I head back to my truck. One of the men, who speaks in nothing more than grunts, is already sitting in the passenger seat. He has a large tattoo on his face and answers to the name Slim. He’s anything but slim. His weathered jeans and wifebeater under what seems to be an old-school Members Only jacket look like they’re going to bust out at any second. The other man is much more refined. He has on a navy suit and carries a large metal briefcase. Since he never gives me his name, in my head I just refer to him as Suits. It isn’t until I see Suits that I start to think I might be getting into something illegal. I joke with him that he looks like he’s dressed for a massive drug deal. He laughs. I don’t know if that makes me feel any better.
The drive is only supposed to take an hour, round-trip. The address is off Richmond, near all the great nightclubs and high-end restaurants. Makes sense. I turn on some music on the way there, thinking it’ll help Slim open up. He just grunts, shakes his head in disapproval, and turns it off. I wonder what kind of food could be so important that it needs three grown men to deliver it.
We arrive at a gentlemen’s club about a quarter to five. Following Slim’s directions, I back the truck up into the alley next to the club’s back entrance. Slim gets out of the cab and I roll down my window to enjoy the cool air. This isn’t the kind of place I imagined we were headed. The building has no windows and only two entrances. Muffled music can be heard each time the back door swings open. I hear the back of my truck slide open and a struggle to move the cargo. I wonder if I can step out of the cab and smoke a Black while I wait on them to unload. I reach for the door handle. Slim suddenly appears by my door, reaches through the window, and grabs my arm. He twists it and grunts for me to stay put. He stares me down like he’ll hurt me if I leave. Then I realize he isn’t here for the package — he’s here for me.
I tell him that I don’t plan on running. That seems to put him at ease and he lets me go. Just then, Suits comes up to Slim and says they have a problem. One of the packages is stuck and they can’t get it moved. I offer to help and they both reply with an adamant no. Slim tells me he’ll handle it and urges me to stay in the cab.
Now, I’ve always been one for following the rules. But you get the itch to smoke, it has to be scratched. I slide out of the cab just as soon as Slim is out of sight. I find a little corner where they can’t see me from the back of the truck. The Black & Mild smells of cherry, even through the packaging. It’s been stressful, thinking about how money’s going to work out, not knowing if this new gig would be a good fit or if I’d have to find something else quick. Sometimes you just need to watch something burn in your hands. There’s always been something beautiful about destruction. The ashes gather on my shoes and I feel myself relax.
About halfway through the third smoke donut leaving my lips, I hear what sounds like trouble. There’s a loud ruckus coming from the loading dock. Maybe one of the packages has slipped off the truck. I hear the two fellas in what sounds like an argument. I want to help, but I wasn’t even supposed to be out of the cab. I wait to see if the yelling subsides, but it just grows louder and louder until I have no other option but to intervene.
I round the back of the truck, and I will never forget what I see at that moment. There, tangled between the men’s four arms, is a girl. She can’t be more than thirteen, though you can tell by the red lipstick and heels she was going for much older. Her heavy makeup is smeared and her mascara is pooling around her collarbone. She’s the kind of groggy that only exists at three a.m., after too many drinks, flopping and flailing like a fish fresh out of school. Her legs are a bundle of seaweed knotting in and out of themselves. To my surprise, in her stupor, she shows an amazing amount of strength. I’m impressed with how she’s leveraged her lean elbow into Slim’s throat. Her other arm is wrapped around Suits’s neck. It’s then that I notice Slim and Suits have seen me, but they aren’t angry. They need help.
Suits gestures wildly at the tire of the truck. I look down and see something on the ground behind it, catching the light of the setting sun. I look closer and realize it’s a syringe. Suits’s face is a deepening shade of midnight as he jerks his head at the girl and tries to pry her arm off his airway. He wants me to inject the girl. I can only guess that the syringe holds some sort of sedative. I reach down and grab the stopper. It feels like God’s eyes are on me as the seconds pile high.
Am I this kind of man, willing to shoot up someone’s child with only God-knows-what for a paycheck? My mother crosses my mind. I wonder what she would think if she saw me here. Then I think of my piling bills, the disconnection notices, and the debt-collector phone calls. I see Mr. LeFleur in my mind with a blank check in his hand. I think about the fridge and all of its hollow depression. There isn’t enough time to make the right decision. Is she more important than my hunger? I’ve been a good man up until now. Doesn’t that count for anything?
I know I have to make a choice when I see she’s all but free from Slim’s grasp. I say a quick prayer: God, you know me inside and out. You know that I am always seeking what is good and kind. I believe You will and have already provided for me. See my heart tonight. Amen.
I stab the needle into her thigh. I watch her body jolt and her eyes roll back like the tide. Then her arms go limp and her gill-cheeks sink back down, and she’s asleep.
Slim yells, “What took you so long? Now help us get her back inside.”
I’ve been so busy watching them, I haven’t looked into the back of the truck. There are four more girls, wrapped in net-like twine. They look unconscious, like they don’t even know they’ve been caught. Two of them still in their school uniforms. I help net our escapee and stow her with the others.
The ride back to Acres Homes is mostly silent. I understand now why Slim doesn’t want any music. There’s no soundtrack for this kind of journey. The whooshing of the tires against the road reminds me of the gulf. Slim mentions that’s where the girls are headed: out to sea. We get back to the restaurant about thirty minutes later than scheduled.
Mr. LeFleur comes storming out, demanding to know why we’re late. I stay in the cab, still in shock over what the day’s held. I watch in the side mirror as Slim and Suits get out and try to explain everything to Mr. LeFleur. I see his face changing from infuriated to concerned. He looks over at the cab of the truck. He fumbles some papers around in his hands, scratches his head, and slowly walks over to the passenger door as the guys empty the remaining catch out of the truck.
I notice that some of the girl’s hair attached itself to me as I was helping her back into the truck. I instantly feel dirty. I remember the last time I went fishing with my father and ended the night covered in scales. Too many to count. I don’t know how to wash any of this off.
Mr. LeFleur opens the passenger door and leans in, his arm on the seat. He peers up at me and slides an envelope against the torn pleather. “I’m gonna toss in an extra hundred dollars for all of the trouble tonight. Things like this rarely happen,” he says. “Hey, but for this kind of money, we all have to take some risks.”