Mule

by Tony D'Souza

  "Then the cable's out at this chick's place I've been banging. I slip the Comcast guy fifty dollars when he gets there, he hooks her up with premium. Then I just had this feeling. So I pull out a bowl, ask if he wants to spark. He's over there with us the rest of the day, trying to get straight because he'd never smoked dank like ours. Now he picks up eighths a couple times a week.

  "Now, my boy Micah at school, he's always on me about this deal in Orlando. Six and a half on the pound, two pounds, thirteen Gs. Roll up there, roll back, then you're going to toss that G-point-two to me. I have it all worked out. They leave the money in a motel room, pass us one of the keys, we go in there, make the switch. We won't even have to see them."

  "The hoods, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "I don't know, Nick. I don't want to go up there and get shot by hoods."

  "It wouldn't be you, Jim. It'd be me. Besides, Micah isn't like that. Micah is like a baby version of that weatherman on TV. Funny, right? Dude makes the dean's list. He's a scholarship kid."

  "It doesn't sound like his Orlando boys are like that."

  "We'd only have to work with him. Besides, haven't I been busting my ass for you guys? Don't I deserve to make some real money?"

  He had to drop an ounce at Micah's right then, Nick said, so why didn't I come along and meet him? I had to get home and take the baby off Kate's hands, I told him. Come on, Jim, it'd only take thirty minutes.

  We hopped in Nick's Escort—he wasn't dumb enough to use his Impala for work—cruised up there on the Trail. I hadn't been in a car with him since the day I taught him how to drive. The Escort was vacuumed and clean; Nick drove it like he was sixty-five years old. When I told him how happy I was with his driving, he shrugged and said, "Keep it tight. Live it like a baller."

  The place in Bradenton was a rundown apartment complex in a black neighborhood off 63rd. An empty Bradenton PD cruiser sat chilling in the lot.

  Nick said, "I know what you're thinking. I thought it, too. Just give him a chance, okay?"

  We went up the metal steps, stood in this open-air hallway, graffiti on the walls around us. Three little girls in braids raced by on roller skates, yelling at the top of their lungs. We knocked, waited, then the door cracked open. The kid who peered out at us was slim and dark, his Yankees cap cocked to the side.

  "This the dude?" he said and looked me up and down.

  "Relax, Micah," Nick said.

  The inside was dark because the drapes were pulled. Still, I could make out two guys in high-tops passed out on couches. Fast-food bags, clothes, and empty pizza boxes littered the floor; the air smelled musty because they kept the place warm. We went down the hallway and into the kid's room. There was cash on the carpet, cash on the desk, all fives and ones. A spliff burned in an overflowing ashtray, blunt wrapper foils scattered everywhere. The closet door was off its hinges, the ceiling had water stains, there was nowhere to sit but the mattress on the floor. The only thing neat about that room was a row of sneakers on the windowsill, half a dozen pairs, the shoes on display on top of their boxes like they weren't meant to be worn.

  Micah sat in the one chair he had, an office high-back missing two wheels. He rolled a blunt at his desk out of the ounce Nick had brought him, told us as he did that the guys in his living room were his cousins, that the PD car in the lot belonged to the cop who lived downstairs.

  "You got a cop downstairs?" I said.

  Micah shrugged. He said, "Dude has to live somewhere, right? He stays on his side, we stay on ours. We all got to live here together. We all know how to play that shit." To pay for the ounce, Micah peeled fives off a bankroll he had in a drawer, made up the remainder with a tall stack of singles. He was gramming out his dope if he was working in singles, hustling dozens and dozens of people, his name in the air all over town. I knew it was only a matter of time before the cop downstairs came with a crew and kicked in his door. He sparked the blunt, sat back, started jabbering. He said, "My boy says you were a writer. That's the same shit I want to do."

  Nick listened when I talked about my other life? I said, "I hustled that until the economy killed it. Now I hustle this."

  "The economy?" Micah said and made a face. "Don't cry that shit in here. From my point of view? Shit's exactly the same as shit's always been. Y'all feeling it for a change is all." He smiled at his hands. "I have to admit it. To tell you the truth, I kind of like seeing it."

  I looked at Nick, Nick nodded at me. Then Micah said, "You're not writing no more?"

  "Can't afford it."

  Micah laughed and said, "Man, don't you got no struggle in you?"

  He said, "Now, I mailed some of this up to my boys in O-Town. They're hoods, but they got the money. They usually cop haze, so they know they can move this shit easy. They want to do it right away. Twice a month is how it'll all go down once it gets rolling. I want four bills off the top every time."

  "We can do that," I said.

  "Want me to see if they can do three pounds?"

  "Let's just start with two."

  "Yeah, that's what I told those greedy mothers. So when are we taking it up there?"

  "How do we know we won't get jacked up there?"

  He made a face. "I'm the go-between."

  "How do we know you won't jack us?"

  He shook his head. He laughed and said to Nick, "Man, who is this dude, Detective McNulty? I thought you said he was cool." He said to me, "Look around. Can't you see I'm just a school kid? You see any gats lying around in here?"

  I looked around the room. I said, "You don't look like a school kid."

  "What do school kids look like over where you're at? I'm even on a scholarship."

  "Then why do this?"

  "Like you don't know? I'm sitting here wondering the same thing about you. They gave me that money at the end of foster care, like, 'Good luck, see your ass later.' You know it doesn't cover shit."

  I looked around the room again. What was I supposed to do, take him on as a charity case? Help him get through school? He must have sensed I didn't want to do it, and he said, "What? You scared? Man, if I was white, I'd be moving weight, too. Making Al Capone money. But I can't, can I? Look who they put in their fucking prisons."

  I hesitated a moment, then said, "I'll call the order in today. The shit'll be here in a couple weeks. Your boys have to have the money ready."

  Micah said, "They'll have it ready. Thing is, these boys are the nervous type. They're my boys in the sense that I met them in the system."

  "Don't get us into trouble, Micah."

  "Trouble? I just want to make money like you do. We'll do this motel thing Nick's got planned. Everything will go down tight."

  Then I said, "How're you getting up there?"

  "Can't I roll with you?"

  How could I say it? I shook my head. "We're going to have weight in the car."

  Micah looked at me a long time. Then he smiled, sat back in his chair. He nodded and said, "It ain't you, right? Just the world we live in?"

  In the car, Nick was happy. He said, "You liked him, didn't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Told you. Dude made dean's list last semester."

  I put the order in with Billy on my way home. Where was Billy right now? I asked him. He was pruning, checking pH, all week up in Siskiyou, he told me. I mentioned the new weight was for hoods. Billy said, "Hoods? What kind of hoods?"

  "Bros."

  He paused and said, "You think you're ready for that? Whatever, dude, money's money. Too much heat for me, but what the fuck do I know?"

  I'd been feeling magnanimous since leaving Micah's, better than I had in a while; I knew Nick and his family didn't have shit either. I said to Billy, "I've got this kid, he's good. If I ever get out, could I pack him up, ship him to you?"

  "How old?"

  "Almost twenty."

  "We could start him trimming. See how it goes."

  "Change his life, right?"

  "Oh yeah. But you know that already."
<
br />   Back at the house, Kate had a friend from high school staying with us. The friend had been sitting in a holding pattern between jobs like everybody else. Kate had had this new loneliness thing going on; the solution had been to send the friend a frequent-flier ticket.

  "What are you going to tell her when she gets here?" I asked Kate on the way to the airport to pick the friend up.

  "Spices from the Orient," Kate said.

  Cristina Freeman was tall and blond, a former cocktail waitress from Vegas. She and Kate had been on the cheerleading squad together at their little mountain high school. On our way home, Kate mentioned to Cristina that my beard had been falling out. Cristina laughed and said to me, "Don't worry about it, Captain Patchy. After all the shit I've been through? If I had a beard, it would have fallen out, too. My major problem now is just trying not to be angry. I just feel so screwed over, you know?"

  All the shit she'd been through included losing her job, losing her house, having to sell her car, and living on a friend's couch for months like an economic refugee. Then she had to give away her dog. "You think things are bad out here?" she said as we passed the vacancies in the strip malls. "You should see Vegas. I tried everything, was so far underwater on my house I couldn't even lie to myself anymore. The only thing I miss now is my dog. I left him at this ranch. I'll get him back as soon as I'm on my feet. But when's that going to be, you know?"

  Being with us perked Cristina up. She helped out with Romana, went shopping and had her nails done at the mall with Kate.

  What was going on with me? Kate always wanted to know now when we were alone in bed. Nothing she needed to worry about, I'd tell her. Everything okay out there? she'd ask. Everything was just fine, I'd say.

  And how was she feeling? I'd ask. She'd put her hands on her belly, tell me, "I just want you to be here when he's born."

  "Don't you know I will be?"

  Cristina loved swimming in our pool, was always telling us, "I'm so freaking jealous of how good you guys are doing."

  I'd say, "The catch is, I'm always away."

  She'd say, "When they can even find work, people have to slave. At least Kate gets to stay home with the baby."

  But that didn't seem good enough for Kate. One afternoon, when Cristina was at the beach with Romana, Kate patted the place beside her on the couch. How long would I be home this time? she wanted to know when I sat down. Four or five days, I told her. Was I going to be busy while I was here? No, I had nothing at all to do. Was I going to have an affair with Cristina? Why would she ask me something like that? Because she was so pregnant and Cristina was so pretty. I told her, "I know someone prettier than her."

  Kate said, "Something's been going on with you."

  I thought about denying it. But what I said was "Do you really want to know?"

  She looked away through the window at our well-tended yard, at the white and yellow frangipani trees in bloom, and she smoothed her gauze maternity dress on her belly, thought about it. Then she said, "No, I guess I don't. Sometimes I don't feel like we know each other anymore."

  Did we really have to do this again? I sighed, said, "Look at me, Kate." When she looked at me, I took her chin in my hand. "We're exactly the same as we've always been, okay?"

  "You're never home. I don't know what you do out there."

  "I work out there."

  "You don't have some girlfriend out there?"

  "When would I have the time?"

  "You don't need anyone but me?"

  "I've never needed anyone but you."

  "I feel so ugly right now."

  "You're prettier than you've ever been."

  "Promise me you'll be here when our son is born."

  "I'll drop everything the second you call."

  "Sometimes I wish we weren't doing what we're doing."

  "Sometimes I wish that, too."

  "We're not going to do it forever, are we?"

  "Of course we're not."

  "James?" Kate batted her lashes and smiled at me at last. "I've been having this other idea. What do you think about us getting a nanny?"

  Trouble happened on the very next run, the first week of August. It went down like this: Five days before I was supposed to leave, I woke up in bed with a bad feeling and called Eric Deveny. I was tired, I told him, my new baby was almost here. Could I please take a week off? He thought about it a second, then said, "And have you owe me New York, too? No way. Not with school about to start. What's going on with you, James? Do I really have to bring up again that mess I cleaned up for you?"

  "Didn't I pay you for that?"

  "Yeah, you did. But don't you think it also took our relationship to a higher level? I've been feeling like it did. Relax, my man. I just want my weight on time. Let me ask you this: What's really going on with you? The James I know wouldn't want to take a break. The James I know would want to make his money."

  Next I called Mason, told him I had this bad feeling. For how much he owed me, couldn't he do the drive for me this once?

  Mason said, "If you have a bad feeling, how the fuck am I supposed to feel?"

  "I'll take your debt down fifteen Gs."

  "Sorry, James."

  "I'll forgive you a straight twenty thousand dollars."

  "Brother, it isn't in the plan. My uncle in Korea is sick. I'm stressed out about that right now."

  "What fucking uncle?"

  "My mother's older brother. Well, her cousin. It's the same thing over there. I'm really, really sorry. Drive fast and swerve a lot, okay?"

  I swam, watched TV, paced the house the rest of the day. The girls were out and I was alone. Why did I feel like this? Just like I felt before my very first run. Shouldn't I be over this shit by now?

  By evening I still hadn't shaken it. After everyone went to bed, I smoked cigarettes on the patio, looked out at my darkened yard. What if I just didn't go? I knew I'd never hear from Eric Deveny again. And without him, I'd lose my only way to make any real money. Was I really ready to give it all up? Strangle my golden goose and come back to reality?

  I wasn't. In the morning, I packaged up the cash, drove to the post office, began to overnight it out to Billy. But even doing that, I didn't feel good, decided to hold half the envelopes back. Friday morning, I strapped on the pantyhose, stuffed in the rest of the money, took a taxi to the airport, was nervous the whole way. The TSA ran me through the bomb sniffer; I figured this would finally be it. "Why are you traveling with so much cash hidden on you, sir?" "High-rolling in Reno. Didn't want my wife to know." "Please step aside with us. We have a few more questions for you."

  In the end, the machine puffed its air and the agent waved me through. Apparently, $26,000 in your underwear couldn't blow up a plane. In Charlotte, my connecting flight was delayed because of rain in Phoenix. Rain in Phoenix? Really? Was there any other way I could go? I asked. Since I was now a valued Star Alliance Gold flier, they told me, they would do what they could to reroute me. They sent me on to Memphis. The leg from there was canceled. How about Chicago, sir? I tried that, too.

  From Chicago, I called Billy. "I'm going to be late. Weather."

  "All is not well. I got a big handoff to make downstate. What if I miss it? You think Darren'll give a fuck about the weather?"

  They flew me across to SEA, down to PDX, finally to SMF. At the Days Inn, Billy tossed two duffel bags on the bed. He said as he walked out, "I should bill your ass by the fucking hour."

  I hopped in the rental, got on the road, drove all night across the Mojave. I felt hunted the whole way. In Williams, Arizona, the motels were full with summer travelers, and I felt hunted. Up the road, the Red Lake Hostel was full of Grand Canyon hikers, and I felt hunted. I spent the afternoon trying to sleep in the car in a Denny's parking lot in Holbrook. Couldn't.

  The next day, I reached stark and empty west Texas. The only other cars on the road were cops, and I was terrorized by fear. I thought I was on the 180 South, hours went by in a straight line to nowhere, then I didn't know
where the hell I was. Of course I didn't have a map in the car. Of course I hadn't taken the rental agency's GPS. By nightfall I was almost out of gas. Where was a fucking gas station already? Was I really going to have to sit in the breakdown lane in the middle of nowhere with all this fucking weed in the car? The needle dipped below E, then it started bouncing. I panicked, pressed JoJo Bear's belly; nothing happened. I pressed his belly over and over. JoJo Bear was dead.

  All this insane shit began to happen. In the dark I saw lights, red flashing lights. Not cop car lights or anything like that, all these red lights flashing way up in the sky. Hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them. I gripped the steering wheel, craned my face close to the windshield to see. An alien invasion? Or something even worse? A host of wrathful angels coming down to punish me? The next thing I knew, they were gone. What the fuck had that been?

  I reached a place called San Angelo. There were no rooms at the Motel 6, no rooms at the Super 8. But at least I got some gas. Finally I found a room at this beat-up Bates motel; the East Indian behind the desk wanted $150. $150? What kind of room was it? A standard smoking king, sir. They were having a rodeo this weekend. If I wanted to try to find something else, it would be his pleasure to let me look.

  I shook my head, gave him two C-notes; he gave me the key and change. I took the duffel bags out of the Mazda, shouldered into the room. At the light, roaches skittered across the walls. There were stains in the carpeting, like people had been stabbed to death in there. I lay in my driving clothes on the bed to calm down. What had those fucking lights been? Could it even have been me? Then I thought, How could I have let Mason kill those people? On the inside of the lampshade on the nightstand beside me, people had written, Miguelito Sexy and a phone number, and 8" Hung and Cut and a phone number.