Chapter 6 #2
The vehicle under me rocks as they walk up the ramp and stack everything.
There’s got to be a better way to do this.
We’re here too long doing the transfer. We never had a problem getting our own liquor for Mariette’s bar, but once Trace opened his own pub in St. Carmen, the city did everything to stall us.
First with the liquor license, then with getting a distributor.
Once we found someone who would supply us, they overcharged.
So we brought in our own. Smuggled onto ships from other ships to cruise ships to ports in Miami and New Orleans.
Then it was stowed away onto trucks, and since there are only limited ways to get in and out of St. Carmen, Army had the great idea to put it on air boats and float it across the swamps to Sanoa Bay.
We only intended to do it until St. Carmen got off our ass, but we still couldn’t beat the prices.
It took no time for other establishments to get word and start buying under the table from us, and the city’s not going to fuck with their own business owners.
The only real time of risk for us personally is getting it from the swamps to the storehouse at the pub.
Sweat trickles down my back as the rain slows to sprinkles.
“How’s it looking?” Army asks.
I glance at my phone—on speaker—as Macon charges past the truck and back to the boats.
“On schedule,” I tell him. “You?”
“All clear.”
It’s been more useful than I anticipated, having a cop in the family. We have him parked just over the canal, across the tracks, where we’ll be passing into St. Carmen soon.
“Unusually quiet tonight, actually,” he adds.
I shift in my seat, trying not to dwell on how that sounds suspicious.
Our guys continue to load the trucks, Iron’s arms far exceeding the capacity of his old T-shirts as he carries a box on each shoulder.
“You need to talk to Macon,” I tell Army. “He shouldn’t be here.”
If shit goes down, the head of our family—and our leases, bank accounts, and deeds—needs to be safe.
“You know him.” I hear Army light a cigarette. “He’s not going to ask others to put themselves on the line when he won’t.”
“Well, if he gets arrested, I’m counting on you or Iron to take care of his wife, because I’m not doing it.”
He chuckles. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love those shower steamers she stocks in the bathrooms.” He sucks in a drag of smoke, and I hear him exhale. “And how she coached you on exactly what to say to every member of the school board in order to get that job.”
I avert my eyes as if he can see me. “She’s useful,” I mutter.
“I really think you’d rather go back to fucking Aracely than touch Krisjen.”
Jesus. That was years ago.
And Aracely doesn’t like me. I mean, she likes sex, and I’m good at that, but we never talked. We just grew up together, and whatever happens on nights when you’re drunk and horny and lacking options happened with us.
But still, I can’t resist. “I think there’s a limit on how many times I should be able to fuck your future wife.”
He breaks into a laugh. “Fuck you.”
Aracely is Iron’s age—two years older than me—but she never loved him, either.
She’s been in love with Army since we were teenagers, and he never said it, but it was implied—he didn’t think she was good enough for him.
He wants what he’s not supposed to have.
The women of St. Carmen were his weakness, and when she got fed up, she got distracted with Iron for a while and just wanted to forget in bed with me later on.
Can’t blame her. It was the one way to make sure he’d never want her now. I respect people who jump off cliffs.
The ramp is pushed back into the truck, and the door is pulled down and secured.
Macon punches my window twice. “Ready!” he shouts and moves on to the other truck.
In quick order, I take count of Trace climbing into his car, Macon and Iron jumping into the other box truck, my friends—Rip and Tyson—heading home, and Santos and Torres, two of Macon’s friends and muscle, jumping into a pickup to trail us.
I shift into drive. “We’re on our way,” I tell Army, and disconnect the call.
His job is to wait ahead for us and keep an eye out as we enter St. Carmen’s main street and let us know if we need to abort. Once we cross the tracks, he’ll drive ahead and make sure the coast is clear all the way to the storehouse.
I follow Trace, jacking up the AC as I pull down the bill of my cap.
In a moment, a conference call rolls in, and I click on it. Everyone turns down their radios as we connect.
“I don’t know why Rip and Tyson couldn’t have met us there,” I bitch. “I work days. I don’t need to be unloading boxes. I have to be up in six hours.”
“We all have to be up in six hours,” Macon points out.
But that’s not true. Trace’s bar doesn’t open till lunchtime, and Iron hasn’t settled back into any work yet, and where the fuck is Liv? I swear Macon lets her coast by without putting any effort in. He’s still guilty because he spanked her once when she was ten.
“It’s almost a comfort how you still gripe,” Iron jokes.
“What advice would a philosophy teacher give you about that?” Army asks me.
“That my faults are inevitable and also robust opportunities for growth and learning,” I reply.
A round of laughter comes through the phone, and I shift into a higher gear as Trace picks up the pace.
People assume I would emulate the greats since I teach them.
A pursuer of truth and reason like Socrates.
Disciplined like Plato. Logical like Aristotle.
Stoic like Marcus Aurelius. Keep perspective, expect the unexpected, and only concern myself with the things I can control.
But I’m a hedonist at heart. Do what makes me feel good and avoid pain.
After all, what are the lessons for? Will any of us change the world?
Really? Will we live forever? Will we be rewarded for all the suffering? Will we meet God?
Life is just a thread of breathless moments, and I do whatever’s easiest and fastest to get to the next one.
I tilt my head, cracking my neck and pushing away the piece of me that knows I’m full of shit, though. I’d never tell a student to live like that.
The truck bounces as I hit a pothole, water splashing outside. We had these roads paved four years ago, but it takes no fucking time for the climate and living damn near close to sea level to wear out the streets, houses, cars, and pretty much anything else.