Barry shook his head. “No.”
“No? No? What is with this no?”
“Because I think some FBI agents are involved in this matter—on the other side.”
Fabrello jumped to his feet. “That’s disgusting. What the hell is this country coming to—you can’t even trust the FBI no more.”
Barry waved him back to his seat. “Maybe half a dozen agents, tops.”
“That’s a relief.” Fabrello paused. “What relief? What am I saying? Piss on the FBI. I hope they’re all involved. That would be hysterical.” He roared with laughter.
“Let’s get back to something you said. What about these young turks?”
“Whole new story. They’re into dope. They’re into anything. They got their fancy college degrees and uptown educated women and they think they can’t get caught. But they will. The whole country is beginning to get pissed off about dope. The Supreme Court is gonna turn around one of these days, soon, and the cops is gonna start kicking ass and taking names. Makes me nervous to even have prescription medicines in the house.”
“And the young ones are … ?”
“No loyalty no more. It’s disgusting. Yeah, they’re part of this new thing. What you said, about the FBI … yeah, it’s coming to me. There is some goddamn broad up there in Washington—with Justice—she’s up to her ass in this thing. What the hell’s her name. Irish broad, I think.”
“O’Day.”
“Yeah! How’d you know that?” He looked at Barry suspiciously.
“She’s the one who told me about my dad. She … ” Barry paused as bits and pieces of the puzzle began fitting. “Oh, yeah!” he said, disgust in his voice. “Tell me how you know about her.”
“I got lawyers up there, man. I gotta have lawyers up there. But I can’t figure this broad. I had her checked out, and she’s one of them liberals. Now I love liberals, Barry. They’re the best thing that’s happened to guys like me since the ACLA. But her boyfriend is Bobby Bulgari. He’s one of the new, young breed I was talking about. What the hell is a lawyer for the Justice Department doing screwing an up-and-coming mob boy? It don’t figure.”
It does to me, Barry thought. Linda needed a fall guy. So she picked me. And I don’t believe for a minute she didn’t know I was Big Joe Rivers’s son. I just sprang it on her before she was ready, that’s all.
“This Bulgari, he live in New Orleans?”
“Oh, yeah. Here and in Biloxi and in Aspen and several other places. But he’s being groomed to take over when I retire. He …” Fabrello paused. His face darkened with rage. “Why, that son of a bitch! He’s the one behind it all. I’ll kill that no-good, lousy—”
“Wait a minute, Ted. I’m being used, you’re being used, and I got a suspicion Bulgari is being used, as well.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you figure that?”
Barry knew he wasn’t going to tell the man about the SST contract; he had looked over the contracts and knew that would be a breach, and also there was no point in further endangering any of his drivers. “Look what a feather in her cap that would be, Ted. She breaks up a mob-run dope-smuggling ring—and you can bet there won’t be anyone alive to testify against her; they’ll be dead. She claims the credit for all the investigatory work. She’s in the clear with a cool four-or five-million-dollar profit from the smuggled coke, and sitting in the catbird seat with a large promotion looking her in the face.”
“And you and me and Bobby? …”
“Dead.”
“I can understand me and Bobby, but why you, Barry?”
“You said it a minute ago, Ted: she’s a screaming liberal. I’m in the arms business back in Maryland. I’m a consultant for the military, but I also own a large chunk of an import/export business. I ship weapons of all types and calibers all over the world, and also bring them into this country for resale.”
Fabrello nodded his head. “And this O’Day broad—I seem to recall—has the hots for gun control. She’s a peacenik. That word dates me, don’t it? Yeah. OK. It’s clear now. Barry,” he said slowly, “you and me, we’re in kind of a hard bind, you know that?”
“Yeah, that thought just came to me. If you were to go to your … well, colleagues with this information, it might be rubout time for you, for acting on your own without … committee approval, so to speak. ’Cause you can just bet that somebody close to the mob’s inner circle is all ready with doctored phone tapes and notes, all implicating you, setting you up. As for me, I’d be willing to bet that Linda has a dossier on me, putting me right in the middle of this cocaine deal. Why else would a man leave a lucrative business to drive a truck? Tell you one thing, if Linda is the brains behind all this, she’s slick.”
“Yeah. Well, you know what they say, Barry. The opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings. I may be down, but I’m a hell of a long way from being counted out.” He held up a big hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to rock any boats; just do some very quiet snooping. Hey, your ass is in the same crack mine is in, Barry Rivers. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
Fabrello left Barry sitting quietly behind his desk, deep in thought. He had spoiled one part of Linda’s plan by taping his visit with Treasury. Her name had been brought up several times, so if she had original thoughts of shifting blame from the Bureau over to Treasury, that was stymied … unless she could somehow get the tapes back.
No, he thought, she’d have to get the transcribed papers back as well. So that was out.
Barry knew he had no choice except to play along, see it through, and hope for the best.
9
Barry put everything out of his mind except the running of a trucking company. Friday morning, two FBI agents came to see him. They were friendly but businesslike, and their credentials were all in order. They were the genuine article.
Sure, Barry thought, these two would have to be, checking out the drivers of SSTs. The agents asked their questions, said there would be no trouble in getting Barry cleared—they knew who he was—then left, after handing Barry their cards. They were both out of the New Orleans office. Barry called the office and verified their employment.
Strange. If Linda was behind this mess, she was not averse to taking chances.
Then it came to him: how had the Bureau learned he was in New Orleans?
More unanswered questions.
Late Friday afternoon, the reports on the employees of Rivers Trucking came in by special messenger. Before he opened the thick package, Barry once again mulled over the matter of whether or not to tell the drivers the whole story.
They had a right to know. Not only their careers were on the line, but their lives as well.
He decided he would lay it on the line for them, but only after he read the reports.
He poured a fresh cup of coffee, opened the thick package, and leaned back in his chair, opening the first dossier.
An hour later, he was through. And satisfied. Every driver checked out. The detective agency had done their usual fine job, right down to listing the drivers’ CB handles. No question about it, Barry had a group of steady, stable drivers working for him. Chuck and Snake were teaming up to drive together. Cottonmouth and Panty Snatcher. Beer Butt and Swamp Wolf. Bullwhip and Coyote. Saltmeat and Mustang. Cornbread and Grits. Beaver Buster and Lady Lou. Jim and Cajun. Dog and TNT.
Barry laughed softly.
It was good to be back home.
Using a pay phone in the lobby of a downtown hotel, Barry had reserved a meeting room at a small motel on Airline for Saturday night. Friday afternoon, Kate was the first driver back from her short run down to Houma. Barry waved her into his office and handed her the package of dossiers. She was not surprised; he had told her he was doing it.
She scanned the dossiers, then plopped them back on Barry’s desk. “So everybody checks out. I figured they would. Now what?”
“You tell each driver when they pull in this afternoon we’re having a meeting tomorrow night.” He
had checked his office for bugs and found none; the office was as secure as Barry could make it. “They don’t tell their wives, girlfriends, husbands, or boyfriends where they’re going. Stress that. I’m going to lay it all out for them tomorrow night. Some of them may decide to quit. If so, I sure won’t blame them.”
“It’s getting dangerous now, isn’t it, Barry?”
“Damn sure is.”
For several hours a day, all that week, Barry had practiced with his dad’s rig. A lot had changed since last he’d sat behind the wheel of a rig, but it didn’t take him long to get back his touch. Years back, his father had told him he was a natural driver, and Barry had lost none of it.
His dad’s rig was a midnight-blue Kenworth conventional with silver pinstriping. Smoked windows. The best sound system his dad could buy. Twin airhorns and twin remote-controlled spotlights. Forty-channel CB, SSB. Steer Safe stabilizers. Quartz halogen driving lights. Airglide 100 suspension. Alcoa aluminum ten-hold Budd wheels. Fuller Roadranger thirteen-speed transmission. The differentials were 3.73 Rockwells SQHP. Fontaine fifth wheel. Michelin steel-belt tires 1100×24.5 tubeless. Air dryer for air brakes. The mill was a 350 NTC Cummins with Horton fan clutch. Jake brake. The sleeper was a VIP walk-in, robin’s-egg-blue interior, the bunk was an Electro-warmth mattress with mirrors and a twelve-volt TV.
His dad’s favorite color must have changed from red to blue.
Barry had driven around the yard, spending hours practicing his backing until he felt he was ready. He knew his every move was being watched by the office workers and dispatch, and they would report to the drivers. They would know immediately if he couldn’t cut it.
He had logged out on one short run, up to Baton Rouge. Two miles from the terminal, he knew he still had the touch and was ready.
But the word had gone out through the truckers’ grapevine. Not many truckers wanted to chat with anybody from Rivers Trucking, and those that did were careful about what they said over the air. It wasn’t fear on their part. More like a respect for the unknown.
The truckers were waiting to see what happened. They had all heard about the troubles of Rivers Trucking.
Confusing, Barry thought. I’m caught up in the middle of something that I don’t fully understand. And it just didn’t figure that Linda would dislike him enough to set him up for this kind of hard fall.
But it sure looked that way.
The drivers had all taken very twisting and confusing routes to the motel—at Barry’s request. They knew the game was about to get very rough and dangerous.
They were a solemn bunch as they trouped in one by one and took their seats in the meeting room.
Barry closed and locked the doors and walked to the head of the long table. He looked at each serious face looking at him. There had been none of the usual kidding and horseplay among the drivers.
He laid it out for them, leaving nothing out. He told them about Fabrello’s coming to see him. What they’d discussed. What they’d both concluded. He told them what he really did for a living, but said nothing of his Treasury connection. He did not tell them he was worth several million dollars. They probably would not have believed him anyway.
“That’s it, people.” Barry wound it down. “If anybody wants to quit, I sure won’t hold it against them.”
No one said anything for a full half-minute. Finally, Lady Lou raised her hand. Barry nodded at her. Lou was pushing fifty and had been a trucker for a quarter of a century. She and her husband had operated as independents for years, until economics forced them out. Her husband had been killed some years back, when he lost his rig on black ice and went over the high side in Utah. Lou was an attractive woman, her hair streaked with gray that she wore proudly. She was also as tough as a boot and had decked more than one driver who’d gotten too mouthy.
“It looks to me like somebody got the red-ass at you, Mr. Rivers,” she said.
“Sure does,” Barry said. “But I think that’s only a small part of the big picture. What it boils down to is this: somebody is out to make a couple of million bucks and they’ve worked out a damn good plan to do it. And they don’t care who gets hurt or killed in the process. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to cover their butt. And set other people up to take the heat should the plan fall apart along the way.”
“Yeah,” Cajun said. “And those other people is us. We’re the ones got to put those seals on the doors. I tell y’all what. This pisses me off.”
“Sure was quiet out on the slab today,” Saltmeat said. “Made me feel awful lonesome.”
“Made me feel like a redheaded stepchild,” Beer Butt observed.
Barry let them talk. He was sure about Jim, Kate, Cottonmouth, Chuck, and Snake. The others? He didn’t know.
Barry unlocked the doors and waved the waitresses into the room. They came in carrying trays of ribeyes, baked potatoes, salads, pie, and iced tea.
The drivers said nothing until the waitresses had left and the doors were once more locked. They talked as they ate.
“Runnin’ SSTs, we’re authorized to carry weapons, right, Mr. Rivers?” Bullwhip asked.
“M-16s, shotguns, and sidearms.”
“I’ll see it through,” he said. “There ain’t no son of a bitch gonna make me quit drivin’.”
His partner, Coyote, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, me, too.”
“When do we get checked out with weapons?” Beaver Buster asked.
“We don’t.”
The drivers digested that bit of news. Beaver Buster said, “You can count me in. I’m staying’.” He looked at his partner, Lady Lou. “How ’bout you?”
“I’m in,” she said.
Mustang said, “You know, somebody real high up is involved in this mess. I know guys who work SSTs. They’ve all been through weeks of trainin’. Most of them are ex-Green Berets, ex-Rangers, ex-Marines, ex-Paratroopers … outfits like that. And to just hand us automatic weapons and toss us out …” He shook his head. “That’s crap. But I’m curious, so I’m stayin’.”
“You never did have no sense,” Saltmeat said, looking at his partner. “So I guess I’d better throw in and come along. Somebody’s got to look after you.”
“I’ll check you out with the M-16s,” Barry said. “But I imagine most of you have fired them.”
The drivers smiled. Barry knew they were familiar with the weapon.
“Yeah,” Cornbread said. “But it’s been a long time since I fired one.”
“It don’t make no difference,” his partner, Grits, said. “You can’t hit nothin’ anyway.”
“Yeah,” Beer Butt said. “And if you can’t shoot no better than you drive, we’re all in trouble.”
“I was in the Army!” Cornbread said.
“Yeah,” Swamp Wolf said. “In the motor pool.”
“I didn’t even know you could swim,” Mustang said.
Barry relaxed and let them insult each other. They were all staying.
He looked over at Kate. She smiled at him. He winked at her and she returned the wink. She was not a good winker, screwing up the entire side of her face. Made her look like a pixie.
Barry wondered if any of them really knew just how dangerous the job was that faced them all. He decided they did. And they weren’t staying because of the increase in pay, which was considerable. Truckers are a hardy, stubborn breed—the last cowboys. There is not a rig they can’t drive or a road they can’t run. Tell them they can’t, and they’ll show you they can. This present situation was insulting to them; not just to them personally, but to a way of life. To the whole, loose-knit fraternal organization of truckers.
Beer Butt looked at Barry. “You gonna eat that apple pie?” he asked.
“Uh … no,” Barry said.
“Good,” Beer Butt said, reaching over and taking the pie. “My momma taught me to clean my plate.”
“And anybody else’s that happens to be near,” Panty Snatcher remarked.
10
Barry arranged the use
of a small privately owned firing range, and at one o’clock Sunday, the drivers gathered there.
It really didn’t come as any surprise to Barry that all the men were familiar with the M-16, or that many had owned one in the past. Many truckers are outdoorsmen, hunters, fishermen, and very much the individualist. They don’t give a flying fart what federal law dictates about guns. If they want to carry a gun, they’ll carry a gun.
As should be the case for any taxpaying, normally law-abiding citizen who knows the law is slanted toward the criminal and against them.
Barry checked them out first with the M-16. For all their penchant for joking, the drivers took the gun training very seriously, without their usual bantering and horseplay. All the men had their own pistols, and most there preferred the bigger pistols: the .357s and the .44 mags. Barry had never liked those pistols; his choice of a handgun had been, for years, the 9mm, models 39 or 59. But if the other drivers were more comfortable with the larger calibers, and could hit what they were shooting at, fine.
Lady Lou could handle the twelve-gauge shotgun, but Kate was so small, she had difficulty with it. Barry gave her a twenty-gauge magnum and she found she could handle it much better. She was also a good shot with a .38. But when the little blonde grabbed the new model M-16 and cut loose, every driver there hit the ground. And stayed there until Barry took it from her.
Barry knew he could not teach Kate what she needed to know about the M-16. She was nervous about handling the unfamiliar weapon, and that was working against her.
Barry had her concentrate on the pistol and shotgun for the remainder of the afternoon.
He called a halt to the practice at five o’clock. “We pick up the SSTs at eight o’clock in the morning,” he told the group. “I open the rolling orders as soon as we’re back at the terminal. I’ll see you all at the terminal at seven o’clock. Those M-16s are signed out in your names. Be careful. They’re probably hot government property.”
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