Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado and into Salt Lake City. He thought of how these red and orange winking lights brought him such comfort and were such a jolly expression of good will, yet how awesome and terrible were the gigantic trucks themselves, and he was filled momentarily with warmth for the American people.

Then came the outskirts of New York, the Tappan Zee Bridge, and he forgot everything but his worries. He had no idea what he was carrying, but his imagination contained everything from kidnapped children to plastic explosives. Whoever was after him, he was sure, would stop at nothing to put a bullet through his head. He became afraid, and felt very foolish for being coerced into it in the first place. If it was so important, why didn’t Carroll himself drive? Why should he be taking any risks? What was this all about?He thought he might just pull the truck over to the side of the road and leave it . . . perhaps all criminals actually involved with danger were young and very foolish and didn’t know enough not to have anything to do with it. But all these thoughts went up the stack as soon as July saw the toll booths and the flashing lights, STOP AHEAD, PAY TOLL, ALL TRUCKS TO THE RIGHT. This is it, he thought, and touched the brakes. They locked the wheels tight and nearly put him through the windshield, the tires screaming hideously. He eased up on them and shifted down into a gear much too low and the motor and transmission sounded as if they’d given up. No one else was on the road, nothing for the people in the booths to look at but him. Be careful going through the city! He was a hundred yards from the booths and was already doing six or seven miles an hour.

The huge truck limped all the way up to the flashing red light and stopped.

July rolled down the window, reached into his pocket, pulled out one of the bills Franklin had put there and handed it to the attendant, his eyes half closed in expectation of the worst.

“Say, you better pull over,” said the man, taking the bill inside, “and take a nap. Looks like you were about asleep back there.”

July tried to breathe, but continued holding his breath.

“Jesus, this the smallest bill you got?” The attendant was back at his window, holding out a $100 bill.

July silently cursed Carroll.

“ Yes,” he said. “Sorry. It’s out of that secret little compartment in back of my wallet, you know?”

“OK. Say, what you carrying?”

“Pig iron: turnbuckles and transmission carcasses.”

“Just a second.” The attendant went three booths down with the $100 bill. July almost gave himself up for gone and was sitting over on the seat, ready to get out the opposite door if need be and run for all he was worth, when the attendant returned with the change and a stamped receipt.

“Really, buddy, I’d pull over if I were you.”

“Think I will,” said July, carelessly cramming the bills (most of them ones and fives) down into his pocket. “Thanks.” Other cars were coming now and he pulled away, heading for the New England Thruway.

For the next hundred miles, past weigh stations and highway-patrol stations, he thought, Why’d he want to know what I was carrying? What interest could he have? It was impossible for him to accept that it was just one of those unexplainable examples of someone, to no end and for no gain to himself, making a friendly gesture. No, more likely it was a government man hoping to catch him in a lie.

Into Boston and through to Chelsea.

“Say, sorry to bother you, but could you tell me where Bettle Street is?”

“Three blocks ahead. It’s a one-way.”

“Thanks.”

The number Franklin had given him was the address of a large, low-lying building that offered only two doors, one very large and obviously a truck entrance and one small, for people. There were no windows anywhere. He pulled into the drive, up to the door, feeling quite inebriated with having succeeded in his ordeal and expected to be greeted with excitement. The small door opened far enough for a face to be thrust through it, then closed. The big overhead door swung back in two pieces. A man’s arm came into the opening and waved him forward. July drove in, the headlights of the truck illuminating thousands of boxes, both wooden and cardboard, stacked to the ceiling. When he could see through the mirrors that he’d cleared the door, he stopped.

“Keep going,” said a voice.

He went on several feet, then several yards.

“Far enough,” came the voice again and he stopped, cut the motor and lights and sat in a penumbra of exhaustion.

The door was pushed open. “OK. Let’s go,” said a harsh voice.

He climbed down onto a concrete floor.

“Here you are.” A bill was handed him by a large man with a shrunken face, with skin like white-and-pink scales. “Now run along.”

Once he was outside, the door was closed behind him and he heard it lock. He noticed that the sun was just coming up and looked down at his hand as he walked along the street, having forgotten that he was carrying the money. Fifty dollars. A lousy fifty bucks! he thought. Guys do what I just did all the time for a lousy fifty bucks! Those two guys back in Philly were going to make this run together—like they’d probably done how many times before—for twenty-five bucks apiece. July felt cheapened. He managed to flag down a cab and told the driver to take him to the nearest hotel, where he rented a room, had a six-pack of beer brought up to him and fell asleep before he could finish more than four. It was nearly dark again when he woke up and began looking into transportation back to Philadelphia.

Arriving by train at two a.m., he was reminded of how he’d come there years ago, small and lonely,