D. J. hurried to let the guy out, escorting Frederick's broad smile along the bar, then scurrying back, that same smile now stretched across his own thin, lined face.
"A gentleman, didn't I tell you guys?"
"So, apparently you know where to find his nibs,” Beemer said.
D. J.'s smile faded. “Well, I got a phone number."
"Do better,” Beemer said, pushing a pen and a Garrison beer coaster at him. “I don't like it when a guy knows where I live, and I don't know where he lives."
"I'm not supposed to know where he lives,” D. J. said.
"But you found out, I bet. Write it down there on the paper. That way you're not telling me nothing."
Reluctantly, D. J. block-printed something on the back of the coaster and put down the pen.
"I'm not supposed to know that."
"Fine. We're even, then.” Beemer tucked the coaster in his shirt pocket. “I'm damn sure I'm not supposed to know it either."
* * * *
"Okay,” Little D. J. said the next morning, “it's a go. I met with Fred, turned over the cash, and he gave me the details of the new arrangement."
"The new arrangement?” Beemer looked up, frowning.
"Well, see, there had to be changes if we don't wanna pay the taxes. You wouldn't agree to use the license here, so Fred had to try something else. He's got a truck driver lined up now, a bonded carrier, a guy that can haul untaxed liquor and cigarettes to people got the necessary permits."
"How does that change anything,” Beemer said, “if he brings the stuff here?"
"He isn't going to bring it here. He doesn't know anything about this place. He's gonna stop up there on the Bicentennial, go in for a sandwich at the Burger King, and leave his truck running. Which is taking a pret—ty big chance, in my opinion, considering all the thieves running around out there today."
"I get it,” Benny said. “Any thief in particular he should be concerned about?"
"I guess that would be me,” D. J. said.
He explained the rest of the new arrangement in Benny's beat-up Taurus, heading out Quinpool Road for the rotary, a big orange U-Haul trailer thumping along behind. Benny at the wheel, Beemer in the front passenger's seat, with one hand on the dash like he's afraid they might hit something, maybe a brick wall, that'll send him rocketing through the windshield. D. J. in the back.
"A U-Haul,” Beemer is complaining above the racket of the trailer and the hole in Benny's exhaust pipe, shaking his head. “An orange U-Haul. Why didn't you get a flatbed with a three-ring circus whooping and hollering on it?"
"I tried, but the three-ring circus isn't in town till the summer,” Benny said. “Another reason is, there's all kinds of U-Hauls on the roads right now, this being the end of the month when lots of people usually move. Other trailers on the road. We'll blend right in. It was D. J.'s idea."
"It was Fred's idea,” D. J. said. “He's a great guy.” D. J. was hunched forward, talking to them over the seat back. He was still wearing Frederick's smile. “Man, I love this. Groupa guys heading out on a job. I feel like I was twenty years old again."
"You look like you're a hundred and twenty,” Beemer said. He nudged Benny's arm, “Watch this guy, watch him now!” A Metro Transit bus loomed in front of them like a house.
"What I can get you,” Benny told him, “is a pair of those blinders they put on a horse so it can't see the traffic. I haven't killed you yet, have I? Wait till I do before you say anything."
"Groupa guys,” D. J. rambled on dreamily, “heading out on a job. It reminds me of a whole lot of other times, exactly like this."
"What it should do is remind you of all the times the sheriff's van drove you out there to Dorchester,” Beemer said. “Think about this job. How we handle it."
D. J. cleared his throat.
"The driver's waiting at the restaurant. Eats his hamburger and drinks coffee. Keeps on drinking coffee till we've been there and gone. Gives us a nice lead, then he goes—Hey! Where's my truck? Goes back in the restaurant, makes a big stink to show how hot he is, and gets somebody to call the cops. Or maybe he calls them on his cell, that part I don't know."
"And we've got the truck."
"We've got the truck. We're long gone. Container trailer on the back of it, I'm driving, you guys are in this vehicle, following along right behind me."
"Where to?"
"A spot I know of out past Ragged Lake. Be deserted today—Sunday. Old road dips around behind the trees. We pull in there, shift the stuff to the U-Haul, drive out again. A done deal."
"What about the truck, the container?"
"Leave it there."
"Suppose a cop shows up."
"What cop? The one who sits out there in the trees all day, he's been there now for about a year, waiting for someone to try this? Not gonna happen."
They came over the rise, and there was the Burger King. “Don't pull in, don't pull in!” Beemer shouted. But it was too late. Benny was already in the approach. “Jeez!” Beemer said, shrinking down in the seat and spreading his hand over his face, “you should've stopped on the highway and let D. J. out. He could've walked back."
"I guess you forgot to suggest that at a more appropriate moment,” Benny said, wheeling sedately past the restaurant's big windows, people gazing out at them, getting a good look. “I'll drive right on through, and he can still do it."
"Yeah, after everybody and their grandmother seen us,” Beemer said.
They got back up onto the highway, continued another fifty yards, stopped on the shoulder, and D. J. got out. “Wait for me here,” D. J. said, moving briskly away, small, pointy black shoes crunching on the gravel.
"Where's he think we're going to wait,” Beemer said. “In Spryfield?"
They made some adjustments, Benny twisting the rearview and Beemer fooling with the side mirror to keep D. J. in sight. They saw him approach the truck, climb up on the running board, pull at the door a couple of times, then hop back down again. He stared up at the towering cab a minute, then disappeared around the front of it.
"What's he doing?” Beemer said.
"Truck must be locked,” Benny said, puzzled. “It was running, all right. I heard it when we drove past, the big diesel engine. I wonder, when the guy got out, he must've locked it, you know, without thinking."
"Look at this!” Beemer said. “I don't believe it!"
D. J. was coming back around the front of the truck now, with a chunky loogan in a peaked cap close behind him, had to be the driver. He made a gesture at the door, the driver clambered up, popped it open, then got back down out of the way to let D. J. up into the cab. D. J. gave the guy a wave, let off a blast of compressed air, then began pulling out of the lot. The driver stood there watching him go.
"You see that?” Beemer said. “You see it? He couldn't even open the door, and he's gonna drive that thing? And he goes into the restaurant to get the guy? This is why he spent half his life in a small room with a toilet next to his head!"
"Sometimes things go wrong,” Benny said. “You got to allow for that."
"You can allow for it,” Beemer muttered. “About three, four years with your record."
The big vehicle surged up out of the lot, D. J. looking totally ecstatic behind the wheel. He flashed them a thumbs-up and thundered past, dragging a whirlwind of road dust in his wake. Benny put the car in gear and took off after him.
"He better be watching,” Beemer said, “he wants Exit 2-A."
Exit 2-A came up fast. D. J. hit the brakes so hard the trailer wagged three or four times, the whole big lumbering unit barely making the exit ramp.
"I hope that wine travels well,” Benny said.
"He's a maniac,” Beemer said.
They followed D. J. down Chain Lake at a brisk clip, the container-trailer leaning dangerously at the sharp left down below the Price Club, D. J. then pushing it hard through the business park at about ten or fifteen over the limit.
"What's he think he's driving,�
�� Beemer said, “a pizza delivery vehicle?"
"He's having fun."
"He's an idiot."
"He knows the turn, I hope, onto Lakelands. He needs it to get onto 103."
"Who knows what he knows?"
"He needs 103, then Exit 2 to get to Ragged Lake, which is where he said he wanted to go."
The semi picked up speed.
"Cops,” Benny said.
"What?"
"Cops."
Beemer, glancing over his shoulder, saw the flashing blue light coming up fast. “This is all we need!” he groaned, giving the seat a slap. “Get stopped for speeding! I'll kill that moron!"
Ahead of them, in his big West Coast mirrors, D. J. had seen the blue lights too. He hit the brakes of the semi hard, hauled on the wheel, and muscled the huge, unwieldy vehicle around a sharp entrance into a strip mall, the double rear wheels of the trailer humping up and over the curb, tossing the trailer side-to-side. The police car flashed by, not even looking at them, in a big hurry to be somewhere else.
They followed D. J. in a wide, trundling loop around the parking lot, Beemer putting his face in his hands when the trailer went up and over the curb again.
Ten minutes later, they turned off at Ragged Lake into a construction site, heaps of crushed stone and heavy equipment standing around. D. J. found a road in behind that wound through the trees, and they followed him into dense vegetation, branches swiping at the vehicles, the trailer tearing a few of them off and heaving and jouncing over a dozen large, merciless potholes.
And then, finally, they stopped. Shut off their engines. There was a strange, unsettling peacefulness as they got out of the vehicles, just the muted, steady sigh of unseen traffic heading out toward Peggy's Cove. Then Beemer started yelling.
"What do you think you're hauling in that trailer—bricks?” He was striding belligerently toward the back of the larger vehicle as D. J. dropped down out of the cab. “I could've got this wine a smoother ride on a skateboard!"
"How did I know the cops were going to chase me?” D. J. said defensively.
"Lookit! Just lookit!” Beemer was pointing at a dribble of liquid streaming out from under the doors. “Open it up!” Beemer hollered. “Open it up so we can see what's left! And I better not hear you telling me you got to go back and get the key!"
"Of course I got the key."
"Then open it!"
D. J. obediently unfastened the heavy padlock that secured the rear doors of the container. When he flung back the doors, a powerful smell rolled out at them, driving them back, breathless, to stand at the front of the car.
"My God!” Beemer said. “What is that?"
It was the worst smell they had ever experienced, but not unrecognizable; they all had a pretty good idea what was causing it. Benny tried to get in closer for a better look but couldn't. They craned their necks to peer through the open doors.
The wine cases, what they could see of them, had been stacked at the rear to completely block the doors—presenting an innocent and impenetrable wall to any not-too-energetic inspector. They might have been piled seven or eight high at one time, but now there wasn't much left of them. The rough ride had accounted for a fair number of sealed cases smashed and twisted on the floor, clumps of sodden cardboard and broken glass scattered round. But there were other cases, too, that seemed to have been carefully opened, the contents consumed, the bottles placed neatly back inside them.
And the smell.
"You know what I think?” D. J. said. “I think somebody's been living in there."
When they found the address written on the back of the beer coaster, Beemer said, “Better and better."
There had been a light rain earlier on their drive up into the valley; now the sun was out, reflecting brilliantly in the scattered puddles at the edge of the road. The sign said LADYSMITH VINEYARD, and in smaller print, D. SPAARWATER—LOCAL AND IMPORTED FINE WINES.
Behind it an elegant villa stood looking out toward Ski Martok. Grapevines staked in military precision marched off up the hillside behind it. In an open air dining patio, vines hung from trellises over the tables, the chairs beginning to fill up with well-heeled customers. Beemer climbed stiffly down out of the cab, and Benny followed him. “Now,” Beemer said to D. J., glaring up at him through the open door, “do you suppose you can pull this rig ahead and then start backing in through that service entrance?"
"Well,” replied D. J., “I don't think—"
"I already noticed that about you,” Beemer said. He turned away, leaving the door hanging open.
The air brakes hissed, and the truck shuddered and lurched forward. It stopped with a loud snort, there was a harsh grinding of gears, and then it began creeping backward between the Audis and Benzes toward the service gate at the edge of the patio.
"And here comes our friend,” Beemer said.
A familiar plump and natty figure was hurrying across the parking lot in their direction, looking incensed. When he recognized his visitors, about halfway along, he faltered. But only for a second.
"What are you doing?” he demanded. “You cannot bring that truck in here!"
"Yeah, well, we're doing it,” Beemer said. “We thought you might still need it, maybe you got another wine shipment coming in at the docks."
De Voors, or D. Spaarwater, or whatever his name was had scurried behind the truck and flung his arms out, forcing D. J. to apply the brakes. His previously ruddy face was so red Benny could imagine steam coming out of his ears.
"Also,” Beemer said, “we've had second thoughts about this exceptional and remarkable wine you sold us. So what we'd like to do, if you don't mind, is get a refund on it, and drop it off here with you.” He glanced at the open air diners, chatting and smiling, more of them arriving all the time, some gazing with curiosity at the big truck standing in the parking lot. “You could dish it up to your customers, show them how exceptional and remarkable it is."
Benny pulled the bolts on the container, hauled the doors open, and the pungent air rolled out. De Voors/Spaarwater gasped and staggered backward. He looked as if he was going to have a massive coronary event. Meantime, Beemer had stepped to the cab, reached in the open door, and now came back along the side of the truck with the Al Capone bat in his hands. The stains looked like ripe purple bruises in the sun.
"So here's the deal,” Beemer said, “two choices. You return the six we gave you, and you decide what you want to do with this load, or you still return the six we gave you and we make that decision for you. I'm thinking what I might do is get D. J. to back up the trailer another few yards, and relocate the exceptional and remarkable contents out into your picnic area, with a gravel scoop. Anyone objects, I can show him what I got on eBay.” The bat swung loosely in his hand. “You choose."
* * * *
Beemer leaned across the front page of the Chronicle Herald, spread out on the bar at the Rob Roy, and gave the headlines a knuckled thump.
"Eleven solid citizens arrested last night, they came all the way from—” He frowned and peered closer. “Ak-shig-an-ak in Kos-tan-ay-skay-a. Imagine that. Joined a South African wine shipment at Lisbon, Portugal, it says here, crossed the Atlantic in a private compartment, all the free wine they could drink. Thirty-five grand apiece, they paid, in U.S. dollars.” He glanced up. “Now we know why Fred could sell the wine so cheap. It covered his shipping. The four-hundred grand was the real dough. I can see why he was so delighted."
Benny said, “Yeah, interesting."
"It didn't hurt him giving us the six. He didn't even want the container."
Benny glanced at the Sleeman's clock above the till. “Where's D. J.? He has to take that U-Haul back."
"I sent him down to the Rubber Duck, that car wash up on North West Arm. I rescued two, three cases of Imoya, stuck them in the U-Haul, wearing gloves. A nice brandy. I told D. J. just keep pouring on the hot water, lots of soap, don't stop till the labels come off. Can you do that, I says, without screwing it up? I think so,
the guy says. He really is something else."
"He is."
"What we went through, I don't want to go through that again."
"Me neither."
"I'm thinking the whole time, up in the valley there, what if Fred calls me on this? We start emptying the load into his garden party, and I got to wade into some really annoyed young junior executives with my bat? I don't know if I'm still up to it, you know? I'm not as young as I used to be."
"I was thinking that too."
"What I need to do,” Beemer said, “is start giving some thought to my retirement. Find a way to put some money aside for my old age. I got no pension, you know."
"I was thinking that too,” Benny said. “Have you got anything in mind?"
Copyright © 2007 Jas R. Petrin
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE LAST OF THE MAGIC by DAN CRAWFORD
Joel Spector
* * * *
Polijn swung herself up to the first branch she could reach. The approaching dust told her it would be best to get off the road, the thunder of hooves adding the information that the dust was being raised by horses, plenty of them, in a hurry. Farther west, that would indicate a company of soldiers, but you didn't see that around here. Here, horses moving so fast at this time of year could mean only one thing: The original owner was in pursuit. A minstrel's best move would be to get out of sight until the ruckus was past.
She checked above her for a sturdy branch more concealed by leaves. The boots behind the leaves became obvious seconds before she was grabbed from behind and hauled up among the boughs, twigs scratching at her face as she was taken past them.
Polijn went limp; it was generally better to learn what you were fighting before you fought back. The man wore a dagger and a coat that had small metal bars sewn across it in case someone else had a dagger as well. He pushed her back against the trunk, not letting go until he was certain she had a leg on each side of the branch. Releasing her, he nodded, and set a finger across his lips.
Polijn nodded back. The original owners of the horses had been a little quicker than the thieves had imagined.
AHMM, May 2007 Page 2
