pale green, the color of money. She gave me a rumpled envelope. "It's only four grand," she said. "We're short a G for now."
"Rita, are you kidding? Why would you do this to me?"
She put up her hands. "We did the best we could! You know we'll get you the rest as soon as we can."
Had I ever felt so angry? I noticed her boys in their pajamas peeking around the corner from the staircase. I shook my head. What could I do? I had to get moving. Even if Rita stiffed us what she owed, I'd still made $1,500 on the pound she'd taken. I hurried out to the car, popped the hatch, tossed in the duffel, got back on the road.
Five hours later I was in a Motel 6 in Bakersfield; my heart hadn't settled down at all. In a dark area of the parking lot I peeled the bar code stickers off the car with my fingernail, stuck them far under the dashboard for safekeeping. When I went to the room, I spread the packages out on the bed like loaves of bread. So much weed! Mason would be happy, Deveny would be happy. I parted the drapes to look at the lot. What if anyone knew?
The next night I was in Tucumcari, New Mexico. A thousand miles in a dayâI'd broken my rule and driven until midnight; I wanted the trip to be done. The night after that, at Mason's, I was shaken, burnt out. Of course I hadn't eaten. Of course I hadn't slept. Wherever I stopped, I hadn't been able to say anything more to Kate than "Everything's okay, everything's okay. Just fucking let me drive, all right?"
When I dumped out the weed on their living room floor, Mason's and Emma's mouths dropped open. Mason owed me $5,000. Of course he didn't have it. Three thousand dollars would have to do for now, everything he did have. "You're not upset, are you, James?" Mason asked. Goddamn stoners! What could I do but sigh it away? He had a six-pack of cold Lone Stars waiting for me in the fridge; I poured bottle after bottle into my face. Out on the porch as we smoked cigarettes, Mason said, "I want to do it, too, man."
I shook my head, told him, "Believe me, you don't."
"That bad?"
"Oh yeah."
"So you aren't going to want to do it again?"
"Hell fucking no, Mason!"
The car was looking ragged. In Houston, in the morning, I pulled into a self-service car wash and scrubbed off all the accumulated dust and bugs. In the evening, I crossed into the Florida panhandle, stopped at De Funiak Springs. Tallahassee was only an hour away, but driving through Louisiana had been terrifying. I knew too much about the state's draconian laws, the insane sentences that could put me away for as long as thirty years. And then there had been those minutes in Sulphur, the most terrible of the trip.
I had seen plenty of cops along the way: a couple CHPs in the Mojave, a half-dozen troopers in forested Arizona, three black-and-tans through New Mexico's Navajo territory, a dozen on patrol in Texas. They were mostly hidden in speed traps, seen only at the last heart-stopping instant, but a few zoomed up on me from out of nowhere, then hurried by to bust someone else. But nothing was like Sulphur. I knew going in that the town's interdiction point was one of the toughest in the country; it lived up to its reputation. There was a trooper hidden after the crest of every rise, troopers parked in the median in SUVs. Some of the SUVs had
K-9
on them, and they all bristled with antennas. I knew they were profiling each car as it passed, calling in suspects to be pulled over down the road.
And people really were pulled over, blacks, Hispanics, beat-up cars, new. Every single vehicle had out-of-state plates: New York, Georgia, Oregon, New Jersey. And they were popping trunks. I held the steering wheel, maintained my even breathing, talked to JoJo Bear the whole way.
And then a cruiser came up on me. He rode me a mile or two, came so close that I could see him in the rearview. He was square-jawed, clean-shaven, in his crisp uniform and wide-brimmed hat. Behind him was the cage he wanted to put me in. I left the car
"Rita, are you kidding? Why would you do this to me?"
She put up her hands. "We did the best we could! You know we'll get you the rest as soon as we can."
Had I ever felt so angry? I noticed her boys in their pajamas peeking around the corner from the staircase. I shook my head. What could I do? I had to get moving. Even if Rita stiffed us what she owed, I'd still made $1,500 on the pound she'd taken. I hurried out to the car, popped the hatch, tossed in the duffel, got back on the road.
Five hours later I was in a Motel 6 in Bakersfield; my heart hadn't settled down at all. In a dark area of the parking lot I peeled the bar code stickers off the car with my fingernail, stuck them far under the dashboard for safekeeping. When I went to the room, I spread the packages out on the bed like loaves of bread. So much weed! Mason would be happy, Deveny would be happy. I parted the drapes to look at the lot. What if anyone knew?
The next night I was in Tucumcari, New Mexico. A thousand miles in a dayâI'd broken my rule and driven until midnight; I wanted the trip to be done. The night after that, at Mason's, I was shaken, burnt out. Of course I hadn't eaten. Of course I hadn't slept. Wherever I stopped, I hadn't been able to say anything more to Kate than "Everything's okay, everything's okay. Just fucking let me drive, all right?"
When I dumped out the weed on their living room floor, Mason's and Emma's mouths dropped open. Mason owed me $5,000. Of course he didn't have it. Three thousand dollars would have to do for now, everything he did have. "You're not upset, are you, James?" Mason asked. Goddamn stoners! What could I do but sigh it away? He had a six-pack of cold Lone Stars waiting for me in the fridge; I poured bottle after bottle into my face. Out on the porch as we smoked cigarettes, Mason said, "I want to do it, too, man."
I shook my head, told him, "Believe me, you don't."
"That bad?"
"Oh yeah."
"So you aren't going to want to do it again?"
"Hell fucking no, Mason!"
The car was looking ragged. In Houston, in the morning, I pulled into a self-service car wash and scrubbed off all the accumulated dust and bugs. In the evening, I crossed into the Florida panhandle, stopped at De Funiak Springs. Tallahassee was only an hour away, but driving through Louisiana had been terrifying. I knew too much about the state's draconian laws, the insane sentences that could put me away for as long as thirty years. And then there had been those minutes in Sulphur, the most terrible of the trip.
I had seen plenty of cops along the way: a couple CHPs in the Mojave, a half-dozen troopers in forested Arizona, three black-and-tans through New Mexico's Navajo territory, a dozen on patrol in Texas. They were mostly hidden in speed traps, seen only at the last heart-stopping instant, but a few zoomed up on me from out of nowhere, then hurried by to bust someone else. But nothing was like Sulphur. I knew going in that the town's interdiction point was one of the toughest in the country; it lived up to its reputation. There was a trooper hidden after the crest of every rise, troopers parked in the median in SUVs. Some of the SUVs had
K-9
on them, and they all bristled with antennas. I knew they were profiling each car as it passed, calling in suspects to be pulled over down the road.
And people really were pulled over, blacks, Hispanics, beat-up cars, new. Every single vehicle had out-of-state plates: New York, Georgia, Oregon, New Jersey. And they were popping trunks. I held the steering wheel, maintained my even breathing, talked to JoJo Bear the whole way.
And then a cruiser came up on me. He rode me a mile or two, came so close that I could see him in the rearview. He was square-jawed, clean-shaven, in his crisp uniform and wide-brimmed hat. Behind him was the cage he wanted to put me in. I left the car
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