The Carrier

by Preston Lang

  “I think I do, my dear.”

  Willow reluctantly took ten dollars out of her pocket and handed it to the man. She didn’t give the wallet back to Cyril.

  “That’s really good of you,” the man said.

  He and his wife sat down at the table. The waitress came over and asked if they were ready to order. The man looked bashfully at Cyril. Cyril nodded and Willow kicked him under the table. The man ordered two club sandwiches with fries. Cyril and Willow got a slice of pie to share.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said. “We’re just so hungry. Hard to believe you can work up such an appetite sitting down all day, but I really needed this. How’d y’all meet?”

  Y’all? She didn’t sound southern. With New Jersey plates and her sixties clothes, what exactly was the story?

  “We met in a yoga class,” Cyril said.

  “Really? Stretching on the floor, that kind of thing?” the man asked.

  “It was kind of magical,” Willow said.

  She still sounded surly, but Cyril was pretty sure she was a little turned on by pretend yoga.

  “She had to correct my form several times,” Cyril said.

  He was relaxed, lying just for the hell of it, but he was still alert, glancing out the window frequently. When the food came, the woman stood up.

  “Let me just put Maisey in her crib. I’ll be right back.”

  “You can’t leave a baby in a truck—she’ll freeze,” Willow said.

  “We’ve got the heater on; she’ll be much more comfortable in the portable crib where she can really relax.”

  The woman went back out to the truck. The rest of them ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “Jean is really too proud to do this kind of thing,” the tall man said, “but, you know, you get down on your luck, right? And I hate to press it, but ten dollars isn’t going to get us a room.”

  “Just eat your sandwich, okay?” Willow said.

  “My man?” he looked at Cyril.

  “Don’t look at him,” Willow said sharply.

  “Hey, she’s got the wallet.”

  “Brother, why does she hold your wallet? I mean, what is that about?”

  “Can you just accept the answer?” Willow said.

  “Maybe you could quiet down and let your man speak a word for himself.”

  “Have you ever been stabbed in the eye with a fork?”

  “Man, I’ll shut your lady up if I have to.”

  “Just take the sandwich and go,” Cyril said.

  “You’re going to tell me what to do? A dude like you?”

  Cyril saw an idea forming—the man was going to attack. Cyril just had to hope Willow wouldn’t shoot him. The man made a fist with his right hand, but then he shrugged and eased off. He wrapped up his wife’s sandwich in a napkin, slowly, deliberately and then glanced at Cyril.

  “And you might want to look into growing a sack, buddy. Comes in handy from time to time.”

  “Go now,” Willow said, just below a shout.

  The man left the diner just as the waitress made it to their table.

  “Is there any trouble?” she asked.

  “That guy was a little off the wall,” Willow said.

  “We get some odd ones in here. You know, right off the highway. Had a guy a few years back who walked in with an owl on his shoulder. Live owl. Why won’t you serve me and my owl?”

  Cyril turned to Willow.

  “It’s a good thing we left our owl in the car,” he said.

  The waitress enjoyed that; she liked Cyril but was undecided about Willow.

  “We had a sign up for a while—No bare feet, No fighting, No owls,” the waitress said, “but it got stolen.”

  “Of course it did,” Willow said. “I’d steal a sign like that.”

  The waitress walked away, not entirely convinced that Willow hadn’t been the source of all the trouble.

  CHAPTER 21

  Marcus saw the car, the brown Toyota with Delaware plates, parked alone in the corner of the lot. It was visible from the restaurant, but Marcus figured if he took the long way around no one in the restaurant would notice him. He walked behind a pickup truck and then stopped, peeking over into the diner to see if anyone was looking. This was stupid, he realized, slinking around made him look like he was up to something. Just stride across the parking lot, slap the tracker on the car and keep walking. When he walked out from behind the truck he saw a woman standing on the other side. She was dressed like a hippie, and she held a swaddled baby in her arms.

  “Where are you coming from?” she asked.

  “Nowhere, really.”

  “You just appeared out of the dark. Nearly scared the life out of me,” she said, but she didn’t seem scared in the least. “God damned Sasquatch shows up on foot. Can you help me out?”

  “With what?”

  “A few dollars. We need to get a place to sleep, to shower. You know, a room rather than just sleeping in a car on the side of the road.”

  “I’ve got nothing. Sorry.”

  “You just appear in a rest stop—no car, no warning?”

  “Yes.”

  Now he had no choice but to walk into the restaurant. They wouldn’t know his face. He could walk in, order something, use the bathroom, then walk out and slap the tracker on? Did that sound suspicious?

  “Please can you help me,” the woman continued. “I’m out here with a newborn baby. I’ve got to get her out to California. That’s where my sister lives. She can give me a hand.”

  “You’re out here all alone? Just you and the baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just drive with him in the back? For days and days?”

  “She—her name’s Maisey.”

  “You’re going to drive a thousand miles with her?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better way to do it. Please, it’s really hard. Anything you can spare.”

  Marcus had a soft spot for beseeching women. He reached into his wallet—one fifty dollar bill for emergencies, one ten, a few singles, and some change. He handed her the singles and the change, but she’d seen the fifty.

  “Thank you,” she said, “you’re a very generous person. Hey, do you like to party?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m just going to get a little something to eat.”

  “I’ll do what I can to support this kid. You understand what I’m saying?”

  They stood in silence for about half a minute, the woman smiling assertively.

  “How about you give me that fifty I saw or I start yelling that you’re making rude comments and licking yourself while I’m trying to breastfeed?”

  This was bad—it was the last of his real money. But Marcus reminded himself that they were almost there: tag the car, follow it to the pickup, collect a million dollars. He could spare the fifty if he had treasure coming. Still, it was hard to let go, and hard to give in to such a cheap grifter. Why hadn’t he sewn the fifty into his jeans like he’d meant to? Maybe because he couldn’t sew, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he could ask Saida to do for him.

  And then he had a sudden impulse to slap this woman hard, this confident little hippie who thought she had nothing to fear from a man twice her size. Marcus had never come anywhere near hitting a woman before. He’d had a few fights with Saida, where she’d ripped into him pretty good, but even at full volume, he could never think of anything but how crazy she made him and how much he loved her.

  The woman in buckskin was right: he wasn’t going to hit her. The last thing—the absolute last thing—he needed right now was a woman yelling at him in the parking lot. He handed her the fifty.

  “Here, I’ll let you keep your change,” she said and tossed him back his coins.

  He reached up to protect himself as if the nickels and dimes were dangerous. They fell to the ground.

  “It’s just money, dear,” she said, and then she threw her baby headfirst into the b
ack seat. Marcus gasped, and the woman laughed at him again.

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my child, okay?”

  There had never been a baby, just a loaf of white bread wrapped in blankets. Why she’d hold it like a baby, alone in a parking lot was a question he couldn’t answer. She locked the truck and headed for the restaurant, and he walked right to the brown Toyota and stuck the tracker back near the bumper, more or less where it had been on the first car. He gave it a few rough pats—it would hold.

  CHAPTER 22

  Whenever Top wanted to meet Duane it was either a very good thing or a very bad thing. Duane guessed that this was not going to be a good thing, but at least Top met you somewhere reasonable, like New York or Boston. Duane made sure to get there early. He sat at a bar in lower Manhattan at three in the afternoon. It was populated mostly by young men who looked like they worked on money all day. There was a lot of unnecessary posturing. They had to sit in a way that it made it clear how tough they were. In the wrong mood, this would be the absolute worst place for Duane to spend an hour idly drinking. Anyone who even thought of talking to him would end up with a shoe in his mouth. Duane hated these guys, but at the same time they sort of had it figured out, didn’t they?

  So maybe Top had something really great to tell him. Maybe Top was going to announce they were opening a legit Wall Street branch of the organization, and Duane was going to be the vice president of accounts. No, there would be a few cheap insults and some unrealistic requests, but at least Top wasn’t having him killed tonight. You don’t ask someone to meet you at the center of the world to do that kind of thing.

  Top came in like a doctor: late with no apologies. But at least he was ready to get right down to business. He ordered a single malt and then turned to Duane.

  “When was the last time you heard from Tony Braxton?”

  “Not since last week—when I saw him.”

  “So exactly what time did you last see him?”

  “About ten.”

  “You left first or he left first?”

  “I left first.”

  “And he was in a bar?”

  “Yeah. It was called McPhail’s. I can find the address pretty easily.”

  No reason to lie about what Top already knew. He was looking at Duane very carefully, probably using tricks of lie detection that he’d gotten from some manual of leadership and domination. Duane could read faces better than anyone without using silly tricks. Top relaxed his gaze.

  “You ever sell any gold?” he asked.

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I came into some jewelry a few times when I was young.”

  “No. I’m not talking about snatching chains and selling them at a pawn shop.”

  “I didn’t think you were. You’re moving into the precious metals?”

  “Nothing for sure. I’m just trying to figure out of if it makes sense to get gold. An opportunity has come up, and it looks like either we can punish someone or try to make some money out of gold.”

  “That seems like an odd choice to have to make.”

  “Not really. But I don’t know a ton about gold. Thought I might ask you—see if you knew anything.”

  Now Duane was being treated like a trusted insider? He really didn’t know what to think. But if Top was trying to lull him into some kind trap, it wasn’t going to work.

  “How much are we talking about?” Duane asked.

  “I had a few conversations with some people here—Wall Street, you know,” Top said. “You ever talk to these people?”

  Duane looked around the bar at the men—and one woman—drinking cocktails. If these guys were really in finance, shouldn’t they be upstairs working?

  “They try to act like TV gangsters. I’m serious, one of these guys—fucking Harvard MBA—he’s wearing a black do-rag on his head. Italian suit and loafers, but neck up he’s some kind of Crip? Amusing. But that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. These guys are pretty sharp. Some of the schemes they come up with? It’s worth talking to people like this.”

  What had the finance guys made of Top? They were probably laughing at him right now. A guy walks into the office looking like an exiled colonel from some bad Central American army, and he talks about having all his money in cash and gold. What were they supposed to think?

  “You know, I could do with some actual money in the near future,” Duane said.

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m just saying I’ve got money coming to me.”

  Duane had put a lot of his own money into the business, but he hadn’t seen anything back in almost six months now. He understood the concept of an investment, but it seemed like Top had been sending money a lot of places and not a dime of it had come back to Duane. Did Top really think he was a sheep?

  “You think I’ve forgotten?”

  “No, and I’m not saying right now, but soon. I just need to be paid.”

  “I let you come in on some things. You wanted in, and I let you in. It was your choice.”

  “I know that.”

  “But now you’re demanding money.”

  “I’m not demanding money. I’m just saying that I’m going to need something. You know? Just as a person, you need money.”

  “You’d have had a nice bundle for yourself if you’d handled Florida correctly.”

  That again. Duane hated meeting Top, because he had to act like such a pussy. He had to sit there and take it. He had to try to act displeased without looking aggressive or pouty. It wasn’t an easy balance.

  “You talk to your brother in a while?” Top asked.

  “No. He’s alright?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine.”

  “Well, good. I don’t see him much.”

  Almost never. Unless Top was going to give him a thousand dollar bonus every time Cyril made a delivery, why even bring him up? Cyril drove a car and ate fast food. He was a God damn UPS man—he might as well wear the brown uniform. Duane did some complex problem solving, and he did it well. It was a lot like high school. One time Top had mentioned something about Cyril to him: I’ve got people out there requesting your brother for delivery. And just like in high school Duane had a quick thrill of pride and then seeping resentment—who cares if he won the Science Bean? And what the hell is the Science Bean, anyway?

  “What was the meeting with Tony about? What did he have to say?” Top asked.

  “Don’t you know? You’re the one who told me I had to go meet him. There’s no other reason I would have a face-to-face with him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I keep trying to tell you that Tony is difficult in every way. I show up and he’s with a girl. I say, Can you tell me what I need to know—he brushes me off and goes to the bar.”

  “He met you in a bar, with a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Not one word of substance.”

  “Who was the girl?”

  “No one I’d ever met.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “I don’t know. Hispanic, I think. Young.”

  “Pretty?”

  “Yeah, she was pretty. I don’t think she was a hooker, but she definitely had an angle.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because no one is going to be around Tony unless there’s a reason—money or junk.”

  “So she was using him for free product?”

  “Probably.”

  “You get a name for her?”

  “He introduced her as Maria, whether that’s her actual name I can’t say. Can I tell you something? Tony Braxton is an idiot. And it’s going to cost all of us. He’s using too. You do know that?”

  Duane paused, expecting Top to cut him off like he’d done in the past, but Top just stared at him, so Duane kept going.

  “It’s already cost us.”

  “When?” Top asked.

  “Florida.”


  It was a bit of a risk taking things back to Florida, but Duane felt pretty self-righteous when it came to his behavior down there. He saved a lot of product and taken a bite wound from a strange, dirty man dressed like an old-time sea captain.

  “You really want to talk about that, Duane?”

  “Yeah, I do, because I’m the only reason we got anything out of the deal. I mean that. If it were all up to Tony, we’d have just thrown everything into the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “It takes two men to wreck a two-man job.”

  “Top, I don’t think I agree with that. I think that one man can be doing everything right and a second man can just fuck the whole thing up to excess. You give—let’s say—Kurt Cobain and a gorilla a guitar each, and tell them to play. The gorilla is going to mess up the show, even if Kurt plays his heart out.”

  Duane knew Top was a big Nirvana fan—it was about all the personal information he had on his boss. Maybe it was an overstep to bring Nirvana into the conversation. Duane wasn’t even a hundred percent sure that Kurt Cobain could play a guitar.

  “So you’re the Cobain of this operation?” Top asked.

  “Well, Tony is definitely the gorilla. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “That’s not how he tells it.”

  Top gave a rare expression of impatience—a slow exhale. Top hated meeting people face-to-face. Duane only saw him every few months. Cyril had never met him. All Cyril knew was that there was someone named Top—a presence, an eminence. He kept himself scarce and built mystique. Looking across the table, Duane saw a hard man, middle-aged, irritable, slightly above average intelligence. Top was bald and he’d recently shaved a beard. A lot of people thought he was Mexican. Maybe he was, but Duane had never heard him speak Spanish.

  “Do you know where Tony Braxton is?” Top asked.

  Now it was the deep penetrating stare—looking back three generations at the misdeeds of your great grandfather in the old country. What a joke.

  “I don’t,” Duane said.

  It was the truth. He hadn’t seen Tony since he’d knocked him unconscious in Newburgh. Maybe he’d never woken up.

  “And you think he’s the problem?” Top asked.