Mule (20 page)

"Didn't I pay you for that?"

"Yeah, you did. But don't you think it also took our relationship to a higher level? I've been feeling like it did. Relax, my man. I just want my weight on time. Let me ask you this: What's really going on with you? The James I know wouldn't want to take a break. The James I know would want to make his money."

Next I called Mason, told him I had this bad feeling. For how much he owed me, couldn't he do the drive for me this once?

Mason said, "If you have a bad feeling, how the fuck am I supposed to feel?"

"I'll take your debt down fifteen Gs."

"Sorry, James."

"I'll forgive you a straight twenty thousand dollars."

"Brother, it isn't in the plan. My uncle in Korea is sick. I'm stressed out about that right now."

"What fucking uncle?"

"My mother's older brother. Well, her cousin. It's the same thing over there. I'm really, really sorry. Drive fast and swerve a lot, okay?"

I swam, watched TV, paced the house the rest of the day. The girls were out and I was alone. Why did I feel like this? Just like I felt before my very first run. Shouldn't I be over this shit by now?

By evening I still hadn't shaken it. After everyone went to bed, I smoked cigarettes on the patio, looked out at my darkened yard. What if I just didn't go? I knew I'd never hear from Eric Deveny again. And without him, I'd lose my only way to make any real money. Was I really ready to give it all up? Strangle my golden goose and come back to reality?

I wasn't. In the morning, I packaged up the cash, drove to the post office, began to overnight it out to Billy. But even doing that, I didn't feel good, decided to hold half the envelopes back. Friday morning, I strapped on the pantyhose, stuffed in the rest of the money, took a taxi to the airport, was nervous the whole way. The TSA ran me through the bomb sniffer; I figured this would finally be it. "Why are you traveling with so much cash hidden on you, sir?" "High-rolling in Reno. Didn't want my wife to know." "Please step aside with us. We have a few more questions for you."

In the end, the machine puffed its air and the agent waved me through. Apparently, $26,000 in your underwear couldn't blow up a plane. In Charlotte, my connecting flight was delayed because of rain in Phoenix. Rain in Phoenix? Really? Was there any other way I could go? I asked. Since I was now a valued Star Alliance Gold flier, they told me, they would do what they could to reroute me. They sent me on to Memphis. The leg from there was canceled. How about Chicago, sir? I tried that, too.

From Chicago, I called Billy. "I'm going to be late. Weather."

"All is not well. I got a big handoff to make downstate. What if I miss it? You think Darren'll give a fuck about the weather?"

They flew me across to SEA, down to PDX, finally to SMF. At the Days Inn, Billy tossed two duffel bags on the bed. He said as he walked out, "I should bill your ass by the fucking hour."

I hopped in the rental, got on the road, drove all night across the Mojave. I felt hunted the whole way. In Williams, Arizona, the motels were full with summer travelers, and I felt hunted. Up the road, the Red Lake Hostel was full of Grand Canyon hikers, and I felt hunted. I spent the afternoon trying to sleep in the car in a Denny's parking lot in Holbrook. Couldn't.

The next day, I reached stark and empty west Texas. The only other cars on the road were cops, and I was terrorized by fear. I thought I was on the 180 South, hours went by in a straight line to nowhere, then I didn't know where the hell I was. Of course I didn't have a map in the car. Of course I hadn't taken the rental agency's GPS. By nightfall I was almost out of gas. Where was a fucking gas station already? Was I really going to have to sit in the breakdown lane in the middle of nowhere with all this fucking weed in the car? The needle dipped below E, then it started bouncing. I panicked, pressed JoJo Bear's belly; nothing happened. I pressed his belly over and over. JoJo Bear was dead.

All this insane shit began to happen. In the dark I saw lights, red flashing lights. Not cop car lights or anything like that, all these red lights flashing way up in the sky. Hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them. I gripped the steering wheel, craned my face close to the windshield to see. An alien invasion? Or something even worse? A host of wrathful angels coming down to punish me? The next thing I knew, they were gone. What the fuck had that been?

I reached a place called San Angelo. There were no rooms at the Motel 6, no rooms at the Super 8. But at least I got some gas. Finally I found a room at this beat-up Bates motel; the East Indian behind the desk wanted $150. $150? What kind of room was it? A standard smoking king, sir. They were having a rodeo this weekend. If I wanted to try to find something else, it would be his pleasure to let me look.

I shook my head, gave him two C-notes; he gave me the key and change. I took the duffel bags out of the Mazda, shouldered into the room. At the light, roaches skittered across the walls. There were stains in the carpeting, like people had been stabbed to death in there. I lay in my driving clothes on the bed to calm down. What had those fucking lights been? Could it even have been me? Then I thought, How could I have let Mason kill those people? On the inside of the lampshade on the nightstand beside me, people had written,
Miguelito Sexy
and a phone number, and
8" Hung and Cut
and a phone number.

I stuffed the duffel bags in the closet, went back out to the Mazda, drove around town; I needed a drink right now like goddamn fucking hell. The convenience stores were already closed. I sucked it up, went in and bought a six-pack of Corona at a Mexican polka bar, where the prettied-up big girls were dancing for dollars. From the second I walked in, mustachioed ranch hands in their beautiful clothes and Stetson hats stared my gringo ass down.

"
Quieres limón?
" the lady bartender shouted at me over the brassy music.

"
Quiero partir,
" I told her.

"That's probably the wisest idea," she said, flashing her gold tooth at me.

San Angelo, Texas, in the middle of the night. JoJo Bear dead. Crazy red lights in the sky and a bad, bad feeling. I would bounce from this shithole at the butt crack of dawn. I'd get myself to Austin and force Mason to finish the drive.

But when morning came, JoJo Bear was still dead and I didn't get out of that bed. I turned on the TV; it was all in Spanish. Those duffel bags were in the room with me, the plates on the car, California. Nice fucking work on those plates this time, James. I couldn't do this anymore. How had I ever done it? How had I ever fucking done it?

Then it was afternoon, and I was still in that bed. The phone started ringing and ringing. Then there was a pounding on the door. It was the East Indian. Was I staying or was I going? he asked. I told him, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" he said, raised his eyebrow. "You are feeling all right?"

"I think so." I coughed and nodded.

Maybe I needed to see a doctor, he said. No, it was nothing like that, I said. Maybe I was driving too many hours from California? Yeah, maybe that was it. If I was going to stay another night, it would be $150. I gave him another bill and the change from before. He tried to look past me into the room as I closed the door on him.

Here are all the things I knew I was doing wrong from the motel guy's point of view: I showed up late at night in a car with California plates. Strike one. I hadn't bothered to peel the stickers from the car's windows, so he knew at a glance it was a rental. Strike two. I paid in cash. Strike three. I was acting weird. Strikes four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I fit the profile of a drug smuggler to a tee. If he was in cahoots with the cops for a percentage of the takedown, all he'd have to do was call. They could kick down the door anytime they wanted. If they did, everything in my life would come to an end in that filthy room.

I hopped on a TracFone to Mason. He didn't pick up. I called his regular cell. He didn't pick that up either. Who else could I call? My wife? Scare the fuck out of her? Eric Deveny? If he caught one whiff of the fear in my voice, who knew what his crazy Iraq-combat ass would do? Billy was in California, there was nothing he could do. Even Nick was three long days away. Couldn't I just get in the goddamn rental car and gut the fucker out? I could not. There was nothing left in me that could take another second of that kind of fear. This kind of fear in here? I could do this kind of fear. That kind of fear out there? No fucking way. Even my bones felt dead. I was going to lie in this bed until they kicked down the door. Then I was going to let them end it and haul me away.

How bad would prison be? Didn't I quietly chew it over all the time? Wonder if it would be peaceful, the stress over at last? Push around the mail cart. Get cozy in the prison library. Lots of time to read. Maybe even write again.

Or would it be something else? Something hellish? Would they try to punk me in there? Would I spend every moment fighting for my fucking life?

I had one last number to call: Emma.

Emma answered. She said right away in a whisper, "James? Is it happening? Did Mason get picked up?"

"Mason didn't get picked up. It's me, Emma. Something's wrong with me. I'm in a motel room in San Angelo."

"What are you doing way out there?"

"I don't know."

"Aren't you supposed to be coming here?"

"I can't get in the car."

"Why can't you get in the car?"

"I'm scared."

Emma was quiet for a minute. I could hear restaurant sounds in the background behind her. Then she said, "I'm leaving work right now. Don't go anywhere and don't do anything. I'll be there in three hours."

 

I lay in the bed like an invalid. It was warm, felt like a womb. If Emma didn't come and get me, I'd never leave this place. There were so many things I didn't allow myself to think about anymore. Instead I thought about our trip to Europe. In Milan, we'd gone into the cathedral, seen the high columns and the stained glass. Then we pushed the baby in her stroller all through the square. An old woman stopped and talked to us, told us that the city had been heavily damaged by Allied bombs during the war. Over time many of the buildings were rebuilt the way they'd been. As we looked at those old buildings, I asked Kate, Where had the money come from? Immense and ornate structures, it must have taken thousands of people to create them. Laborers, artisans, carvers, masons. All that stone. All that glass. Who paid for all of that? Verona was like that, Venice was even greater. What did it mean to have that kind of money? In the face of that, who could we ever pretend to be?

America was like that, too. Yeah, the country was hurting now, but there was still money everywhere. Working the business had certainly brought us our share. More than other people had. But where were we going with it? Where would it take us? What about all the lies we were telling? What about all the horrible things we did?

As I lay in that room, I understood you couldn't stop to think. If you wanted the money, you had to put your head down and plow ahead. The moment you stopped to think, you'd know you were wretched. Evil. More than cops and robbers and prison and getting away with it as long as you could, the real crime you were committing was against yourself. It had been decided that you shouldn't have money, that was your path, so you should find your happiness on that path. But you'd decided that was wrong, you deserved more. That you were a god upon the land, better than everyone else.

That was my problem: I thought too much. Prosaic things like how the work we did spread the weed through the country, how a bud grown in a hidden field in the Siskiyou Mountains could end up being smoked by a college kid in Tallahassee. But I thought of other things, too. Like whether my wife really loved me. If my wife really loved me, why would she ever let me take the risks I did? To run the chance I'd get caught, go to prison? For Gucci? For decaf soy lattes? Pedicures? A house she could show off to her friends? So what if we hadn't really known each other when we plunged into life together? We knew each other now. If she really loved me, shouldn't she have put her foot down, told me no from the start? The fact that she let me do it, did that mean she must actually hate me? And so maybe I hated her, too. For not making me stop. For letting me do the things I did. And what about our kids, our precious, precious kids? The one we had with us, the one soon to be born. How could either of us really love them if we risked leaving them parentless just so we could buy them shit? Fancy toys, fancy clothes, maybe even fancy schools later? So they could think they were better than other kids who had less money than they did? And what about myself? Didn't I hate myself, too? To risk my freedom? To think I was so worthless only money could make me better?

In that room in San Angelo, I knew suddenly and finally I was not the kind of guy to be doing this. For all my bluster about being on the road, I'd simply been scared from beginning to end. Frightened by what could happen out there. Frightened by the things the business could make me do. Frightened by how special it made me feel. Honestly, anyone could do it. You only had to have the invitation to try. Most people would have turned their backs on it. I hadn't.

Why was I doing this? And how was I supposed to get out of it now? What would I say to Darren Rudd? I knew he didn't care about me, just the money I made him. And what would I say to Eric Dead Bodies Deveny?

A knock on the door brought me back to that vile room, my reality in it. What the hell was I doing dicking around in here? James, wake the fuck up, asshole! I had sixteen pounds of weed with me.

When I opened the door, Emma was framed in it, a sturdy angel, a voluptuous goddess, a highway Joan of Arc who'd come charging across the battlefield to save me. I pulled her into the room, embraced her. I didn't really know her, but that didn't matter anymore.

"Not quite the five-star suite I imagined you staying in, James," Emma said as she looked around, tossed her car keys on the table. She gave me a Big Mac; I began to devour it. She pulled a Mickey's forty-ounce out of a brown paper bag; I twisted off the cap and chugged it like a prescription. "I think of you in some swank hotel, getting a massage, sitting in the Jacuzzi. Is this what it really is? Shitty rooms like this?"