by Steve Brewer
By the time he made it to the worn swivel chair behind his cluttered desk, Jackie had two steaming cups of coffee poured. He thanked her as she handed him one, then held it in both hands to warm them, breathing the steam. He took a sip and found the coffee scalding and bitter. She knew he took two sugars in his coffee, but she thought it was making him fat, so she regularly "forgot" to add any. He swallowed and managed a smile.
Jackie sat in a chair across from him, her Doc Martens boots propped on the front edge of his desk.
"You're here early," he said.
"I boosted a rig from the Albuquerque Truck Terminal last night," she said. "Five-year-old custom Freightliner sleeper in excellent condition. It's parked out back."
"What's the load?"
Frowning, Jackie said, "I don't like that part. Couldn't sleep all night, thinking about it. According to the manifest, the trailer originated in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. It's full of cigarettes."
Howard's heart fluttered at the news.
"But that's great," he said. "They're worth a fortune. I know a guy at one of the Indian pueblos who'll take 'em for fifteen bucks a carton, no questions asked—"
"Don't tell me," she said. "I don't want to know. Just move the truck and the cargo and get me my cut as quick as you can."
"You having money troubles again?"
"Mom's nursing care is killing me," she said. "I'm overdue on their payment for the month."
"Man, they're bleeding you dry." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Need an advance?"
"Just move the merchandise and get me my money. I want it finished, so I don't have to think about all the people those cigarettes will kill."
"Come on, Jackie. The cigarettes were bound for the market anyway."
She shrugged and looked away.
He said nothing more, but he knew what she was thinking: Nineteen months earlier, a lifetime of cigarette smoking killed Jackie's father, a jovial long-haul driver named Chuck Nolan. It had been an ugly, expensive death, and Jackie was still paying off stray medical bills.
Worse, Chuck's death had left her alone to care for her mother, Marge, who had some kind of early-onset dementia. Howard had met Marge a few times and she seemed pleasant enough, if sort of addled. Caring for the woman ate up all of Jackie's money and free time. She'd moved into Marge's house with her, and paid to have a nurse there whenever she was away.
Howard had urged her to put the poor lady in a nursing home, but Jackie refused. Nursing homes were for old people, she'd said, and Marge was barely sixty. The longer she could stay in familiar surroundings, Jackie felt, the longer Marge might hold onto what little grasp on reality she had left.
Sad to say, but the situation worked to Howard's advantage. The more Jackie needed money, the more she was willing to take risks. He had a big one to propose to her this morning. He wished she were in a better mood.
They sipped coffee in silence for a minute, then Howard fished a slip of paper out of the pocket of his white shirt and handed it to her.
"What's this?"
"Another boost. From the same place you hit last night."
"That's no good. As soon as the cops hear about those cigarettes, the feds will swarm that truck stop."
"The feds?"
"Haven't you heard of the ATF? Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"No worries," Howard said. "This new truck is supposed to be there by this evening. You'll be in and out before any feds notice."
"Get out of here."
"It's a one-night-only proposition. You don't want to take the job, I can call somebody else."
"Who? Haley? He's an idiot. He makes noise. He'd lead the cops right back here, and we'd be in the shit."
"You want it done quietly," he said, "then you should do it yourself. It's a simple boost. An older white Peterbilt pulling a plain gray trailer. The license plate number is written on that paper. The truck's not registered with any company and has no radio tracking. But it's due in Albuquerque tonight."
"What's the cargo? Drugs?"
"I wouldn't do that to you."
"Must be something illegal if it's off everybody's radar."
"I'm told that it's not," Howard said.
"Who told you that?"
"The client."
"And you know this client?"
"It's Santiago."
"The one in Mexico? The one you've never met?"
Howard shrugged. "We do everything by phone, so what? He's never failed to come through with payment. And I've sent a lot of trucks his way over the years."
"You ever think there's a reason he won't come into this country to do business? Like he's mixed up with the drug cartels?"
"I don't worry about it. This is the 21st century, Jackie. There's no reason to meet face to face. People sit on beaches and run million-dollar companies from their laptops."
"Yet here we are," she said, getting to her feet, "in an industrial zone in Albuquerque, with a lovely view of a wrecking yard. Where's our beach, Howard? When do we get our just rewards?"
"You want the job or not?"
She stared down at him, her fists on her hips.
He leaned toward her, his voice low and conspiratorial, though there was no one else around. "I'll pay twice your usual fee. Twenty percent of the take."
"Twice as much," she said. "For a mystery truck. And you don't know what it's carrying."
"Santiago promised me it isn't drugs or people."
"People?"
"So I have his word that it's not the worst things," Howard said. "Beyond that, who gives a shit?"
"Easy for you to say. I'll be the one driving the rig."
"Not very far." He smiled at her. "Come on, Jackie. You said you needed the money."
She sighed and looked away for a second, staring out the window. Then she stuffed the slip of paper into her pocket.
Chapter 4
Jackie Nolan took off early that afternoon, driving her eight-year-old Toyota across town to the stucco house she shared with her mother. Jackie still couldn't think of the house as "home." When she was growing up, the family had lived in a red-brick bungalow on a shady street not far from the University of New Mexico. Marge and Chuck moved to this place, their "dream home," after Jackie was out on her own.
The three-bedroom house was a twenty-minute drive from work, way up in the Northeast Heights in a subdivision with curving streets. During the day, the neighborhood was mostly empty, everyone at work, busily earning enough money to pay for their big beige houses. At night, the residents stayed indoors or in their walled back yards, the only trace of them the occasional whiff of cookout smoke.
In the past few years, because of a seemingly endless drought, most of the lawns had been converted to gray gravel, making the neighborhood even more bleak and unfriendly. All the charm of a penitentiary, Jackie often thought, but without the noisy cellmates.
Inside, the décor reflected Marge's lifetime sensibilities: Delicate antique tables and graceful Queen Anne armchairs and framed landscapes on all the walls. Too old-fashioned for Jackie's tastes, too much like a museum, but she kept the pictures and vases and ceramic figurines in their traditional places, hoping the familiarity would help her mother stay tethered.
As Jackie closed the front door, Rose Moore came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a white dishtowel. Rose was Jackie's favorite nurse, the only one who seemed to have any sort of connection with Marge. Funny, because Marge always had been something of a bigot. Now she spent much of her time with a plump African-American nurse who wore purple scrubs to work. Jackie was regularly mortified when her mother referred to Rose as "that nice colored lady." Rose laughed it off every time, but it was the stuff of nightmares for Jackie.
"How is she?"
Rose smiled, but there was sadness in her big brown eyes.
"She ate her lunch, but she's been sitting in the den ever since, staring out the window. I talked to her, but she acts like she can't hear me."
"Maybe she can't. I w
onder sometimes."
Rose shrugged. "Hard to know. Go see about her. I'll gather my stuff."
"Thanks, Rose. Hey, any chance you could sit with her later tonight?"
"Sure. The Lobos are playing on TV tonight, so my husband will be watching basketball. Might as well pick up some overtime."
"That would be great. I've got to do something for work, and it'll probably take two or three hours."
"You'll pay cash?"
That brought Jackie up short. "Of course. Why do you ask?"
Rose looked at the floor. "Sorry to bring it up, but my boss told me I had to mention it. You're late on your monthly payment to the nursing service."
"I know," Jackie said. "I talked to my boss today and the money's on the way. I'll catch it up in a day or two."
Rose smiled. She had a warm, bright smile that always set Jackie at ease. "I figured it was something like that."
"I've got cash for tonight. Right here."
She handed over the hundred bucks the driver of the cigarette truck had paid when she posed as a hooker.
"You don't have to pay in advance, Jackie. I'm sorry I brought it up—"
"Take the cash. So you don't have to go to the bank and cash a check."
"Right," Rose said, clearly relieved at having a polite way out. "That would save me a trip to the bank. Okay, I'll make an early supper for Lester and come back. Will six o'clock be soon enough?"
"That would be perfect. See you then."
Rose went to the kitchen to gather her things, and Jackie went to the sunny den, which looked out at the back yard, with its flagstone patio and its perimeter of evergreen shrubs. A leafless mulberry tree in the middle of the yellow lawn had three bird feeders hanging from its branches. Even in January, birds flitted around the feeders, chirping and bickering.
Marge sat facing the tall windows, but Jackie was never sure whether she was watching the birds or just staring blindly. Her mom slipped in and out of lucidity without warning, and it took her longer to come back each time. Jackie often lay awake at night, wondering what she'd do when that last flicker of sanity died. How would she handle her mother's care then?
Marge, looking skinny and frail in her wingback chair, turned her head to see who'd come into the room. Her face split into a smile at the sight of her daughter.
"Hello, Jackie."
Every time Marge called her by name, Jackie thrilled at being recognized, but she also wondered whether it would be the last time. Hers was the only name Marge could recall these days.
"Hi, Mom. How are you feeling today?"
"Fine." Marge turned back to the window. She seemed to be watching the sparrows that hopped around on the patio.
"Those birds sure are busy," Jackie said, but got no response.
The nurse called good-bye as she went out the front door and Jackie answered, but Marge didn't seem to hear. She sat very straight in her chair, still the perfect picture of posture that she'd tried to teach Jackie when she was a girl.
Marge's left hand clutched the ruffled hem of her loose housedress. That hand tended to blindly grasp whatever was nearby, usually the hem of her dress or blouse. Grasping and releasing, over and over. Jackie tried to outfit her with clothes that had ruffles or fringe or velvet around the edges. The physical stimulation in that busy, crabbed hand had to be good for her, right?
Once, in a moment of rare clarity, Marge had laughed at her own veined hand as it clutched at the fringe edging her blouse. She'd looked right at Jackie, the old twinkle in her blue eyes, and said, "This must be my lunatic fringe."
They'd laughed together for a full minute before Marge's mirth died and she'd gone back to staring. That, Jackie thought now, might've been the best minute since I moved in here fourteen months ago. And it might be the best one we'll ever get.
Jackie went into the guest room to change into her slippers. She would put the Doc Martens back on before she went to the truck stop, but she could pad around the house in comfort for a couple of hours, doing chores and looking after her mother.
As she came back into the den, she was surprised to find Marge standing by the windows, her hand against the glass.
"Going somewhere, Mom?"
"The window is cold."
"Yes, it's cold outside. It's the middle of January."
"Those little birds must be freezing."
"They're okay. They've got feathers to keep them warm."
Marge shook her head slightly, frowning. Then she lost focus, staring blankly out at the yard.
"Feathers," she said, her mouth twisted, as if the word tasted bad.
Jackie waited for a minute, but there was nothing more. Finally, she grasped her mother's arm and gently steered her back to her chair.
Marge sat and arranged her dress around her knees, her left hand busily working at the hem, clutching and letting go, then clutching again, as if that was all that was holding her in the world, her last connection.
"Hold on tight, Mom," Jackie whispered in her ear. "For as long as you can."
Marge's worried expression didn't change as she stared out at the sunny yard.
"I'll be right here beside you," Jackie said, patting her mother's shoulder. "Always."
Chapter 5
Nate McCoy made the most of his newfound notoriety. He loitered around the Terminal Café all day, telling the story of the hijacking to anyone who'd listen. Sympathetic truckers bought him breakfast and lunch, and a flirty waitress brought him a slice of hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream, on the house. Nate might've lost his livelihood and something of his dignity, getting outwitted by a lone female hijacker, but he was staying well-fed.
His eyes felt better, too, though the men's room mirror showed they still were puffy and bloodshot. Man, he'd heard a lot about pepper spray over the years, but none of the horror stories had come close to the actual fact. Eyeballs roasting on an open fire, that's what it felt like at the time.
He still had blurry moments, but he'd washed out his eyes two dozen times and his vision was getting back to normal. He'd be ready to hit the road again in a day or two, if he could pick up a truck somewhere. It would likely be weeks, maybe months, before the theft investigation and various insurance claims were sorted out. Nate couldn't stand to go that long without a ride. He had to keep the money flowing back home to Flora Mae.
He examined himself in the mirror. Other than his red eyes, he looked pretty good. He could use a shave, but his clothes were still clean enough to get by, and they didn't reek too badly of pepper spray. The rest of his wardrobe had been in the truck, so he'd have to spring for some new clothes in the next day or two. More money down the drain. Already, he was paying for a room in a cheap motel up the street, and people wouldn't keep treating him to meals forever. He needed to get those jerkwad insurance adjustors to—
The men's room door banged open and a beefy young driver named Jorge came hurrying inside, unzipping his baggy jeans as he made a beeline for the urinals.
"Hey, there you are," Jorge said as he passed. "There's a guy in the coffee shop looking for you."
"A guy?"
"Some kind of a federal agent."
Nate's stomach flipped, though he knew he'd done nothing wrong. He was the victim of this crime. Still, the words "federal agent" were enough to spook a man.
"What kind of agent?"
"I dunno," Jorge said over his shoulder from the urinal. "Long as he's not Immigration, he don't worry me."
"Come on, man," Nate said. "You're an American citizen."
"Sure, but take away the papers in my wallet and what am I? Just another dirty Mexican to be thrown to the ground and deported. That's the way those guys think."
"Jesus Christ."
"They would deport him, too."
Jorge laughed, but Nate was too busy pulling himself together. He adjusted his mesh-back cap, marched out the door and went around the corner to the café to face this federal agent.
As opposed to the brightly lit exterior of the truck sto
p, which was done in patriotic red, white and blue, the Terminal Café was decorated in muted earth tones, with red-brick floors and maroon upholstery everywhere. Still looked like a Denny's, but Nate was starting to feel at home here.
The federal agent was sitting in the booth where Nate had been holding court, in the section clearly labeled "Professional Drivers Only." He was another stocky Hispanic guy, around thirty, not much older than Jorge. Ever since he passed fifty a few years earlier, Nate felt like men younger than him were running the world.
The agent saw Nate coming and smiled. He had square white teeth like a horse, and eyes as black and impenetrable as onyx. He wore thick-soled loafers and black slacks and a navy-blue windbreaker with a gold badge embroidered on the breast. His coarse black hair was cut close to his head, and he looked trim and fit and healthy. Everything Nate was not.
Nate sucked in his belly and hitched up his jeans as he reached the booth.
"I'm told you're looking for me."
"Nate McCoy?"
"That's right."
"My name's Romeo Sandoval. Hope you don't mind that I waited here in your booth. I thought we could talk over coffee."
"Man, I've already talked to the local cops and the county mounties and the state police."
"Good." The agent showed his big teeth. "You've got the story polished by now. This shouldn't take long at all."
Nate slid into the booth opposite the young man. Now that he was closer, he could read the words stitched around the badge embroidered on Sandoval's jacket. "Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives."
"Ah," Nate said. "This is about the cigarettes."
"That's right."
"She hijacked my whole rig! Don't my truck count for more than those cigarettes?"
The agent leaned back in his seat. "'She?'"
"That's right, dammit. I was hijacked by a woman. She used pepper spray on me. Look at my eyes!"
"I thought you'd been weeping over your loss."
That pulled Nate up short.
"That supposed to be a joke? 'Cause I gotta tell you, I fail to see the humor in getting hijacked. I coulda been killed!"
