The Carrier

by Preston Lang

  Yeah, his name wasn’t really Tony Braxton. That was just some hilarious joke someone had come up with at some point, and now Duane had to tell people, with a straight face, that Tony Braxton would have ten kilos in a week; or Tony Braxton would be coming to the meet. It was bad enough to have a two minute phone chat with Tony, but to have to drive an hour to sit down with that fuck monkey face-to-face?

  Fuck monkey? Duane hadn’t said that in a while, maybe not since high school when he practically used it as Cyril’s name. Not that Cyril was any better for a name. He felt pretty lucky that his mother had gone with Duane for her first child and Cyril for her second. Duane could remember summer days, his brother sitting out on the sidewalk, reading in a beach chair. He would sneak up quietly and smack the book out into the street. So that guy, Cyril the Brain, had made it through college in three years, then a so-so job, and then he just hit a wall. Duane had laughed hard when he heard Cyril was unemployed and trying to sell his furniture on Craigslist. It was so funny that Duane went to see the golden boy in his crap studio apartment.

  “There’s so much money out there,” Duane had said. “You want to make some?”

  Cyril poured himself a bowl of cereal, and Duane put a hand on his little brother’s shoulder.

  “Are you scared of me—men like me?”

  “Like you? Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would you do anything to me? Why would a man like you do anything to me?”

  “They’re not all levelheaded like I am.”

  “Okay, then we’re talking about men who are not like you.”

  Duane smacked Cyril in the head—hard so it hurt, but also as a joke. Take that, inchworm.

  “I don’t need to be reminded of how smart you think you are.”

  Cyril cocked back a fist—the playfight continues? But Duane gave him a serious look.

  “No. Do not.”

  “Just kidding around,” Cyril said, sounding about seven years old.

  “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to do you the biggest favor of your life. So just listen, and don’t try to be smart. Some of these dudes are a little psychotic. They just are. Most are more like me: you don’t give them any reason for agitation, then it’s smooth doing business. You don’t have to prove you’re the macho man with a steel cock. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure.” Cyril fought the impulse to giggle.

  “You never even had a ticket, right?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a good driver with a clean record and a pretty, Caucasian face.”

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  There was a fairly strong resemblance between the two brothers, but it was easy to tell just by looking at them that Duane was the harder, angrier man.

  “You can say no. But do it now. If you say yes, and I get you in—then you’ve got to do it right.”

  “What are we talking about?” Cyril asked, still in groggy breakfast mode.

  “What do you think?” Duane’s anger was rising again.

  “Specifically, I mean.”

  “Oh.” Duane weighed the question and found it reasonable. “It’s just driving. But it’s important. And you’ll make more money than you would have even if everything had worked out in—fucking botany school? Whatever you were doing at college.”

  Duane had sold the job pretty hard, but he thought he’d been honest. The money he’d been making had him feeling like he was a big deal, and when Tony Braxton sounded him out about drivers, he thought it would be a shame if Cyril missed the easy money.

  As it turned out, the only time the brothers did anything together was when Duane brought Cyril—in a cardigan sweater for fuck’s sake—to see Tony that first time. It was early afternoon at a bar in Rockland County without windows. That was back before Tony had turned into a complete disaster.

  “This is your brother? Are you a puss like Duane?” Tony asked.

  “Watch it,” Duane said.

  “What, he can’t take it?”

  “You insulted me, Tony.”

  “How?” Tony gave a stupid grin.

  “Look, you wanted to meet him. Here he is.”

  Cyril still hadn’t said a word, but he looked up evenly at Tony.

  “You can do this?” Tony asked.

  “Yes,” Cyril said.

  “There’s no reason you should ever get picked up. It just shouldn’t happen. If you get stopped, take a ticket—that’s fine. I’ll even pay it. If they want to search, tell them to get a warrant. If they don’t have one, do not let them inside the car. If they bring in the dogs and you get arrested, then just do the time. If you try to do anything else, you’ll end up dead. You get that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s something you understand?”

  “That is something I understand.”

  Cyril was calm and his voice was deep and even; Duane was a little impressed.

  “Okay. Good enough,” Tony shrugged. “You want to drive tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Here you go.” Tony handed Cyril a cell phone. “Don’t let the batteries run out and don’t call anyone with this. We switch these pretty often, so you have to keep up. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Usually at the end of a job interview there’s the opportunity to ask a few questions—what’s the policy on sick days; is there a softball team? Walking out to Duane’s car, Cyril still had one important question.

  “If I want to stop—can I just do that? Just stop?”

  “You haven’t even done one job, you’re thinking of quitting?”

  “I’m just looking at the long term.”

  “Good thing you didn’t ask Tony.”

  “So I can quit if I want?”

  “No one reasonable is going to hurt a courier just for stepping down.”

  “But some of them are psychotic—you told me that.”

  And now Duane was a lot less impressed with his little brother’s cool.

  “Look, Cyril, it’s possible that the first time you make a delivery the guy you meet will decide to slice off your tongue and make you eat it in a sandwich. That could happen. This isn’t preschool.”

  “Thanks, Duane. That makes it a lot clearer for me.”

  Duane was about two seconds from throwing Cyril out of the car; sarcasm was something he really didn’t really need. But he calmed himself—Cyril wasn’t used to this kind of life.

  That was, what, three years ago now? Back then Duane thought the organization was tight, and the money would always come in big, regular chunks. But nothing ever stays the same. You never recognize the high-water mark. Yeah, trouble was coming, and Cyril would just have to take care of himself.

  CHAPTER 4

  Is it stupid to bring a girl with a gun back to your motel room?

  Yes, it was stupid. Cyril knew that. It didn’t take a genius to see a problem coming, but this was the middle of the country where average people carried guns—housewives, realtors, undergrads. He’d been lonely and he’d just loved the sound of Willow’s voice—going on about her classes, and the professors who were all a little sleazy, and the way she loved to feel gooseflesh rise on her skin in poorly heated dorms. It was all lies, but she told them so well.

  “The money. Where is it? I know you have it,” she said.

  She held the gun like she knew how to use it, and she wasn’t shaking. It was a small pistol, a nine millimeter, but it was powerful enough to stop his heart.

  “My wallet is in my pants,” Cyril said, still in just boxers.

  Willow fished the wallet out of Cyril’s jeans and checked.

  “There’s thirty-five dollars in here,” she said.

  “Keep it”

  “Come on. The money.”

  “What do you mean by the money?”

  “You’re going to make this difficult?”

  Willow went through Cyril’s bag—a change of clothes, deodorant, a paperb
ack, his passport. She opened all the drawers—all empty.

  “Is it still in the car?” she asked. “You left that kind of cash in the car?”

  “Can you tell me what money you think I have?”

  “You know what money.”

  “You can check the car. The keys are on the table. It’s a gray Toyota. There’s only two or three cars in the lot anyway. You’ll see it.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she could leave him alone in the room. Maybe she was even starting to doubt that she had the right guy.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

  They hadn’t got around to discussing that. She knew about all his childhood injuries and his favorite songs. She’d talked more than he had, and he’d laughed a lot, a wry shake of the head that she really seemed to like. Then they’d compared the size of their hands. Yeah, it was all cheap, sexy nonsense.

  “I’m in web development,” he said.

  “Like in computers? Programming?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you mean sure?”

  “I mean that I do some programming, yes.”

  Cyril tried to look like a poor traveler who thought he’d met a nice young lady in a bar and was now trapped in a nightmare.

  ***

  Willow wasn’t buying it. This was the man. She’d got the right address, and she’d practically picked him up from in front of his house, then hung onto that car all the way: New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois. She’d lose him for a minute or two and then find him again; she’d gambled and won on when to get gas. She’d followed his gray Toyota all the way to this crummy motel in Iowa, and Cyril was the only one who’d gotten out of that car. Of course he was going to deny as much as he could. Losing money was a very dangerous thing for a man like this.

  “I’m not any kind of—bank robber,” he said.

  “Who said anything about a bank robber?”

  “Whatever you think I am. Look, if there’s no money in the car, will you believe me?”

  Willow’s eyes scanned the walls—vents, flaps in the wallpaper? Or could he have hidden it somewhere outside of the room? If so, when did he do that?

  “Come with me,” she said.

  “Can I put on a shirt and pants?”

  “Yeah, but no jacket.”

  He put on his jeans and his shirt. He reached for his socks but she stopped him.

  “No shoes.”

  “No shoes in the parking lot in the middle of the night?”

  “Walk.”

  He walked out the door, and she followed. Her Beretta was the same color black as her hair. She let the sleeve of her jacket flow over the gun to conceal it, but it wouldn’t keep her from firing if she had to. She kept a few paces between them at all times. As they moved toward the lot, they could see the woman behind reception. She was young and heavyset, reading something in her lap and drinking an enormous cup of Sprite. He slowed his pace. Would he call out to her—help me, save me obese, night worker at chain motel.

  “Keep going.”

  They made it to the parking lot. Even though it was less than half an hour since they’d been outside, it felt a lot colder. Willow pointed to a spot on the ground, about fifteen feet from the car.

  “You sit down here and watch. Answer questions if I ask. Otherwise, please don’t talk to me.”

  He sat still, no fidgeting. First Willow went for the trunk where she found jumper cables, a spare tire, a flashlight, a towel, and a filthy tee shirt. Next she opened the driver side door and shined a flashlight in the car—a few old CDs and a box of tissues. She picked up the box—nothing. She opened the glove compartment—a few papers, a map, a Swiss army knife, and a cell phone. She put the phone and the knife in her pocket, then she pressed down on the seats and reached in between. If there was anything in the car, it must be hidden away, sewn under the seats, stuffed into the gas tank? What was she going to do, take the car apart? Why did everything have to be so difficult? She peeked under the car briefly, turning her back to Cyril for just a moment. When she whirled back on him, he hadn’t moved.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’m taking the car.”

  The money had to be in here, didn’t it? It couldn’t be anywhere else. Or could he have stashed it somewhere? If so, then all she was doing here was stealing an old Toyota. She’d waste a day figuring out how to rip it apart, while he slipped the money out of the wallpaper and laughed his way home.

  “You really have to take my car?” he asked.

  “No. You could give me the money—then you’ll get to keep your car.”

  “There’s no money in the car.”

  “I think there is. I’ll drive it somewhere and take it apart until I find the money. And I will find it.”

  “You’re going to take apart my car?”

  “Why not just tell me where it is now? Then you get to keep your car and your wallet, and I save a few hours.”

  Cyril looked at her carefully.

  “You’re not really a student at the college here, are you?”

  “Maybe you should stop talking to me like I’m stupid.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Marcus found himself defending Danny Chin to Saida.

  “He didn’t do—anything. Not really.”

  “They put him in prison.”

  “Yeah, okay. He got arrested for sensual assault, yes. But that was a mistake.”

  “It’s sexual assault.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Sensual assault. You can’t say sensual assault.”

  “All right, fine. Sexual assault.”

  “No, I mean—you can’t go into the world and talk about someone committing sensual assault.”

  “They said he pressed up against a lady on the train. I mean, is that sensual enough for you? Can I just explain—”

  “So that’s your friend? That’s the kind of guy you like to watch football with?”

  “It was a setup.”

  “A setup? Marcus, every man who ever got put away says it was a setup.”

  The following Monday after an overtime victory by the Chargers, Marcus again found himself pleasantly drunk on Danny’s couch.

  “What would we do without football?” he asked.

  “Man, I don’t know. Soccer? If they ever ban football, they’ll try to fob soccer off on us. They’ll even insist we call it futbol. I had a friend inside who tried to get me into soccer—didn’t happen.”

  “You made a lot of friends in there?”

  “Really just Luis. Some people started calling us Cheech and Chong. Because, you know, there’s an Asian guy and a Latin guy.”

  “What’s Cheech and Chong?”

  “Cheech and Chong made these movies about two guys running around trying to get stoned. So some people thought we were called Cheech and Chong because we could get drugs. And as it turned out, we could. So we started to do okay in there, but it’s hard to really be sure that you’re getting your cash when you’re inside. Luis is still in there, and he’s getting dicked around by his people on the outside—so I’m in the cold, right? But his daughter is this real sharp girl, Inez. And she found out about some money that’s going to be easy to grab. She’s going to set it up, and I’m going to take it.”

  “Whose money is it?”

  “It’s ours.”

  In the three weeks Marcus had known him, Danny had nearly always been light, telling jokes or accepting whatever Marcus threw at him in stride. But now Danny showed the face of a man with a serious side, not just a silly little guy with bright clothes who liked to fondle women on mass transit.

  “So this guy Cheech—”

  “Let’s call him Luis,” Danny said.

  “Okay, Luis. He brought the drugs in, right? He had the connection outside?”

  “Right.”

  “What did you do? Why did he want you for that? You’re not a big guy or part of a gang or anything, right?”

  “I was his friend. We had some really deep conversations abou
t religion and spirituality, like about whether animals have souls. But the main thing to understand is that we—you and me—can pick up some serious money, just by being at the right place.”

  Danny tapped the table in front of them. It had cigarette burns, like someone used the top as an ashtray. Marcus had never seen Danny smoke; the furniture was probably left over from the previous tenant. A lot of people just took off in the night at this complex, and no one had nice furniture. Marcus didn’t mind that much. Who needed nice things, fancy things? He had hot water and a roof over his head. It was only for the sake of Saida that he wanted more, because he really was ashamed when he thought of what he had to give her.

  “What do you say, dog?” Danny asked.

  Could be some kind of setup. But what would the setup be? Marcus was broke and Danny knew it, so there couldn’t be any money con going on. The only possibility was that a crime was going to be pinned on him in such a way that would benefit Danny. That seemed very complicated. It seemed more likely that Danny needed a big, cash-strapped guy to help him out with a job.

  “Is it going to be dangerous?” Marcus asked.

  “It’s not exactly getting the dry cleaning, you know? But from what I understand, there’s one guy picking up some money in a car, and he doesn’t travel with a weapon. It’ll take a lot of driving and some boring scenery, but I think it’s going to work.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Just a guy they have who mules their product ordinarily. This time he’s going out there to pick up straight cash.”

  “Out where?”

  “Nebraska, Iowa—one of those corn states.”

  “I get cash?”

  “Of course you get cash. We’re not going to take vouchers or nothing like that. We get cash money, legal tender USA. I want you in for this, man.”

  Marcus nodded slowly.

  “Let me talk it over with Saida,” he said.

  “Okay, I respect that you have a strong relationship and everything, but you cannot talk-it-over with Saida. You understand me?”