Chapter Two

Few minutes past eighteen o'clock, a taxi pulled up at NW 7th St. Overtown. It was a neighborhood, considered the black eye of the Miami area.

Out came a tall, dark man. His face was thin, his eyes dark and deep-set. His mouth was hard, and his jaw looked aggressive. A few scattered white hairs on his head made it apparent he was a man past forty.

He paid the driver, waited for him to drive away, then looked up and down the street. The environment reeked of poverty and abandonment. Young men in overcoats, played cards next to a windowless convenience store, grandmas sat on their broken-down verandas, and Miami’s downtown skyscrapers rose in the distance. Nothing to raise his suspicions.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

“I'm here,” he said, ended the call, and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

He waited.

Out of the shadow of the ramshackle convenience store, among the men playing cards, a thin man came out and called out to him. Even from afar, and with the fading light of the day, it could be seen that he was shabby, but his shabby look blended into the dilapidated situation of the sorry-looking neighborhood. His pants were baggy, his hat on his head hung anyhow, his dark overcoat was of the cheapest quality. His name was Chris Wayne.

The dark man recognized Wayne and advanced to him. He reached him, and as they shook hands, he regarded the young man. He was a boy of either twenty-four or five. Looking at Wayne, he thought sourly; what a bright-looking boy. Though years of shabby living had etched its mark on his face.

“Have you got it?” The dark man asked.

“Let's take a walk,” Wayne replied, and led him away from the other men playing cards, and down the street, they went.

They turned onto a side street and stopped in front of a 1990 Toyota Corolla model. Wayne pointed to the car.

“This is it. Just as you requested.”

The dark man examined the compact car. They had polished the car up. Its tires were new. Everything seemed okay with the car, and he nodded with satisfaction toward Wayne.

“The other package?”

“It's inside the car.”

Wayne took out a key from his pocket, went over to the driver's side, opened the door, went round to the passenger side. He keyed in the key, opened the door, and entered the car.

Both men were soon seated in the compact car. Wayne opened the glove compartment, took out a paper bag, and passed it. The dark man collected the bag, reached inside, and as his fingers closed around the cold butt of a .22mm, a crooked smile flitted across his face.

Opening the bag, a shade wider, he peered in; at the gun and its silencer. “How many slugs are in it?”

“Five,” Wayne answered.

“Unnecessary. One would have been enough.”

Wayne shrugged impatiently.

“Well, I can't say I pity whoever it's meant for.”

“Even if you offered your pity, it would be of no use to him. But, he might make do with God's mercy to make it to purgatory.”

Wayne said nothing, and the dark man, sensing his impatience, took out his wallet, counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and passed it to him. He checked what remained in his pocket. He still had the freedom five hundred dollars could afford.

Wayne flicked through the cash. He drew three notes out from the bunch and extended it to the dark man.

“It's over. This would do,” he said, flapping the seven hundred in his other hand.

Not bothering to look at Wayne or the paper notes he was extending, the dark man folded the paper bag, dropped it back in the glove compartment, and locked it. Then he looked at him.

“I know how hard the street is for you, young man. Keep it. You’d need it better than I would.”

Scarcely believing his ears, Wayne cheerfully and quickly slid the bills into the pockets of his overcoat; for fear that his good fortune might be altered, the next passing second.

“Thanks, man.” He opened the door.

“Anytime you need me. You've got my number. So long, man.”

Wayne stepped out into the street, closed the door, and began his way back to his usual evening rendezvous, turning back at intervals, and smiling sheepishly at the car, happy with his serendipity.

The dark man smiled. He felt a sense of satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time. Whoever had said, “Blessed is the hand that giveth than the one that taketh,” was surely right, he thought.

He coaxed the engine to start and was about to put the car into gear, then he cursed, remembering he was dealing with a manual transmission. Pushing the clutch pedal to the boards, he engaged gear and edged the car into the street.

Ten minutes of fast driving got him to downtown Miami. He turned off the avenue into a broadside street. His eyes searched for a parking space and just ahead of him, a car pulled out from the line of tightly parked cars and went roaring down the road. He swung the compact car into the vacant space, stopped, and turned off the engine.

He looked over at the Truck Agency a few yards from him. From where he parked, he had an unobstructed view of the gate of the Agency, and he nodded his head in satisfaction.

He took out a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it, and drew in a lungful of tobacco smoke. He relaxed back on the seat as the smoke drifted through his nostril.

He took his phone from his pocket, opened it, and went to his call records. Second on the list was a name, Anya. He stared at it, hesitating; then dialed the number.

He brought the phone to his ear, listened to the crackling noise for a while, then again, the bored, flat, automatic voice he had heard fifteen times in the past twenty-four hours came up.

It spoke in Russian for a while, then in English, it said, “The number you have dialed is unavailable.” And the call ended.

Frustrated, he dropped the phone on the seat beside him and took another drag from his cigarette.

Why suddenly unavailable? He asked himself. But after a moment of intense thought, he gave up.

It had been over eleven years since he had last contacted her. Last night, he had called her. She had answered the call. He played back the call in his head. She had squealed with excitement when she heard his voice. He didn't even have to introduce himself, even after such a long time of being out of touch. It made him smile. But, he imagined the voice he heard was weak, forced, but genuine.

Abruptly, the call had ended. He had called again, unavailable. Maybe a network problem, he mused. He waited until the next day; this morning, before he tried again. It was still unavailable. Despite that, he had thought little of it. But now, with sixteen calls unavailable, in the past twenty-four hours, it was bothering him.

Had she found herself another man? A chill ran up his spine as the thought crossed his mind.

“No.” He shook his head.

She had been so happy to hear his voice. She wouldn't have been if she had another man. But even if she had, he couldn't blame her. He had been away for so long. It was only fair that she got herself another man. But he was sure of one thing, no man could take the space he held in her heart.

He lifted himself a little from the seat, brought out his wallet from his back pocket, and took out an old paper photograph of a girl probably in her late twenties. The paper was slightly old, but the girl in it remained an exceptional beauty.

He caressed the picture, imagining he was caressing her face.

“Hold on, An. I'm coming home.”

Carefully, he put the picture back in his wallet and dropped it in his pocket.

He was still thinking, puffing on his cigarette; when the gate of the Agency rolled open.

Immediately, he became alert, sat up, and waited.

Through the gateway came a truck, and he grunted in disgust. He pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat and consulted his watch. The time was twenty-five minutes past seven.

As the truck went past him, he glanced at the driver, who stared straight ahead. His eyes caught a sign painted across the door, and his attention went swiftly to the gate, which had been rolled close.

For the first time, he realized the big sign painted in white on the red background of the iron gate, which read; RICO TRUCK AGENCY.

Do you want good service? Go to a good truck agency.

Do you want better service? Go to a better truck agency.

Do you want the best service? Come to Rico Truck Agency (RTA).

Tobacco smoke drifted down his nostrils as it flared, and he threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window in anger.

So that punk… the son of a bitch, had taken his name off the company we both built. Well, it wouldn't do him any good now, he thought savagely.

“At least he kept our slogan,” he said in compensation to himself.

Still seething with frustration and fury, he took out his pack of cigarettes, selected one, and lit it. Puffing on it, he brooded about a series he had once watched with Anya, a long time ago in a local movie theater in Russia.