Precious Cargo

Chapter 1.

The rain drops bounced next to the homeless man curled underneath a sleeping bag of filth. Bryan stepped over the wine-o and headed down a back alley towards the iron door, it smelled of coffee, piss and an ocean breeze. One knock pause two fast knocks. Bryan recalled the familiar pattern for a nanosecond before being violently yanked through the open door.

“Where the fuck were you?” The voice demanded.

And thus the questioning began over his loyalty to the organization until Bryan lost track of time. He had given them three names almost immediately and the goons seemed satisfied, but tortured him regardless upholding the mafia hitman’s creed. They bruised his body amongst the sacks of coffee beans careful not to damage his face. Finally they brought him a blanket and hot coffee, everything you could want in life without a scoop of ice cream.

When Juel Norman Jr. came inside the room the air changed to the humidity of hell itself and instructions came at Bryan with reverent ferocity. At one time Juel Jr. was like a father to Bryan but now he spoke with hostility and panic.

“This is a big one Bry-guy. Forget the job we discussed before, this is a time sensitive manner. You got two days and don’t you fucking dare disappoint me again.”

Juel Norman Jr. (pronounced jewel) wasn’t your typical mob boss. He started by eating shit and learning to like the way it tasted, slowly working his way up to positions of power. Eventually he branched his own faction and traded the brass knuckles for an Italian suit. The construction company and strip clubs he used to launder money funded his campaign to city hall. Okay, he actually is your typical prototype mob boss/corrupt politician, exhibit A, your honor.

Bryan replied with a question. “What day is it?”

Juel Jr. whiffed a look at his Rolex. “It’s Tuesday the third.” He pronounced third like ‘toid’.

“Time?” Bryan asked.

Juel becoming agitated. “Tree fifteen.”

“Okay… it’s actually more like two and a half days. Sixty hours.” Bryan offered.

With that Juel Norman Jr. had two of his goons manually pull one of Bryan’s fingernails off with a pair of needle nose pliers.

“You’ll get this back when the car makes it to the spot circled in the atlas.” Juel grinned sarcastically holding up Bryan’s bloody fingernail next to his winningest campaign smile.

“Well then I’d better hit the road. Would kill for another cuppa Joe.” Bryan said through gritted teeth while holding his finger.

“Of course.” Juel Jr. replied. “Someone make Bryan here a fuckin’ Americano!”

Bryan hadn’t expected to like coffee the first time he tried it. The smell reminded him of his Mom’s old Pontiac in which she had spilled an extra large coffee on his lap while pulling an illegal U-turn. She never cleaned the mess and forever more the vehicle smelled of mildew and a robust breakfast blend by Maxwell house. They had lived in that Pontiac for the better part of eighteen months when Bryan was making the crucial teenage step of growing his own pubes.

And now Bryan was in another Pontiac. A new 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix heading from a coffee shop in Olympia towards a destiny that had every right to terrify him. Our story doesn’t really begin here as interesting as Bryan’s exploits and various ‘greasy’ jobs carried out for Juel Jr. may be. And although I assure you the three names mentioned by Bryan at the start of his interrogation will play a crucial role in this story, now is not the time to bog you down with irrelevant backstory until all the cards are on the table. Our story really begins a few hundred miles down life’s road where sleepiness is taking Bryan off course.

Bryan’s eyelids had resisted the longing weight of sleep as he pulled into a small gas station off the highway.

“How much further to Jersey?” He had jokingly asked the lone attendant.

“New… Jersey?”

“Yes.”

“Boy, you’re in Montana.”

“Twelve bucks on pump… uhh?” Bryan leaned towards the window searching for his car’s location.

“There’s only one pump.” The attendant said.

Bryan sat and poured over the weathered road atlas as the car idled spilling some of the coffee resting between his legs. “Fuck’s sake, I’m lost.” Bryan muttered as he pats his thighs dry with loose napkins. “Rand McNally, more like Bland McSchmally.”

Have you ever been so tired that things begin to get silly and you find the utmost childish remarks hilarious? This is exactly like that, Bryan begins to laugh nearing hysteria. He is becoming drunk on the insomnia that Juel Jr. and his gang water boarded him with.

As Bryan pulls away from the Quik-Stop, the pale orange lights descend into darkness and once again the sky teems with starry life. “Just a lil’ slice of heaven I might not have seen otherwise.” Bryan giggles.

The rumble of the wheels on the outside shoulder lane jolted Bryan out of dream. Was I just asleep? He wonders. He checked the clock and can’t remember what time he stopped at the Quik-Stop. Yellow lines of the highway sped underneath him and hypnotized Bryan like he was at a Pink Floyd laser show. He gradually eased back into his proper lane and smacked himself across the face a few times. He yelped in pain as his injured finger burst into agony on the second slap. He slapped himself again despite the pain and despite the blood soaking through the gauze and tape.

Bryan thinks he sees a coyote. The foreboding omen of the trickster. Then he thinks he sees a family of deer. He can’t trust his eyes as the weightiness engulfs them. He slaps himself, harder.

Bryan rolled down the window and was blasted in the face by Montana winter air. The smell of the evergreen wilderness and the Rocky Mountains that surrounded him for hundreds of miles in every direction. He turned off the headlights creating a black void as the whipping sound of wind crushed into his face freezing the tears that began to emerge from his eyes. Bryan yelled at the top his lungs and his yell turned into a scream and finally a whimper. He turned the lights back on relieved to see the straight stretch of highway and the reflective marks on the shoulder. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and sighed with satisfied relief like he was the cowboy from the Folgers commercial.

As the stars faded and the sky reddened with dawn Bryan passed a sign that said Welcome to Wyoming, Forever West. The picturesque landscape was slowly becoming visible as the sky brightened into early morning hues of orange and blue. Bryan drove on with an increasingly delirious state of sleepiness consuming him. How many days has it been since I’ve slept? Bryan wondered.

Bryan fumbled through the AM and FM radio stations searching for a hold on anything to kill the monotony. Nothing but static reached his ears until the he gets a hit. 95.3 FM was barely coming through, but a hit nonetheless.

Bruce Springsteen’s iconic riff opened into his seminal classic; Born in the USA. Bryan smiled and felt his tired spirits lift with the increasing tempo as 'the boss' did his thing.

The surrounding wild west landscape brightly came to life and Bryan felt like he was John Wayne as the Pontiac’s speedometer slowly crept upwards lost among Bryan’s jubilance as he began getting lost to dream.

“Born down in a dead man's town

The first kick I took was when I hit the ground

End up like a dog that's been beat too much

'Til you spend half your life just to cover it up, now.

Born in the USA…”

Bryan’s Dad brought him to Wyoming when he was a kid. Before his Dad got sick, or maybe he was already sick at this point, Bryan didn’t know. They had seen a lot on that trip and Bear lodge was the highlight.

“I was born in the USA”

When they were within distance Bryan marveled with awe at the vast rock formation protruding from the earth like a lonely hunter surveying the plane for buffalo. Or at least that’s how his Dad described it to him until he saw for himself.

“I was born in the USA”

They sat at the mountain’s base and had turkey sandwiches. The giant monolith towered overhead as Bryan’s Dad explained the significance of the name. He told Bryan how this site used to be sacred to his people; the Lakota. American aboriginals who once called this area home. They named this site the Bear lodge with reverence and honor.

“Born in the USA now,”

Bryan’s snapped out of his mind’s postcard when the flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirror abducted his attention. Bryan’s eyes frantically looked at the lights and then at his speedometer going over 95 miles an hour.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Bryan panicked out loud as he eased the brake forcing the speeding car into submission.

Bryan pulled the car to the side of the barren highway and turned on his hazard lights. His heart was beating with the intensity that only one-thousand milligrams of caffeine paired with adrenaline can create.

“How could I be so fucking stupid?!” Bryan asked himself as he began to take deep breaths and slow his heart rate preparing himself for the same song and dance he had carried out dozens of times before, lying to police.

He sat and waited while eyeing the police cruiser as it pulled up behind him on the shoulder of the road. There the car sat for some time as Bryan was able to slow his heart beat and get his thoughts in order.

He heard the police car door open and shut as the trooper sauntered towards his vehicle. Bryan refrained from looking in the mirror and when the temptation was finally too great, Bryan found that the enormous size of the cop kept his face from visibility.

"Down in the shadow of the penitentiary

Out by the gas fires of the refinery

I'm ten years burning down the road

Nowhere to run, ain't got nowhere to.."

The tapping of the officers knuckles on the glass startled Bryan because of the sudden loudness. He suddenly realized he had still been cranking Springsteen. Switching the radio off he rolled down the window.

“Sorry officer, love that song.”

“License and registration.” The officer’s voice twanged with such local sincerity he might as well have been chewing on a piece of straw.

“Sorry, it’s right here, officer.” One of the keys to dealing with law enforcement especially of the highway patrol variety was to inflate their ego a little bit and be submissive.

“You were going ninety-five in a sixty-five. A little fast for our liking out here.” The officer spoke absently as he eyed the license Bryan had handed him and then suspiciously gave the rest of the car a thorough once-over. “Where are we headed to in such a hurry?”

“Sorry officer, I’ve been a little lost in thought and to be honest a little sleepy.” Bryan chuckled feeling himself fluster slightly. “I am on my way to see the Bear Lodge national monument, eh.”

“Uh huh.” The officer replied as he squinted holding the license away from his nose and back again like it was a broken kaleidoscope. “Well I’ve not seen one like this before mister… Del..monico.” Sounding out the fabricated last name.

Suddenly the cop leaned in towards the window glancing at the passenger seat and back seats of the car, piled with camping gear. The sheer stature of the cop caught Bryan off guard as all remaining skylight visible through the window diminished with his imposing footprint. Bryan’s thoughts went quickly to the gun taped under the seat but he remained unmoving and still. Then the cop was walking around the car furthering his visual inspection. He stopped at the rear of the vehicle pausing to investigate the license plate. Bryan could hear the officer comment but wasn’t sure if it had been a question directed towards him or not.

“And you drove all this way from Brit-ish Col-um-bia.” Again sounding out the words like a foreigner in Japan says Kon-ich-e-wa.

“I asked you a question, son.” The officer’s voice raising above the growing desert morning wind.

“Oh, sorry! That’s right, drove down from BC, eh. Going to do some camping at the Bear Lodge park for a night or two and paint some watercolors.” Bryan was practically leaning out the window so the officer could hear him.

“Keep your hands on the wheel, please.” The officer firmly requested. Bryan did as he was told.

The officer must’ve been well over 6’5” and 300lbs and he carried it all with grace as he continued hovering around the other side of the car and across the front hood, peering at the bumper. Finally, he wound up back at the drivers window and bent down to stare at Bryan.

“This a new vehicle?”

“Yes, sir. Picked her up last week, I guess you could say this is her maiden voyage.”

“Okay well it will just be a minute, mister… what was your name again” The officer asked questioning him.

“Trevor Delmonico, sir.”

“Okay mister Del-mon-ico, it’ll just be a minute. You can turn your vehicle off.”

And with that the officer went back to his car and shut the door. Bryan kept his breathing under control using a box breathing strategy to keep his heart calm. In for 4 seconds, hold for 4 seconds. Out for 4 seconds, hold for 4 seconds, and so on. An extremely useful method for situations like these and for shooting a sniper rifle of course.

Time eased to a crawling pace as Bryan sat and waited, feeling every moment his grip loosening on the control of this situation. Bryan kept his hands on the steering wheel but he pictured the Glock taped to the underside of the drivers seat again. The image of it was burning a hole in his mind. The black gun metal held with the silver duct tape that Bryan himself had attached.

In the rearview Bryan could see some dust kicked up in the distance and eventually a highway patrol motorcycle pulled up behind the police cruiser.

“Shit, this isn’t good.” Bryan said aloud to himself feeling the entire contingency plan falling apart. He watched as the dust cloud kicked up by the bike settled down and the cycle cop set the kickstand. Time has a funny way of changing its pace sometimes, moments happen exceedingly fast while others dilly-dally. Bryan was feeling a mixture of both, time slowing down as the following events happened with intense speed.

The two officers converged near the back of the police cruiser and appeared to be having a heated conversation. The motor cycle cop never removed his black helmet which covered his face. All Bryan could really see was the state trooper from the cruiser frantically waving his hands like he was telling the cyclist a compelling story about fishing. And that trout was this big, no word of a lie! Then the trooper burst into a laughing fit while resting his hands on his knees. As he bent Bryan got a better look at the motorcycle cop only to realize he didn’t appear to be a cop at all. He wore all black professional cycle racing leathers, gloves and all. Possibly undercover? Bryan wondered. He just stood there unmoving as the trooper got his guffaws under control. Then the trooper pointed up the highway to the East and without warning walked back to his cruiser and stepped inside. The motorcyclist slowly turned and walked back to his bike and Bryan could hear the engine turn over. It screamed with the yell of a well oiled machine and was revved by the biker’s throttle.

It sounded like a crotch rocket or a racing bike Bryan thought. Bryan looked at most vehicles, motorcycles included with indifference. Point A to point B. His Dad always said. If Bryan did know motorcycles, he would know it was a Ducati 916 and as it zoomed past Bryan up the highway Bryan could swear he saw its driver give him a small two fingered salute. Subtle, but there, nonetheless.

“Here you are, Mr. Delmonico.” The trooper cheerfully said as he handed Bryan his license back through the window. It startled Bryan, the cheeriness that is. Five minutes ago he had been Officer McHardass, but now Bryan felt his entire tone shift.

“So since, you’ve got a Canadian license and registration there’s nothing I can really do to ensure you paying this here speeding ticket. So I’m gonna have to issue you a bond with a court date and turn this whole unfortunate situation into a bigger deal than it is unless you’re able to pay the bond.”

Bryan sat dumbfounded and still not sure what any of this meant. He had dealt with cops, but he had never been arrested and certainly never issued a court date.

“So I’ve got to come back here for court?” Bryan asked losing his faux Canadian accent.

“That’s right, unless you can pay the bond. The bond is one hundred dollars. You got the hundo?”

“Yes, I’ve got the hundo.” Bryan reached into the wallet where his dwindling cash reserves remained.

“Well that’s swell, saves us both a lot of time!” The trooper said as he pocketed the cash. “You can be on your way Mr. Delman. Oh! That reminds me, you said you were going to Bear Lodge? I had no idea what the hell you were talking about until I says to myself, he’s talking about Devils tower!”

“Oh?” Bryan asked.

“Oh is right!” The cop replied. He suddenly started chanting. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Humm!” Marching in place to the rhythm of a stereotypical native American dance. He screamed and patted his palm over his mouth like the war cry of a native chief in a western classic before keeling over again with laughter. “Bear Lodge is the Indian name for it. You got savages up there in Canada!?”

“Yeah, we have Indians up there. Devils tower, eh? Good to know.”

As Bryan pulled away back onto the highway he had never been so thankful he looked more like his mother than his indigenous father.

Bryan felt rejuvenated after this experience, the shot of adrenaline and sheer luck had awakened him leaving his mind racing with unanswered questions. Who was the biker? What did he say to the cop? Where was he going to scrounge up gas money? The questions remained lingering and answerless as Bryan continued East towards Devils tower and his destiny.

As the highway markers passed him by at the speed of 65 miles per hour Bryan was stricken with how lucky he had been the highway patrolman hadn’t asked to see inside the trunk. Bryan had been given adamant instructions not to open the trunk until he reached his destination and now Bryan’s most pressing question fogged up the mirrors of his mind’s eye. What could be in there? Or better yet, who?