Jackknife 17
Chapter 17 Rick Stories
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Rick, the man with wild stories to tell, poured drinks in cheap hotel room glasses from the kitchenette, talking all the while. His nerves still raw from his alleged getaway.
Cray, pretending to be named Ken, had grabbed a plastic cup from the bathroom in Rick’s absence getting ice and stood it in his roomy jacket pocket. He was about to try an old hazing move he learned in the Army, pretending to drink, but instead pouring it into the plastic cup, and refilling the Rick’s glass with it occasionally.
Cray didn’t have a clear reason why he lied about his name. It was pure instinct. Rick gave off an aura of trouble. Cray recognized it because he had the same aura himself. He couldn’t claim to be better than Rick, just different. Rick could be a plant for all Cray knew. Another layer of cloak and dagger deception.
Rick talked, and occasionally asked questions, Cray listened, and mixed his answers with what Rick wanted to hear, the truth and some outright lies.
“I wanted the job so bad I didn’t stop to think if it was real or not. But even in that deep, I started working on the training crews immediately. I mean, secret cargo? Hello? What trucker is going to believe that the whole job isn’t illegal?
“So yeah, I worked the crews to see who would talk. Leak just a little. I’d make up these questions, like what if a cop asks me flat out what I’m hauling? A full grown bear in his Smoky hat ain’t gonna go for the sensitive medical supplies excuse. They tried to convince me driving under the speed limit and for shorter hours per day would help.
“They weren’t supposed to tell me any more than necessary, and had to watch their lies and make sure they lined up. I caught them a bunch of times. But I’m supposed to be this dumb trucker who doesn’t know anything.”
“It was like this double PsyOps going on. Theirs against mine. … Just a sec, gotta take a leak. Hold that thought.”
As soon as Rick shut the bathroom door, Cray refilled Rick’s glass from the plastic cup and then put the cup back in his pocket. Rick was drinking at a good pace. It might not be too long before he was out.
Rick returned, looked at his cup with a frown for a second, took a sip and continued talking.
“Now where was I?”
“Double PsyOps.”
“Yeah, working it daily. You ever ask them any questions?”
“Oh yeah, but they never told me anything worthwhile.”
“Right? See? That’s why I was looking for anything written down, eavesdropping on their conversations. They were terrified of their directors. They’d let down their guard when HQ called them out. That’s when I saw the first written note. I think he knows, it said. But what could I know? I was still guessing and pretending I knew something. So that meant one of my guesses must be correct.
“So I’m in to the third week of training—how long were you in training?”
“Oh, about the same. Seemed longer.”
“Well, I’m into the first tours around the base camp, and I eyeball another truck, same make, same logo. No trailer, running bobcat like me. I’m over the moon happy and give him a little toot. He swings around and pulls over to chat. We agree to meet after training that evening to compare notes.
“He tells me there are two loads going out from the city, Texas to Vermont and Texas to Victoria. He doesn’t know what’s going out up from the north but there is sure to be multiples.
“This guy is a goldmine. Confirms everything I suspected about decoys and the job being rigged to fail. Says I’m the second driver he’s met. Tells me to be careful because the last guy got dropped for talking.”
“Silver Label does seem sensitive about that. I didn’t see anyone else myself.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t brainwash you all alone like that. Anyway, after all the trouble, one of the corporate guys tries to take me under his wing. Feed me a little extra no other drivers get. In return, he asks me to share what I know, and how I figured it out. I roll with it, playing all happy to share information. But I hit him with a condition. It has to be of the same weight, the same value shared. You know what I mean?”
Cray nodded.
“So I take my big shot. Try to take him by surprise, right off the bat. I tell him I know there are decoys and that I’m carrying the real load. He’s shocked, asks how I know. I tell him I saw it wrote down in a report left open. Now he’s freaking out. That’s big, he says.
“So he starts feeding me what he knows. Most of it is pathetic. Weak stuff. But then he tells me they have a problem of moles in the company, one selling out to their competitors, one squealing to the Feds. Now that’s above my pay grade. I only mess with the state bears. But I play it off because it isn’t the big one. The one I really want to know.”
“What’s the cargo,” interjected Cray, almost talking to himself.
“Exactly! You get it. If I know that, I know who to run to. Weapons for terrorists? Right to the Feds. Hope for a reward. Same for drugs. Straight to the DEA. Some super technology or gold bars for a billionaire? Well, those could be negotiable.”
“Can you excuse me a minute? It’s my turn to take a leak. Be right back.”
Cray stood up slowly and headed toward the bathroom. He walked awkwardly trying to keep his balance, not from drinking, but trying to keep the plastic cup from spilling in his pocket.
Off balance, he didn’t manage to get the door to close behind him. Rick, on his way for more ice, noticed and said, “Here, let me get that for you,” and closed the door.
Cray caught a quick glance of both Rick and himself in the bathroom mirror. Two versions of the same man, the same trouble. Revelations hit him with knockout force. One square on the forehead, another an uppercut from below, knocking the air out of him.
Either one of them could have been the other’s body-double Hollywood stuntman. Not exact, especially up close, but similar from a distance, or on paper. The evening of talk had been revealing. It was impossible to know how much was real and how much was alcohol fueled bravado, but the Chevrolet on Toyota confrontation hit the mark. It matched his own experience minus a little drama.
A few things grew more certain in Cray’s mind. Rick didn’t know if he was hauling the real cargo or not, he was still guessing. The Silver Label crew member who supposedly took Rick under his wing was certainly a mole. One of several surely. Rick’s claim to the mole, that he was hauling the real load, probably almost got him killed.
The revelations’ unfolding felt long but only took the space of a blink of the eye.
An inspection of Rick’s rig and trailers would firm up Cray’s suspicious. That was the next step of the plan developing in his head. He carefully re-balanced the full plastic cup in his pocket before rejoining Rick.
Back in the room he found Rick asleep at the table. He poured the remnants of the plastic cup into Rick’s glass. Next he checked Rick’s jacket pockets and came up with the keys to the truck, the parking lot number pass, hotel receipt and Silver Label corporate card.
Cray’s plan suddenly had a lot of additional opportunities. Some downright crazy.
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