Rig Warrior

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  4

  Barry got away at noon Saturday, driving his pickup truck. His suitcases and garment bag were in the back, covered with a tarp and tied down. Inside the toolbox, which was bolted to the bed of the truck, in a false bottom, lying on foam-rubber padding, locked in place by rubber-coated brackets, was Barry’s New Orleans insurance … in case things turned rough in the Crescent City.

  Two nickel-plated S&W Model 39 9mm semiautomatic pistols. One Uzi submachine gun. One Ruger Mini-14. Spare clips for each weapon, and forty boxes of ammo. He had leather for the pistols and a little plastic-enclosed card in his pocket that said it was all legal.

  He still chuckled over that deal.

  Treasury had squawked and squalled and moaned and finally settled down, grim-faced, with more than one member of Treasury hiding a smile, seeing the humor in being set up and had by a civilian. The older, more experienced agents of BATF silently welcomed Barry aboard; they knew the colonel’s reputation. They knew he would not flaunt his credentials; knew he would play it close to the vest, using his ID only if he got in a hard, tight spot with the local law. And they knew Colonel Barry Rivers was one randy son of a bitch who had about as much compassion toward punks and assholes and street-slime as a mongoose has for a cobra.

  Zero.

  Barry had stopped by the small offices of the IOLDG and signed the papers, sealing, only slightly illegally, the unwilling contract.

  Linda had brought a briefcase full of papers to his apartment. He had committed as much of them as possible to memory. Names with faces, businesses with faces, mob enforcers, runners, whores, pimps, pushers, bag men and women … all connected with the local mob.

  The dinner had been very good, and dessert was even better; took two to consummate it.

  He spent the first night in a small motel in Virginia, the second in Alabama. It was there Barry unpacked his shoulder holster and dug out one of his 9mms. He loaded the clip and readied the weapon. He checked his little .25 caliber automatic. He carried that in an ankle holster, right side of his boot, inside. Inside his left boot, he carried a double-edged commando knife, honed razor sharp. The knife was good for one thing only: to kill.

  Barry began psyching himself, bringing himself up, or down, depending on one’s point of view, mentally. He had no illusions about New Orleans; about what he was stepping into. He was New Orleans born and reared, and he knew the mob. He had heard the name Fabrello all his life and he had seen, personally and up-close, what mob enforcers could do. He had seen people pulled from the river, from Lake Pontchartrain, Lake Salvador, and Lake Maurepas. He had seen the torture inflicted on those who elected to buck the mob.

  No, he had no illusions.

  But if the local strong-arm boys were muscling in on his dad, if they had hurt his dad … someone was going to pay. In blood.

  And that was something the mob understood.

  He pulled into a truck stop on Interstate 10, just outside Biloxi, when he spotted a Kenworth pulling a flatbed, parked on the asphalt. On the side of the door: RIVERS TRUCKING.

  He parked his pickup in the passenger-car area and stepped out. It might be early spring, but it was just plain cold. He thought about slipping on his shoulder holster, then decided against it. It was too soon for that.

  He walked into the cafe, his cowboy hat pulled low. His eyes found the familiar blue jacket of Rivers Trucking. He walked on past the man, sitting down in the booth behind the driver. He knew the driver’s face, but could not recall his name. Just as well. Barry wanted several days of anonymity.

  He ordered coffee and a club sandwich and waited. He knew it wouldn’t be long before somebody would come in and know the driver, start up a conversation. That happened before the waitress even brought his coffee.

  A Roadway driver came in and slid into the booth, facing the Rivers man. “Chuck,” he said. “Thought you was hangin’ it up with Rivers?”

  “Last run, Lobo,” Chuck said, using the driver’s CB handle. “Me and Snake both turnin’ in our time.”

  “Then the rumors is true?”

  “I’m like them three monkeys, Lobo. I ain’t seen nothin’, heard nothin’, and I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

  Snake would be that long lean drink of water from up in north Louisiana, Hal Grethal. CB handle, Snake. Barry remembered him. He’d been with Joe Rivers for many years. A top-notch driver with a perfect safety record. Things had to be bad if Snake was pulling out.

  Barry waited.

  “I know what you mean,” Lobo said. “Like the time I was pullin’ out of New Jersey for the Bertolli Brothers. Old Man Bertolli wouldn’t let the local boys shake him down. Man, they put him out of business. I left before it got really rough. But I heard more than I wanted to hear …”

  Barry didn’t catch the rest of Lobo’s statement. The waitress brought his sandwich and wanted to talk. Barry smiled at her and exchanged a few words. She returned his smile and left.

  Leaving a silent invitation behind her with a faint scent of perfume.

  “… isn’t just them folks,” Chuck said. “Them … folks hired themselves a bunch of wildcat drivers. They can drive a truck, that’s about the only good thing any decent driver could say about them. They’re thugs and hoods and punks. It was them that ran ol’ Billy Bob off the road out on Twenty, just east of Pecos. Crippled him up bad. He’ll never drive again. And they got hoods in four-wheelers, shootin’ at Rivers Trucks. I ain’t tellin’ you nothing you ain’t already heard on the CB, Lobo.”

  “Yeah, it’s all up and down the road.”

  And my CB quit working, Barry thought. Well, this truck stop has them. I’ll buy a new one.

  “Where you goin’, Chuck?”

  “I don’t know. Snake’s a little wishy-washy about leaving Big Joe. But Snake ain’t married. I am. I got two kids in college, and I don’t know what the old lady would do if something happened to me. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  The two drivers talked for a while longer, but nothing more about Big Joe’s problems. They had a second cup of coffee and left, one heading west, the other east.

  Barry left a tip and paid his check, then wandered into the gift shop. He bought a Midland forty-channel CB and went outside, pulling his truck around to the rear of the huge truck stop. It took him less than five minutes to pull out his old CB and remount the new one in the same brackets.

  “You gonna test that thing out, citizen?” a female voice spoke from behind him.

  Barry turned and looked into the face of an angel.

  “Uh … yeah. Soon as I get on the road.”

  “Which way you headin’?” She was maybe five three. Blond. Natural blond—as far as Barry could tell. A traffic-stopping figure. Cowboy shirt, blue jeans, and boots. Blue eyes.

  “West, into New Orleans.”

  “Yeah? Me, too. You watch them motherfuckin’ cops just this side of Slidell. They’ll nail your ass to the wall.”

  An angel with a garbage can for a mouth. “Thanks.”

  “You ever drive a truck, boy?”

  “Long time ago. Why, does it show?”

  “Yeah, kind of, I guess. You lookin’ for a job, maybe?”

  “Could be. Who you drive for?”

  “Big Joe Rivers.”

  Barry had to hide his smile. He’d make a bet this little waif-looking blonde watched her gutter-mouth around his dad. Big Joe could and did cuss like a sailor … but not around women. He was old-fashioned that way. And he wouldn’t tolerate a woman using bad language.

  “Yeah? I’ve heard some talk about Rivers Trucking. Maybe I’d prefer to eat less and go on living?”

  She put both hands on shapely hips and hung a cussin’ on Barry. “Goddamnchickenshityankeebastard!”

  Barry laughed at her. “Whoa! I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m just telling you what I heard, that’s all.”

  “This dude givin’ you trouble, Kate?” a man’s voice came from behind Barry.

  Barry cut his eyes.
A burly driver carrying a wooden tire knocker in his right hand stood just behind him.

  “Goddamn coward, is all!” Kate spat the words at Barry.

  “Maybe he’s just got good sense,” a second man’s voice spoke.

  “What the hell you mean?” Kate flared.

  “I heard it all. Just gettin’ out of my bunk. This guy didn’t say nothin’ to you to deserve the cussin’ you hung on him, Kate. You can’t blame a man for wantin’ to stay alive.”

  “Why don’t you take that boot you’re holdin’ and shove it in your mouth?” Kate yelled at him. “And stay out of my business.”

  “Whoa!” Barry said, raising his voice to be heard above Kate. The independent driver was hopping around, trying to pull on his boot. The East Texas Motor Freight driver still had the tire knocker in his hand. “This thing is getting out of hand.”

  “Well, you just apologize to Kate and we’ll forget it,” the ETMF man said.

  “Apologize?” Barry said. “For what?”

  “ ’Cause I said so, buddy.”

  Barry’s Cajun temper was rapidly coming to the surface. “Partner,” he spoke to the ETMF driver, “you better get off my back before I kick your ass so hard you gonna feel like you been riding that camel all day instead of your tractor.” Barry pointed to the logo painted on the trailer of the ETMF man.

  “He probably feels that way now,” a third man spoke. “Considerin’ that piece of junk he’s drivin’. I drove something that raggedy-assed lookin’ I’d be ashamed to call myself a trucker.”

  Truck drivers insult each other on the average of about ten thousand times a day—per state. The ETMF man just grinned. But his grin was directed toward the driver, not toward Barry.

  “I think I’ll just whup your ass, boy,” he said to Barry.

  “With or without your club, hotshot?”

  The ETMF man tossed the knocker to the driver who had insulted him. “Hold that. And don’t steal it, you hound-dog-lookin’ thing.”

  He swung at Barry. But Barry had anticipated the punch and sidestepped. The driver lost his balance and fell down.

  “Goddamn, boy!” Kate said. “Defendin’ me is one thing, but you gotta stand up to do it.”

  “Give me time, Kate!”

  “I ought to kick your face in,” Barry said. “But I feel sorry for you. If I was takin’ this fight seriously, you’d be dead by now.”

  “I think I’d believe him was I you,” the independent driver said, finally getting his boot on.

  “Stay out of this, you damn hog-hauler!” the ETMF man said, getting to his feet. He assumed the classic boxer’s stance and shuffled toward Barry.

  Barry kicked him on the kneecap and clubbed him on the side of the head as he was going down.

  “Driver,” Barry said. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know you’ve got a load to deliver. Let’s just call it off before you make me mad.”

  Several drivers stepped in and pulled the ETMF man to his feet. “That’s it,” one said. “It’s over. You’re gonna get hurt bad if you keep on.”

  “Put some ice on that knee,” Barry said. “And don’t let it stiffen up.”

  “You a wahoo, boy,” the independent said to Barry. He grinned and held out his hand. “They call me Cottonmouth. What’s your handle?”

  “Dog,” Barry said. Ever since he’d read a book about an Army Dog Team he’d adopted the handle of Dog.

  He shook the man’s hand.

  “You two gonna kiss each other?” Kate said.

  Barry looked at her. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re a troublemaker, miss?”

  “Has anybody ever told you to get fucked?” she screamed at him. She whirled and marched into the truck stop.

  “Kate!” the independent yelled. She stopped and spun around. “Tell Big Joe I’ll be in soon as I drop this load over to Beaumont. That is, if he still wants to hire me.”

  “He does. And bring hotshot there with you. That is, if he’s got the balls to drive for a real outfit.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can drive, spitfire,” Barry told her.

  “You probably couldn’t drive a fuckin’ vacuum cleaner around a living room,” she fired back at him. She marched on into the truck stop.

  “Kate Sherman,” Cottonmouth said. “Ain’t she something?”

  Barry just looked at him.

  “Rods that Kenworth up and down the highway better than most men. She likes you, too, Dog.”

  “Likes me? What would she do if she didn’t like me—shoot me?”

  “Probably,” Cottonmouth drawled.

  5

  Barry and Cottonmouth leaned against Cottonmouth’s Peterbilt and chatted.

  “You wanna buy a rig?” he asked Barry.

  “No,” Barry said with a laugh. “You gettin’ tired of driving independent or the bank closing in on you?”

  “Bank. I got ’er almost paid for and had to refinance. Then, boy, the bottom dropped out.” He patted the truck’s fender. “ ’81 model. Double-wide walk-in sleeper. 400 Cummins. New clutch. Jake Brake, 13-speed, 240 wheelbase. ’Bout 85 percent rubber. Forty-five thousand and it’s yours, Dog.” He grinned.

  “She’s pretty,” Barry said. She was pulling a reefer. “But I guess not. That old boy with ETMF hold a grudge?”

  “Naw. He just got his ass whipped, that’s all. Everybody kinds of looks after Kate. But don’t let her size fool you. She’s stout, and she’ll fight, too. And she’s loyal to Big Joe Rivers. She got in trouble ’bout, oh, eight years ago, I reckon. Shot her old man when he was beatin’ up on her. Big Joe knew her momma and came to Kate’s defense. Taught her to drive personal. Kate never knew her daddy, so Joe became like one to her.”

  “From what I hear, Cottonmouth, you might be stepping into a lot of trouble going to work for Rivers.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But Joe starts drivers off at twenty cents a mile, good vacation and insurance, loadin’ and unloadin’ pay. I ain’t makin’ no money as an independent. I drove three hundred hours last month, and after my expenses, I figure I made less than three dollars an hour. That ain’t no livin’. ’Sides,” he said with a grin, “I don’t like to see no one like Joe Rivers bein’ crowded out of business by a bunch of crud like the mob. You know what I mean?”

  Barry knew. He liked this guy who called himself Cottonmouth. But he wasn’t ready to fully trust him yet. “I might drop by and see Joe Rivers. Maybe I’ll see you around the terminal.”

  “Could be, Dog. Could be. I gotta get me some breakfast. You eat yet?”

  Typical long-distance hauler, Barry thought. It’s afternoon and he wants breakfast. His days and nights are all turned around. “Yeah. Good to meet you, Cottonmouth. Hope I run into you again.”

  “You prob’ly will. Where’d you learn to fight like that, anyways?”

  Barry smiled. “Special Forces.”

  Cottonmouth laughed. “Wait ’till I tell ol’ camelhumper that. He’ll shit. See you ’round, Dog.”

  It didn’t come as any surprise to Barry when he looked in his mirrors and saw the big blue Kenworth sitting about three feet from his rear bumper. Barry smiled and reached for his mike.

  “Go to twelve, Kate,” he said. Channel twelve. Most of the trucker traffic is on channel nineteen.

  He switched over and waited.

  “All right. So I’m on twelve. What do you want, hotshot?” Kate’s voice came through the speaker.

  “What’s your handle?”

  “TNT.” That figured.

  “You over your mad yet?” he asked, knowing full well probably fifty people had switched over when he did and were listening. For most, it wasn’t being nosy. Not really. Long-distance hauls are lonely. Anything to break the monotony.

  “I might be. What’s it to you?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Dog suits you right well, boy,” TNT said. “A yellow dog.”

  “Maybe you got me wrong, TNT. Try that on for size. You copy?”

  “Yeah, I co
py. Maybe so. You might be a trucker. But you something else, too. I ain’t quite got your figured out yet. But I will.”

  “If you hate me so bad, why go to all that trouble?”

  Silence.

  “I wish you’d answer him,” a man’s voice said. “I hate a mystery.”

  “ ’S’at you, Red?” Kate hollered.

  “Yes’um.”

  “Get off this channel, you prick! This is a private conversation. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “I don’t know, Dog. Something ’bout you that puzzles me. But I ain’t fixin’ to talk about it on the air—you copy?”

  “Yeah. So if you don’t mind, I’ll get in the rocking chair, ten-four?”

  “Come on.”

  Barry changed lanes, reduced speed, and pulled in behind her.

  “Just stay with me, Dog. Go back to nineteen.”

  They rolled into Louisiana and Barry waited until Kate had weighed her load. On Interstate 10, just before crossing the Pontchartrain, Kate signaled she was pulling over. Barry pulled in behind her and got out.

  They stood on the right side of Kate’s rig, the Kenworth giving them some protection from the rush and wind of southbound traffic.

  “You a movie star or something?” she demanded. “Out slummin’, maybe?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “ ’Cause I’ve seen you somewheres. You damned familiar to me. TV newsman, maybe?”

  “No, I own a business up in Maryland. I’m on vacation.”

  “Liar! Part of what you say is probably true. But something about you rings false. And that bothers me.”

  “Where do you live, Kate?”

  She studied him with cautious blue eyes. They were so blue they almost hurt him to look at them. “Trailer park just west of the city.” She gave him the address.

  “Do you always give your address to strangers?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “But Cottonmouth says you’re a hundred percent. I been knowin’ that ol’ boy for years. I trust him. ’Sides, I got a .38 stuck down in my boot and a twenty-gauge shotgun by the door of my trailer house. You know what I mean?”

  Barry knew. He debated for a moment whether or not to level with her. He decided to wait awhile. “You got a phone?”