Ham

by Dustin Stevens

So they pay an enormous fee to people like us to move it and we spend the entire time bored out of our minds, just wishing it would end.

  And then we run to the bank with the easiest paycheck ever collected.

  “You’ve got loads of people on call for stuff like that,” I add. I don’t bother stating the rest, though he already knows what I’m thinking.

  Jobs like this are treats for having spent the last two months in the shit. They’re when Mikey owes someone a favor or wants to ease a new recruit into the mix.

  They’re not the sort of thing he crosses international borders to discuss in the middle of the night.

  “Not really,” Mikey replies. “Read the file.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then you say no,” he replies.

  The response comes back quicker than I expected, almost like he was anticipating that being my first reply.

  At least he learned something during our time working together.

  “No.”

  Letting me see him roll his eyes, Mikey shakes his head slowly. “Just read the damn file.”

  Raising both hands to his thighs, he pushes himself upright, the welds on the stairs whining slightly beneath him. He remains there long enough to brush his bottom clean before stepping down, small puffs of dust rising around the toes of his boots.

  By morning, they’ll be wiped clean again.

  “Look,” he says, standing perpendicular to me and glaring at me in his periphery, a careful five feet of space between us, “I know how this looks and sounds. Believe me, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

  Turning his head another inch my way, he adds, “But they came to me offering a big ass payday and some very specific parameters. I don’t have anybody else that fits what they need, so now I’m down here talking to you.

  “Take it. Don’t. I don’t care. But at least hear what the people have to say. Got to be better than living in a rust bucket in Mexico, fighting in front of drunken tourists for a few hundreds bucks a night twice a month.”

  Chapter Eight

  The arrival of daybreak is about as different as sunset the night before can be. Ten hours earlier, I was standing in the corner of the ring outside Shakey Jake’s, watching the sun disappear over the horizon, reflecting off the water, the world a combination of tangerine light and cool ocean breeze.

  This morning, it is nothing more than a harsh yellow glare, a bright spotlight striping across the desert floor, searing into my brain.

  I’ve been awake for hours by the time it tears through the darkened sky. As if aiming straight for me, it pierces into my brain, so bright I’m forced to raise a hand to block it.

  The break is a momentary reprieve at best. Within minutes, it will sit higher in the sky, strong enough there will be no escaping it. With it, the outside temperature will rise in chunks, superheating the metal bed of the truck I’m currently stretched across, the thin blanket beneath me no match for the warmth.

  Whether or not I ever actually fell asleep is open for debate.

  One of the maxims instilled into me from an early age was to never ever have anything in my life that couldn’t be dropped in thirty seconds or less. No expensive jewelry or designer fashions. No high-end electronics. No pictures of loved ones.

  Hell, no loved ones, if at all possible.

  After Mikey left, my strict adherence to that principle made packing easy. Grabbing nothing more than the go bag I kept stowed in the foot of my closet and the file from the table, I was inside and out in under a minute.

  Just like I’d been taught.

  Buoyed by the combination of annoyance and self-flagellation lingering from his finding me and arriving unannounced, I eschewed the driveway and humped straight back through the desert to my truck, arriving there five minutes later.

  A half hour after that, I arrived at my fallback location, the place I am now parked as I sit up from the bed of the truck. Feeling the full power of the sun wash over me, the warmth seems to penetrate every pore. Sweat will soon follow, pulled away as fast as it arrives by the dry desert air.

  How Mikey knew where to find me is a question I would still love to know the answer to. Why he felt the need to point out that he knew I’d been fighting at Jake’s, yet another.

  If he’d had to go searching for me or had been keeping tabs in the years since we parted, just the third in a line that was stretched more than two dozen long.

  None of which I was likely to ever get the answers to, a fact that tastes bitter as I rise to full height. Still standing in the back of the truck, I lace my fingers together and extend my hands overhead, a litany of pops sounding out. Running the length of my back, they include my neck and shoulders before falling silent, the night spent lying on a thin blanket in the bed of the truck doing far more damage than Rosales did.

  For her part, I can feel a bit of puffiness around one eye as I squint against the encroaching sun, a small trade for the grand I was promised for getting it to the second round.

  Releasing my hands, I let them fall to either side, palms slapping against my jeans. Dropping a hand to the rail of the bed, I hoist myself over the edge, landing silently on the sand.

  Before me stands what looks to be a miniature Quonset hut, the entire structure made from little more than three large pieces of sheet metal. Once painted slate gray, most of it has been stripped away by the elements, chewed up by thick pockets of rust.

  Along the front is a sliding door, the brass padlock holding it shut appearing years newer than the rest of the building, which looks like it hadn’t been touched in years.

  Considering the place for a moment, I instead go for the passenger door of the truck. Pulling it open, I grab the file Mikey left for me.

  Walking toward the rear, I drop the tailgate, the rusted metal sending an angry wail across the quiet morning.

  The reason I didn’t go through the file the night before is simple. I was pissed off. I was mad at Mikey for showing up unannounced and myself for letting it happen.

  So filled with wrath, I would have barely been able to read, let alone process and consider whatever was in the file.

  Another of the maxims that has been imparted to me — never make business decisions while dealing with emotions. It only ends badly.

  Putting my back to the sun, I can feel its heat on my exposed shoulder blades. Using the shadow of my torso, I flip the top open, seeing the familiar cover sheet that Mikey has been employing since he first went into business. Looking for a basic rundown of what is wanted and how much is offered, I skim over it, confirming everything he’d told me the night before and adding a few new details to the mix.

  The job is a simple transport. Two items to be picked up in Los Angeles and delivered to Oklahoma. Time frame imminent, set to begin as soon as possible and be completed within forty-eight hours.

  Price, five hundred thousand dollars, split evenly between Mikey as the broker and whomever actually does the job.

  The page says nothing more than that, which is standard for Mikey. Whatever else the file contains would be from the buyers themselves, but he never commits anything more than that to writing.

  A very basic overview, details as scant as possible to get the point across.

  Apparently, he’s had some maxims drilled into him over the years as well.

  Even with so little staring up at me, I can see a cluster of holes in the narrative, red flags telling me my initial instinct was dead on.

  I am retired. Nothing good can come from this.

  No matter the snide remark Mikey made as he departed the night before, my life isn’t that bad. Fighting at Jake’s keeps me flush with what little cash I need to survive out here. It ensures that I don’t have to touch what was stowed away long ago.

  And it damned sure means I don’t have to go back to doing things like this.

  Not how most people would choose to live, but I’m not most people.

  Nor do I have any interest in being.


  Half a million dollars for a drive that is at most twenty-five hours long is excessive to the point of being a barrier. It means that whatever these people need hauled is either dangerous or illegal and likely both.

  It also means it is something too hot for them to fly out, or call UPS about, or even bother moving themselves.

  All reasons for me to grab the cigarette lighter from the front cab, burn what is in front of me, and bury the ashes before heading further south, going until I find myself somewhere Mikey — or anybody like him — would never bother coming to look for me again.

  A droplet of sweat runs from the end of my nose, dotting the cover sheet. Staring down at it, I watch as the paper crinkles beneath it, a wet spot forming.

  I don’t want this job. I don’t want to return to the life. But I do want to know what caused Mikey to track me down in the first place. I need to know if this was a one-time thing or something that could happen again in the future.

  Reaching out, I flip the page over, my stomach clenching slightly. A ripple of palpitations rises through my chest as I stare down, a handful of the questions I’d carried just an instant before suddenly answered.

  At least as many more form in their wake.

  More sweat rises to the surface, my eyes already beginning to burn as I reach for my back pocket. Flipping the cover sheet over, I slide the phone out and punch in the phone number scrawled across the bottom.

  I know nobody is going to answer, the line connected to a machine somewhere in the Midwest, just like he’d told me to do the night before.

  Still, I have to make the call anyway.

  Every red flag that was there a moment prior still exists, but not one of them now matters. My breath is tight in my chest as I hold the phone to my face.

  There is no message, nobody telling me what to do, just three rings followed by a beep.

  “This is Ham. I’m in.” Once more, I shove the cover sheet to the side, focusing on what the file holds beneath it. Free of the initial shock, my gaze narrows slightly, a single muscle twitching along my jaw.

  “I also need to order the full-service package. ETA, 0900.”

  I don’t say another word as I end the call and power off the phone. Popping open the back, I pull the battery and the sim card, dropping both into the dirt and grinding them under my heel.

  0900 means I have four hours and a shitload of work to do.

  II

  The Pickup

  Chapter Nine

  Jensen Spiers usually prefers the solitude of Sunday mornings. The sole time of the week when the entire city isn’t snarled up with traffic, everybody in a rush to go somewhere they’d rather not be. Millions of people curled up behind the wheel of their cars, tempers flaring, horns and middle fingers wagging in equal measure.

  Usually.

  Today, Spiers would prefer the cover. He’d rather have the famous riots of 1992 playing out again or another forest fire on the edge of town or even the warning sirens along the coast blaring that a tsunami or a shark attack or a damn nuclear bomb from North Korea was headed straight for downtown.

  Anything to keep people from looking his direction. To obscure the tempest of emotion roiling just beneath the surface, a mixture of vitriol and panic and agitation competing in equal parts.

  Crouched behind the wheel of his sedan, he sits with his weight shifted onto his right haunch, the corresponding elbow resting on the middle console. His arm is bent straight up, his thumb is jammed into his mouth, the tastes of dirt and blood on his tongue as he gnaws on it.

  Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, he notices the front door of the McDonald’s open, seeing a heavyset woman and a pair of kids step outside. All three are carrying sodas that hold at least thirty ounces, and each one has a smile on their face, riding a sugar high toward the minivan parked in the corner.

  A host of smart-ass remarks crosses Spiers’s mind as he watches them climb inside, letting them go with nothing more than a smirk.

  Shifting his gaze back to the mirror, this time he focuses on his own reflection. He sees the bags hanging beneath his eyes, both shaded a pale gray hue. Sweat lines his forehead, beads peeking out between the thinning hair up front that is combed straight back.

  Just hours into the day, and already the collar of his T-shirt is damp. By noon, the garment will be visibly wet, the dark color doing nothing to hide it.

  His only hope is that by then, this is all behind him. That the mistakes of the last week — and the last two years, if he really wants to admit it — are gone.

  Buried.

  Extending his arm before him, he turns the fan on the air conditioner up. A burst of artificially chilled air hits him in the face, picking at the perspiration on his cheeks.

  For a moment, he closes his eyes, drinking it in, opening them just in time to see the door to the McDonald’s open a second time. Through it walks a young man different in every way from the trio that passed before. Long and lanky, his jeans are at least two sizes too large, forcing him to tug them upward on every third step. On his top half is a T-shirt meant for a Rams offensive lineman, a backward hat sitting atop his head.

  In one hand is a brown paper bag, a white cup clutched in the other.

  Pausing on the concrete sidewalk lining the building, the young man scans the parking lot, making two passes through before spotting Spiers sitting a row back.

  Stepping down off the curb, he ambles over slowly, Spiers watching the entire time, biting back the ire the mere sight of the kid incites. Pulling his thumb from his mouth, he raises himself in his seat, balancing his weight behind the wheel as the passenger door swings open and the kid drops inside.

  With him comes the scents of grease and ketchup and sativa smoke, the aroma doing nothing for Spiers’s mood.

  “Hey,” says Anthony Leboy — or as he’s known on the street, T-Boy — as he slams the door shut.

  “Hey,” Spiers replies, doing a poor job of keeping the bitterness he feels from his tone. “I thought they called that shit fast food.”

  Ignoring any animosity that might be aimed his way, T-Boy goes straight for the bag. Pulling it open, the scent around them intensifies as he reaches inside and takes out a hash brown, shoving the end of it in his mouth.

  “There was a line,” he replies, sending stray pieces of potato onto his lap. “Damn spics roll up twenty deep, you know?”

  As far as Spiers is concerned, everybody in this part of town tends to roll in groups. Whether they be Latino or African American or white gangbangers like T-Boy, nobody is stupid enough to stroll around East LA by themselves.

  “You got something?” Spiers asks, no interest in having any sort of discussion with this kid about the demographics of where they are now sitting.

  Or the Dodgers. Or the weather.

  Or a damned thing beyond the reason he agreed to meet.

  “Yeah,” T-Boy replies. “You?”

  Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Spiers reaches into the inside pocket of his sport coat. Using his middle and index finger, he pulls out a single bill folded into quarters. Holding it below the sightline of anybody sitting nearby, he passes it across to T-Boy.

  Having to work with confidential informants is one of the things Spiers hates most about his job. The years have taught him there are myriad shades of gray between what constitutes a good person and a bad, but in his experience, invariably the ones most willing to talk to the cops are on the wrong end of that equation.

  They tend to offer very little of actual value to themselves or the community, a position they often justify by using their post to rat on their peers.

  But for as much as he despises people like T-boy, the young punk now infusing his car with crumbs and a smell that will last the rest of the year, there is no denying there are moments when having them on speed dial does come in handy.

  Moments just like this one.

  “Nice,” T-Boy replies, accepting the money and pocketing it. Throwing a glance out the window, he pretends to be
playing it cool, as if he isn’t sitting in what is clearly an unmarked police vehicle.

  “All right,” he says, his head still turned away, “so I put out the word on what you said you were looking for, and this morning I got a hit from one of my crew.”

  T-Boy’s crew is a group of low-level pushers that runs product in the neighboring town of Montebello. Too small to compete with the bigger boys in East LA, and too white to even attempt going west, they keep themselves occupied working the lower-middle-class communities further inland.

  When Spiers first busted him a couple of years before, their flavor of choice had been marijuana, but now that legalization had taken hold, they were rumored to be dabbling in something a little more high-end.

  What that is, Spiers doesn’t much care, his sights set on something else at the moment.

  “Yeah?” Spiers replies, again checking the rearview mirror.

  Already this is taking longer than he’d like. “Where?”

  “Not here,” T-Boy replies. “My guy wasn’t on the job. He was out in West Covina visiting his girl, says he saw what you were looking for at some dive joint called The Sundowner.”

  The only way one of T-Boy’s crew would spot what he wanted at a run-down motel was if he was there to work or was visiting a working girl. Neither thing seems worthy of bringing up right now, his mind instead focusing on the first part of the statement.

  West Covina was just over twenty miles from where they were now sitting. A dogleg north and east, it was different in damned near every way from the burgs closer to the coast, the sort of place where people that couldn’t afford Pasadena or Glendale flocked to.

  Upper middle class. Educated. Fairly homogenous.

  And definitely outside of his usual jurisdiction.

  “How certain?” Spiers asks.

  “Says a hundred percent,” T-Boy replies. “I guess he was going in and they were coming out. Damned near bumped into each other in the stairwell.

  “That’s how he spotted it. Otherwise, might not have noticed.”