Boston Noir

“Where’s the empty trailer?” Larry asked. “They were supposed to leave it by last night at the latest. What’s the story?”

“How would I know?” Michael answered.

“Should we just leave this trailer here?” TJ said. “Should we unload it?”

“I don’t know,” Michael snapped. He walked back to the trailer doors, took out a jackknife, and sawed at the seal until it broke. He opened the doors carefully in case the load had shifted. There was always a chance something could fall out and land on your head. But not today; the trailer looked almost empty, other than some cartons he could see in the nose. “Aw, shit.” Michael climbed in the trailer and walked up to the nose. When he returned, he went to the back end of the trailer and looked up at the number stenciled in black at the top inside corner. “Forty-five seventy?” he said.

He jumped down, grabbed the trailer door, pushed it closed, and stared at the four-digit number affixed to the door: 5432. He pulled at the corner of the number on the outside of the trailer door, peeled the decal off, and revealed a different number underneath: 4570.

“He put phony numbers on.”

“Who?” TJ asked. “How?”

“How’s easy. There’re cartons full of number decals in the repair shop.” Michael looked at his watch. “Let’s go. Quick.” He gestured to Larry. “Give me the van keys.”

Michael drove the van, Larry rode shotgun, and TJ sat on the floor between the seats.

“What was up in the front?” Larry asked.

“Eight pallets of Cocoa Puffs.”

Michael pulled the van into one of the spaces in the drivers’ parking lot at Triple-T Trucking.

“You gotta say something, man,” Larry mumbled. “What are we doing here?”

Michael looked at his watch. “Good. Five of 8.”

“So,” TJ said, “are we surrendering or what? You got a plan?”

Michael pointed toward the terminal building, a monstrosity the length of three football fields that had dock doors numbered 60 through 140 on the side facing them.

“See the ramp? And all those red Macks parked in rows? At 8, it’s going to look like a jail break. About fifty guys are going to come down that ramp, jump in those tractors, and start driving around, all over the yard. Some will hook up to trailers backed into the dock doors, the rest are headed to the trailer pad in the back to hook up out there. I’m going to go in the repair shop and get a dupe key from the cabinet. Jimmy, the Waltham driver, is on vacation this week and nobody will use his tractor. He eats his lunch in it and throws the bags on the floor. It smells like a restaurant dumpster.”

“Why? What are you doing?” Larry asked. “Why don’t we call Paul?”

“On what? You and him got shoe phones?”

“On a pay phone,” Larry said.

“Okay. Where is he? Where do I call?”

“I don’t get what we’re doing,” TJ said.

“These guys don’t screw around. If we want to keep breathing, we need those cigarettes.”

“What cigarettes? That’s my answer,” TJ said. “We don’t have none. Never did.”

“Which guys? Who we’re stealing from? Or selling to?” Larry asked.

“Both, probably,” Michael speculated.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” TJ said. “My grandmother was right. First time I got pinched, she said, ‘Thomas, be careful. Life’s going to be tricky for you because you’re a complete fuckin’ idiot.’ I said, ‘Me? No way.’ She had me pegged.”

“Why do you think the load is here?” Larry asked.

“What’s a better place to hide a forty-five-foot Triple-T trailer?” Michael said. “They’re on 4570. Not the real one, but one here with that number on it. Look, you want to, go home, I’ll keep you guys out of it.”

“Screw you,” Larry said. “We stick together.”

Larry looked at TJ, who closed his eyes and nodded. “It’s what we do.”

The receiving department for Pat’s Vending was around the back on a side street. Although cars were parked on both sides of the road, there were No Parking signs posted near the receiving doors so Michael had plenty of room to draw the trailer up along the curb. He pulled out the plunger on the dash and the engine shuddered and died. He turned the key off and jumped out.

The dock doors on the building were pulled down and a sign read, No Deliveries After 11 a.m.

At the top of the cement steps there was an employee entrance door. Michael pressed a black button inside a brass ring and a shrill bell sounded. He backed down a couple of steps just before the door flew open. There stood a tall, young man. Michael had delivered here many times, and this receiver, Victor, always acted as if he’d never seen him before. Victor sported his usual Sha Na Na get-up: starched white T-shirt, new jeans, and an elaborate hairdo.

“What?”

“I’ve got a delivery.”

“Can you read?” Victor jerked a thumb in the direction of the roll-up door and the No Deliveries sign.

“I sure can. Let me help you out.” Michael squinted at the sign and moved his lips. “It says, No Smoking. Okay now, Bowzer, you do me a favor. Go tell Junior I have his delivery.”