AHMM, May 2009, page 7
Beemer didn't say anything. He squinched his mouth left and right. Then he said, “Well, I think I get it now. Maybe I oughta start melting pennies after all."
* * * *
The sign was in their faces as soon as they topped the hill and started down the spruce-lined slope. Out in the boonies here, taxes low, plenty of room for eighteen-wheelers. The sign had lettering as tall as a man, but it was faded and spattered with daubs of road dirt:
QUICKSTREAM INC.
HEAVY HAULING
Repairs and Rentals
Yard Hustlers and Donkeys
The sign was leaning at a threatening angle.
"That list I was talking about?” Little D. J. was saying. He was in the back seat, Benny driving. Beemer up front with one hand braced on the dash to prevent any sudden stops from turning him into a bullet. “That waiting list, hip replacement? Good thing that list is onna computer. Take three men an’ a boy to carry it, you put it down on paper like they used to. Size of the Hong Kong phone directory."
"No list is that big,” Beemer said.
"A phone directory is a list,” Little D. J. pointed out.
Beemer closed his eyes.
They drove in under the sign.
"Don't stop out front,” Little D. J. told Benny. “Guy we gotta see is out back inna yard."
"Is he a hustler or a donkey?” Beemer asked.
"You're a kidder, you know that?"
"I wasn't kidding,” Beemer said.
They stopped beside a flatbed trailer with soot and blistered paint disfiguring twenty feet of its forward metalwork. Thick rubber hoses fanned out at the hookup, ending in charred, burnt-off stubs. No wheels.
"This one ours?” Beemer said as they got out of the car.
D. J. was unperturbed. “I wish it was. All aluminum. Worth bags of cash, you melted it down.” He strode off to meet a muscular, pint-sized man who was trotting toward them and pulling gloves off his hands. “Hey Peppie,” D. J. said. “Howzit?"
"Good,” Peppie said. His shirt and trousers were splotched with oil stains, and he had large, sad, and soulful eyes. “On'y my wife's got the flu. I was up with her all last night."
"Long time since that happened, I bet,” Little D. J. said, showing his dentures and making a honking sound. “Stayin’ up with her, I mean.” He clapped Peppie on the shoulder. “Got that Aardvark you was talking about?"
"Sure, sure, buddy, got it right over here. Oughta do the job.” Peppie led them into the depths of the yard, gutted monster trucks looming around them. Elephant's bone yard. Where the rigs came to die. They approached a Kenworth, bedraggled but with all its parts intact. “Had a nice cab-over you coulda had,” Peppie said, “but you wanted a diesel-car so I thought of the long-nose.” He directed his doe eyes at Benny and Beemer and leaned in closer to Little D. J. “These two bubbas all right?"
"Yeah,” Little D. J. said, “they're okay."
"Hope so. I could lose my job, you know."
"Wouldn't be so bad,” Little D. J. said, jostling him again. “Then you could stay up more with the wife at night."
Benny said to Beemer, “Little D. J.'s a comic. Him an’ this guy, you could have an act for the Roy. Call them Eighteen Wheeler and an Ex-Con."
"Call them a jerk and a jolt,” Beemer growled.
They reached the Kenworth, stopped, and gazed at it. Chromium characters on the flared snout told them the model number: T-60. Anything else that might once have been chrome was turning a mottled shade of rusty orange.
Beemer said pugnaciously, “You want three hunnerd bucks an hour for this?"
"Three hunnerd for three hours,” D. J. said. “Let me do the talking here."
"You can do the talking,” Beemer said, “when you got three big ones to lay onna table. When you're on my dime, I'll talk all I want."
"Easy,” the little man said, raising grease-stained hands. He had the soothing manner of a marriage counselor. “This here's a good piece. She'll do the job for you.” He patted the bumper with some affection. “Hell, she'll move six times what you want her for, on a big road, all bundled out. Tall rubber, notice? Run her up into boogie, she'll fly hammered down."
"Do you speak English?” Beemer said.
It was Little D. J.'s turn to conciliate. He said to Peppie, “What about the tail?"
"Had a bit of a problem there."
"Here we go,” Beemer said.
Peppie was walking again, keeping his distance from Beemer, watching him out the side of his neck. He led them back the way they had come, directing his salesman's patter at Little D. J. as they went. “Said you needed a flat. Scratched my head a while. Then I remembered I had something coming up.” They cleared the tandem wheels of the Kenworth, and Beemer groaned. “This some kinda joke?"
Here was the burnt-out flatbed again.
Even D. J. looked unsettled. “You kidding me, Peppie?"
Peppie appeared unconcerned, but he didn't turn his back on Beemer. “It's what, Tuesday? You want your package ready to roll by Friday, right? This skateboard's goin’ into the shop today, come out Thursday just as bright as a nail. I'm telling you guys, you got nothing to worry about."
"Maybe I got nothing to worry about,” Beemer said, “but Little D. J. better worry. He better worry a lot."
* * * *
The days dragged by with plodding slowness. Beemer watched D. J. with a lingering menace. On Friday morning D. J. entered the Rob Roy with a radiant smile that almost hurt the eyes. Beemer told Benny, irritation igniting a glow in his grizzled cheeks, “Look at him. Musta found a penny. You listen, he's gonna give us a song an’ dance, the reason the truck isn't ready to go."
"The truck's ready to go,” Little D. J. said. He was practically bouncing on the tips of his black, pointy, lace-up shoes.
* * * *
Beemer arranged for Mako to watch the bar while Benny fetched his car from the Sobey's lot. Then Beemer sat up front next to Benny where he could advise him on how to avoid an accident. Little D. J. squeezed into the back seat.
"I dunno about this idea,” Little D. J. said, “you two riding along in the rig with me."
"Somethin’ you need to understand,” Beemer said, “we need to protect our investment.” He jabbed Benny's elbow. “Don't tailgate buddy there."
"He's driving a BMW. Your favorite car. I got up close so you could see it better."
"It won't be my favorite car if I need surgery to remove one from my face."
"Prob'ly a lineup for that too,” Benny said.
"Give him room, for cryin’ in the sink!"
"It just don't look right, that's all,” Little D. J. told them, “three guys ridin’ in the cab of a semi."
"A moving van they do it all the time,” Benny pointed out.
"This ain't a moving van. It's a flatbed."
"I'll tell you what wouldn't look right,” Beemer said, “it wouldn't look right you drivin’ away from us with my twelve Gs tucked away in your pocket."
"So now you're sayin’ you don't trust me."
"I wouldn't trust your grandmother. I especially wouldn't trust your grandmother.” Beemer poked Benny again. “That was a yellow light. You know what's a yellow light? It means clear the intersection, not goose the gas."
"For a guy who won't even wear a safety belt, you sure worry a lot,” Benny said.
"I don't wear a safety belt because they jam sometimes. An’ I worry a lot because you're driving."
"It just don't look right, three guys inna cab,” Little D. J. said.
At the Quickstream lot they found the Kenworth, a shiny new-looking flatbed hooked to it, standing at the back gate just inside the compound.
"There's our ride,” Little D. J. said, brightening, “just like Peppie promised. If it hadn't a been here, I'd a been surprised."
"If it hadn't been here,” Beemer told him, “you'd be walking back to town with two broken legs. How come it's not at the front gate, that's what I want to know."
"Prob'ly that's how the yard boss wants it. My guess is he don't want to know."
"He wants to know he's gettin’ his cut, though, I bet."
"That's none of my business,” Little D. J. said.
They took the mud road around the fence perimeter and stopped in the ruts at the back of the fence. Little D. J. hopped out. The two big link-steel gates were closed with a heavy chain looped around the posts, but the padlock hung at an angle, not snapped completely shut. Little D. J. rattled the chain out with no difficulty and walked the two big gates open. He climbed up into the tractor, started the engine, then lumbered the big vehicle out of the yard.
Benny grinned. “Keys musta been in the ignition. So far, so good."
"It don't take much to cheer you up,” Beemer said.
They watched D. J. get out and close the gates, then clamber back up into the truck. A minute later they were following the rig back into town, watching the twin plumes of black exhaust jet from the stacks whenever D. J. put the pedal down.
Little D. J. pulled up next to the Sobey's lot, waited while they parked the car, and watched as they climbed up into the cab with him, Benny first, Beemer claiming the window seat.
"Now you're sure,” Beemer said in a skeptical voice, “that you know how this business is supposed to work. We're not gonna pull up there in front of the courthouse an’ have every grunt on the lot raisin’ his eyebrows at us."
"I got it from my guy,” Little D. J. said. “He got it from his brother-in-law. There's gonna be all kinda trucks there, it's not just the roof that's getting redone. The truckers are all indies. No one's gonna pay no attention to us. Excepting I'll be the only driver there brought his buddies along for the ride."
"You still whining about that?"
"It's a matter of trust, that's all."
"I'm surprised that word is in your vocabulary. You go in an’ outta the slam like I go in an’ outta the john. Trust you with my twelve large? I think not. That would definitely be a no."
They traveled the rest of the way to the old courthouse without saying too much more, except for Beemer giving Little D. J. tips on how to guide an eighteen-wheeler through the streets of Halifax.
The area in and around the law courts building was a maze of detour signs and improvised barricades. Little D. J.'s contact hadn't been kidding. There were construction crews here of every description. They had no problem spotting the roofing lineup, three flatbed trucks waiting as an enormous boom crane lowered bundles of green copper sheeting from the top of the building. D. J. was flagged into position by a workman, he didn't even have to get out of the cab.
The truck lurched and shivered with each ragged bundle the crane set down on the trailer. They were underway again within fifteen minutes.
"Real professionals, those guys,” Little D. J. said admiringly, shifting gears and toiling up the hill away from downtown and the harbor.
"Yeah, right,” Beemer said. “Real pros. Only, oops, I think they just lost something. How professional can you get?"
"So now,” Benny said, “we drive straight to the wrecking yard?"
"You got it,” Little D. J. told him. “Easiest twelve grand you ever made. We'll take the back road up past Spryfield. Keep a low profile."
They followed the old road, made it three or four miles, then had to pull over and stop. Up ahead some guy was getting his house moved and had decided to pick this day to do it. His bungalow had been raised on enormous timbers, and two huge tow trucks were jigging it out of its lot. The trucks sat at right angles to the road, one of them partly astride the ditch. They blocked the way entirely.
"Great,” Beemer said. “Now what?"
"I guess,” D. J. said, “Plan B."
"An’ what's that?"
"Go back, get up on the 102. I can turn around in that brickyard we passed."
"The 102 wasn't in the plan,” Beemer said.
"No, but hey, crap happens."
They backed a quarter mile up the road to the brickyard, turned around, then headed back the way they had come. At the 102 access junction they found the ramp and drove up onto the highway.
"Another scam,” D. J. was telling them, “is the pharmaceuticals these days. You got any idea of the markup on that stuff?"
"No,” Benny replied, “but I think you're gonna tell us."
"Three thousand percent."
"That's hard to believe."
"You don't believe me, look it up."
Suddenly D. J. took his foot off the gas. The big Cummings diesel belched a clattering exhaust.
"How come we're slowing down?” Beemer growled.
"I think,” Little D. J. said, eyes sweeping the mirrors, “we got a problem."
"What are you saying?"
"Some of the load just flew off."
"What?” Beemer snapped his head around. “You didn't strap it down?"
Little D. J. shrugged. “Well, you know, when we picked up the copper, the trailer, we were kinda in a bit of a rush. I noticed they forgot to weld the winches on, but I figured that shouldn't be a problem. We weren't supposed to drive onna highway, an’ copper, well, copper's heavy."
"Freakin’ 747s are heavy! You were gonna fly one to Mexico, remember?"
Benny, craning his neck to see behind them, said, “Jeez, there goes about another ten sheets. Oops, an’ a couple more. Man, I think one of ‘em swiped that telco truck."
Little D. J. swore softly and leaned harder on the brakes. The binders chirped, then came on hard, sending battered green and copper sheets cartwheeling through the air, past the cab. One of them took a West Coast mirror off.
"What the hell are you doing?” Beemer shouted. “You tryin’ to kill us?"
The rig was doing some horrific tail wagging.
"The driver that telco truck,” Benny informed them, “looks like he's on his phone, prob'ly calling us in."
"I'm gonna pull over just before that underpass,” Little D. J. said. “When I stop the vehicle, jump out, and run like hell."
* * * *
"Little D. J. runs pretty good,” Benny said, “for a guy with a back problem. Didn't slow down, that ditch full of water, just kinda ran right over the top of it. You know those lizards you see on TV?"
"A lizard, that about sums him up.” Beemer looked disgusted.
"I kept on goin’ through those wild rose bushes.” Little D. J. winced at the recollection. “I think I still got the thorns in me."
"We can always hope,” Beemer said. “I liked the part where you climbed that ridge an’ ran off the other side into outer space."
It was just past opening at the Rob Roy. A few of the regulars there. One geriatric nursing a beer and tomato juice, another at the bar staring at the switched-off television, and one obese specimen under the plastic palm tree wearing driving gloves, a red T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and Day-Glo galoshes. Calvin Klein. Benny, Beemer, and Little D. J. were at their usual table. Little D. J. had gauze wound around his left hand, his wrist, and halfway up his arm. A wad of it was taped to the side of his head, and he had smaller dressings stuck here and there.
"Does it hurt?” Benny eyed the bandages.
"Only when he whines,” Beemer said. He told Little D. J., “Listen. Don't get the idea ‘cause you got a couple of scratches you're off the hook about this total screwup. I don't like almost getting my head took off, and I don't like that your pal at the trucking yard could put the finger on you an’ drag us into it. Most of all, I don't like that I'm out twelve large, my share of that load."
"Well,” Little D. J. said, “I don't like it either. But that's how it is in this business. Some days it's candy, other days it's a kick in the head. You just gotta go with it, you know what I'm sayin'? Take the good with the bad."
"Every day with you is a kick in the head, especially when I get dragged into something. There I am, twelve thousand pounds flyin’ at me, crashing through a swamp with a boom truck on my tail. I'm too old for that. I don't need the stress."
"Who dragged? I just laid out an offer. Bright side of things,” D. J. said with a lofty smile, “I think I got a doctor out of it."
"You had half the QEII Emergency staff fawning over you ten seconds after we dragged you in there."
"An’ I was thinkin’ the whole time too. When they asked me, I said I never had a pain in my life till this happened. That way, see, they got to include my leg, my back when they do repairs, no waiting list."
"Playing the system.” Beemer snorted.
"No, my health problems are legitimate."
"An’ what about my problems? Benny's problems. The problem we got, those three bills we put up for this? I knew we'd wind up takin’ the hit."
Little D. J. craned to look at the bar. “You think I could have a glass of orange juice? Vitamin C in there. Good for the healing process."
"Two bucks a glass,” Beemer told him, “drink all you want.” D. J. sat where he was. Benny shoved two dollars at him. Little D. J. got up, went behind the bar, and took a large glass off the shelf. Beemer said to Benny, “See, this is why I shouldn't ever listen to that goof. I always wind up getting bit inna butt. What we shoulda done, we shoulda left him there in that ditch at the side of the road. But we hadda rescue him."
"It was the right thing to do."
"It was the smart thing to do. How else we gonna get our three big ones back, that skug?"
Little D. J. finished pouring his orange juice, a tricky business with one hand. Came back to the table, sat down and drank it, his Adam's apple gently bobbing. He lowered the glass and wiped his lips with his good hand. Tats on the knuckles there read JUMP.
"Best thing inna world for your health, orange juice. Guy in India, Matt ... Matt somebody. Old guy. I read about him in a magazine. Used to go on these fasts, make the government listen to him. Lived for years on the stuff. What were we saying?"
"We were saying you owe us three hundred bucks."
"Right. Well, I was just thinkin’ about that."
"You'd better be thinking about it. There you are like the mummy in The Curse of the Pharaoh, and here we are, we're out three big ones. Your plan. Your arrangements. That dwarf at the lot speaking in tongues. No reason we should take the hit on the three."
