Hell to Pay

by Dick Wybrow

  The Actor had purchased a small urn after he'd gone to the bank down the street. Inside, he'd stuffed a series of twenties, tens, and fives to make it look as full as possible. Even with the small denominations, it had to be thousands of dollars.

  He handed over the urn, and Simon popped it open, looked inside, and capped it again. He headed back up to the cab without another word.

  A few minutes later, we were on the move again.

  So, the interior of the coffin was dark. That shouldn't come as news to anyone, certainly, but it was really, really dark, certainly no place for the living. They should be reserved for the recently dead and the sort who worried about wooden stakes being shoved through their old-timey waistcoats.

  I must have been there for the better part of an hour. It felt like longer. Every five or ten minutes, the big rig's engine would roar, and we would move a few more feet. My head swam from the diesel fumes, which made me nauseous. And it was hot. And humid.

  I thought about Cassie, my wife, who, despite her illness, had always been unwaveringly positive. I wondered what she would say to me if she saw me then, lying in a cheap coffin, pretending to be dead in the back of a stranger's eighteen-wheeler to sneak across the Mexican border.

  "You shouldn't be so negative. You can make any situation better," she says to me. "There are good things in life. You should celebrate them."

  "I like being cranky," I say, looking at her over the picnic blanket we'd laid in our backyard. Going any farther from our property tires her out. "And I don't see so much good in the world, I guess."

  "There's your wife," she says, lying back on the blanket, "on a warm, sunny day in a summer dress."

  "Yeah. Yeah, that's not so bad."

  "Or there's your wife on a warm, sunny day without a summer dress."

  I smile. "I think you've laid in the potato salad."

  She throws something small and purple at me.

  I let it hit me. "Don't do that, Cassie," I say in mock horror. "I don't really trust radishes."

  "That's the silliest thing you've said all day," she says with a half smile. "And there's a long list."

  "Are they tiny onions? Oversized garlic? They trouble me."

  She leans forward, kisses me on the neck, and puts her head in my lap, smiling up at the sun. "Sometimes, when you're sad inside, you just need to get happy on the outside and, I don't know, let it sink in."

  "'Kay," I say. "What outside part on me would you like to make happy first? I have a suggestion. Can I offer you a suggestion? It's a good suggestion—at least good for me, unless you've just eaten a handful of radishes, of course."

  She turns over, puts her elbows on my thighs, and kisses me. "Lips are always a good place to start, Razzie," she says and stares into my eyes.

  The world around us falls away, and I feel better.

  "What happens when I'm sad, and you're not around?" I reach for her, and she fades from me, disappearing in my grasp.

  She says, "Lips are always a good place to start. Use your lips."

  * * *

  Simon dropped his rig into low gear, moving his feet on the floor like he was slowly stomping on ants. The Actor could just see over the dashboard and could feel his heart rabbiting. He took a deep breath and blew it out his nose.

  "Don't act so nervous," the truck driver said.

  "I am an actor, of course."

  A grunt.

  The Actor said, "Maybe I won't tell you how to drive, and you don't tell me how to act."

  Another grunt.

  At the check point, the driver nodded a hello to the border guard and handed over his manifest.

  The man in the black baseball cap and dark shades flipped through the paperwork. "Says you just crossed south to north two hours ago." The guard looked up at the cab. "You forget something back at the truck stop?"

  "Yeah," Simon said with a big grin. "Your mom had asked me to wake her before I left. Slipped my mind."

  "Christ," the Actor mumbled. "It isn't enough to be subjected to the wafting bouquet of sweat and dollar-store aftershave, I have to listen to momma jokes too? This ain't worth it."

  The border guard scrunched up his face. "Who's that?"

  "Just giving my pal a lift to see some family. No biggie."

  They were instructed to hand over their passports and did so.

  The guard looked between the documents and each man, looking at the Actor twice. A question momentarily formed on his lips but never quite bubbled to the surface. Dropping back on one foot from the side of the cab, he looked at the long rectangular cargo container. "You pick anything up that I need to know about?"

  "Not really," Simon said, removing his cap for a moment and scratching his head. "Just a body."

  The Actor made a small noise.

  The guard asked, "A body?"

  "Dead body."

  "What… what is that all about?" Before the driver could answer, the guard added, "You can't take a body across the border. Where's your paperwork for it?"

  "Don't really have any," Simon said in a stage whisper. "I was hoping we could all just keep it amongst ourselves."

  "That… that is highly irregular, señor. I don't think—"

  "Listen," Simon said. "His brother died up in Houston looking for work. Beat up and left in a ditch by some big ropers who were looking for a laugh, I guess."

  The Actor looked at the guard then at Simon then back to the guard.

  He put on a glum face, and his eyes watered. He half turned away then slowly nodded… secretly hoping the motion would make a tear fall.

  The border guard said, "But… how am I supposed to okay—"

  "You see"—Simon leaned forward, his voice lower—"he wasn't technically supposed to be there." When the guard didn't get it, he added, "In the country. So any investigation…" The truck driver let the words hang in the air.

  "I see," the guard said, and his face fell.

  Simon said, "You got it. We're just trying to get the boy back to his momma, is all."

  The Actor called out, affecting a slight accent, "Oh, mi madre!"

  The guard leaned into the window slightly and spoke low to the grieving brother. "¿No quieres ver pagar al asesino de tu hermano?"

  The Actor shook his head slightly. Fucking tear, fall! He shrugged and repeated through sobs, "Mi madre… mi madre…"

  The guard nodded sadly and pulled back out of the cab.

  He looked toward the small building then back at the two men in the cab. Slowly, he walked toward where another guard was talking to a family in a station wagon filled with clothing.

  "Shit," Simon mumbled.

  The Actor whispered, "Why did you tell him there's a body back there?"

  "Because if he'd checked and I hadn't, we would've been cooked. The best lie is merely a version of the truth that suits."

  "Poetic. Who said that, Robert Frost?"

  Eyes still on the guards, the truck driver said, "My divorce lawyer."

  They watched out the cab window as the station wagon pulled away and the two guards moved toward each other. Then the man they'd spoken to turned back, locked eyes with the Actor just over the dash, and sighed.

  He waved them forward, and when they got to the gate, he handed back the manifest.

  Nodding to someone behind the glass, he said to the two men, "Ve con Dios."

  Once he'd stepped back from the cab, Simon let out a huge breath and dropped the truck into gear, and they began rolling forward.

  The Actor shivered. "Jesus, you're good. Nice, Simon."

  "Thought you were going to cry for a moment. That was amaz—"

  They then heard a banging on the side of their truck, sending both of their hearts into their throats.

  The guard returned, put a foot up on the step at the cab's door, and frowned.

  "Pull over into that lot there."

  Simon shrugged. "I thought we were cool."

  "You were," he said and spoke briefly into a radio on his shoulder. He nodded to the Ac
tor. "That was before his dead brother started whistling."

  * * *

  It was odd because a few moments before, it had seemed like the truck was raring up in full, um, raring mode. For the first time in the half hour inside the box inside the bigger box, I'd heard the rig drop into second gear. Then there was a banging outside, and it all stopped.

  I stopped whistling. “Using my lips” had made me feel better. I didn’t feel better anymore.

  After that, the truck crept along and turned, then stopped again. Did we make it through? Are we in Mexico?

  I sighed, thinking about getting out and breathing fresh air again.

  For the last fifteen minutes, I'd been fighting a gas bubble trying to escape my lower regions, but locked in a coffin, sweating and roasting, I didn't want to subject myself to that for the next fifty miles.

  Waiting, sweating, I listened, and for a few minutes there was nothing. Then there were voices. Do they sound angry or is that my overactive and delirious imagination?

  I heard the grating of metal on metal, and my chest felt like it would burst. The back door to the truck was opening.

  * * *

  Simon was protesting. "Come on, you would have heard all the metal tubing in here rubbing against itself. Sounds a lot like whistling or babies crying or old ladies nagging."

  "Obviously, you have very active tubing, señor," the guard said. "But I heard whistling."

  "It can't be," Simon said, laughing. "It's the tubing!"

  "Then your tubing sounds like a Beatles song," the federale said and hopped up into the rear of the truck. He caught sight of the long wooden box. "Señor, you must not like your brother very much to put him into such a coffin."

  Simon put a hand up to the Actor. "He comes from a poor family, sir. That's why his brother—"

  "His brother, his brother," the man said then looked at the Actor. "¿Es este un juego que estás intentando?"

  The Actor's mouth fell open, but no words came out. At that moment, his heart felt like it had moved, blocking all sound and breath. He bent forward and covered his face.

  "Why isn't he answering me?"

  Simon smiled and raised his hands calmly. "I can explain."

  The guard bent down on one knee and gripped the Actor's shoulder. "¿Que esta pasando aqui?"

  The Actor looked up and mumbled, "Mi madre." He was trying not to vomit.

  "Ha, do you even know any other Español?" the man asked and was again met with a blank stare.

  The Actor dug into his brain trying to find another word. Cerveza? El baño? However, asking for a beer and the toilet didn't feel like the appropriate response. He opened his mouth and trusted his instincts. However, his instincts were shitting themselves, and again, nothing came out.

  "Señor, you will have to come w—"

  "Sir," Simon said. "Have some compassion, please."

  "Enough of this fool—"

  "He can't answer you…" Simon spread his arms wide, cleared his throat, then added: "Because he can't hear you."

  The guard stood again and looked from the Actor to the truck driver. "What does that mean, he can't hear me?"

  "Our friend here is deaf. Sordo, si? He lost his ability to hear as a small child and now lives in a world of silence."

  The Actor's eyes grew large, and again, he tried to come up with some response to help his quick-thinking partner. He drew a blank and went for his go-to, burying his face in his hands. He wailed, "Mi madre."

  The guard lifted an eyebrow.

  "How is it he knows this word then? If he's deaf."

  "As I said, sir, he lost his hearing as a child. That is the only phrase… he ever learned."

  The man in the black baseball cap slowly pulled off his sunglasses, and when the Actor looked up, he swore it looked like the guy had briefly rubbed his eyes.

  "Okay, both of you," he said and pointed at the coffin. "Up in here now."

  The Actor looked toward Simon, who did a complex hand motion then pointed up into the truck. The small man gave a theatrical "Oh!" face then accepted a boost from the big man.

  The two of them scrunched up next to the border guard, fitting into a small space unable to properly accommodate three people, especially when one of those people was as big as two people.

  "Open it," the man in black said, and the Actor hesitated.

  Simon pointed to the coffin and made an opening motion with his hand. The Actor looked at the coffin then back at the man in black. He shook his head. The truck driver frowned and made the motion again. Again he shook his head.

  The Actor knew the moment the police officer saw a very live Raz in the coffin, they were all going straight to jail, and maybe not an American one. A Mexican jail. He'd seen films about Mexican jails, and the thought filled him with dread. The Actor eyeballed the path behind the truck and saw a line of cars for a quarter mile. He wondered if he could outrun the Mexican authorities, make a break for it.

  The truck driver put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little too hard. Again, he pointed at the coffin.

  The Actor sucked in a deep breath, looking to buy another moment. Then he crossed himself. In the dim light of the truck's interior, he opened the coffin. A strange, thin white mist rose from inside.

  The boarder guard said, "Mi madre." He made the motion of taking a step back, but in the confined space, he didn't actually retreat.

  The Actor almost turned at the sound of the man's voice then caught himself. Fuck, I'm supposed to be deaf. Just keep going. He stepped forward and reached for the casket.

  "Did you see that?" the guard asked the fat man in overalls. "It was like his skin… like a spirit lifted from his body."

  Simon grunted and said, "It's dusty in here, I expect." Then he thought up a better response. "Of course, the dead should never be disturbed from their rest." The truck driver swallowed hard and added, "He looks… so peaceful."

  However, that was not how the other two men would have described it. The man in the coffin looked sweaty and a bit dirty and wore an expression that seemed to convey the corpse was about to vomit something large and meaty. Raz lay with one eye open, his face twisted in a grimace, his teeth partially bared.

  If someone had said to the mortician, "I want my dear brother to look like a mad badger one second before it realized it was about to be run over by a minivan full of soccer hooligans," it appeared as Raz did now.

  The guard crossed himself. "Why does he… look like that?"

  The Actor sighed, but his face was a mix of fear, panic, and rage. Thankfully he had his back turned toward the others, so the only one who could see his expression was Raz with his one open eye.

  "Ah," Simon said. "He didn't die well, sir. What with the measles and all."

  "Measles?"

  "Yeah, poor man. Got it working at some berry farm, they reckon."

  "Jesus."

  "But we all thought it was either that," Simon said and removed his hat, putting it on his chest, "or the syphilis that got him. That's why his, uh, face is twisted like that. Very painful. Makes you insane too. They say that's what drove Hitler mad, you know."

  The guard stared then looked at the truck driver. "I thought you said he was attacked, beaten to death."

  "Such an unfair world," the truck driver said. "However, one of his attackers is now in the hospital, so, payback."

  The guard couldn't help but allow himself a small smile. "So, your amigo, he fought back?"

  "Oh, he tried," Simon said. "But it seems the thug might have picked up scabies from ol' Jose here."

  "Scabies?"

  "As I said, sir, the boy had a tough go of it."

  "Wait, this doesn't explain the whistling I heard," the guard said, momentarily broken from his light trance. "How is it—"

  A ripping sound erupted from the corpse, and the Actor reeled back. He shouted, "Mi madre!"

  The smell hit the other two men, and all three leapt from the back of the truck.

  Standing on the hot pavement,
steam rising from the blacktop, the border guard's face slowly slackened. He looked at the Actor then quickly spun away. He stared at the sky for a moment, muttered something under his breath, then said, "Fine. Go. Take this man's scabies-measles brother and get going."

  The guard watched as the two men closed up the truck, solemnly walked up to the cab, got in, and slowly drove away. As the big rig waited for the gate to open, he looked around. He then crossed himself and went to the next vehicle—a minivan with a small dent in its fender.

  Chapter Eleven

  After the truck started up again, we were on the road for about another fifteen minutes.

  The sound of the highway beneath the wheels of the truck was actually a bit soothing, and moving at speed, it was marginally cooler in the back of the rig.

  We stopped at the first sign of a town, called El Galaneño, and once again, the door opened.

  I had already kicked open the lid of the coffin and was struggling to get out. By the time I did get free, I had splinters in both hands.

  When I dropped outside next to Simon, dust rose up around me like a ghost.

  "Where's the Actor?"

  The truck driver threw a nod to his left. "Hamburger stand."

  "Hamburger?" I asked, stretched, and tried to crack my back. "We just ate, and he's got a damn monster burrito in his pocket."

  He grunted.

  As the trucker pulled out a ramp, I eyed Sally's motorcycle. It would be much harder to get out than it had been to get in. The bike didn't have a reverse gear, so I would have to slide back. Obviously, given the grade of the ramp, I would fall off at the bottom.

  I hopped back inside.

  As I slid the skull key in, I turned to him. "Hey, man, you're really fast on your feet."

  Grunt, grunt.

  "Seriously," I said, straddling the bike. "I heard you with the cop. You had an answer for everything. Weird answers, but they just… worked."

  He shrugged. "I used to be a pretty good attorney. Long time ago. Another life."

  "And you left a six-figure job for truck driving?"

  "I make decent dough driving a truck. I'm my own boss and work my own schedule. I don't have to deal with scumbags," he said and took a few steps back, watching me ease the bike to the lip of the cabin. "Well, not usually."