other thing that Charlie loved was his dog. It was a solid black mongrel that he had started feeding outside of one of the stores on his route. That was about the same time he won the TV. Charlie thought the dog brought him luck. Charlie’s wife seemed to spend most of her days asleep and nights awake crying. Charlie had long ago lost interest in learning why she did either. He kept her fed along with the girls and he only beat her when it was necessary.