The Family Business 3(83)
“We’re here, Al,” the driver, Manny, said as he stopped the Nova in the parking lot of one of the warehouses. He was chattier last weekend at the club in Houston, when he drank too many brews and asked me if I wanted more work. Apparently I’d caught the eye of some smart folk.
I wasn’t at this warehouse for a pipeline job, though. I was here for a promotion. If Manny wasn’t lying, this was my chance to move up and make lots of money.
Miguel and the man he called his cousin led me from the car, sandwiching me in the middle of them like I was somebody important. His cousin wore his black cowboy hat tilted low over his face, with equally dark sunglasses hiding his eyes like he was afraid of the sun. Normally I’d be worried, but if they wanted to kill me, they didn’t have to drive this far to do it.
After a double knock by Manny, we entered the office door. Inside, a bunch of men who looked like they belonged on a farm or ranch stood idly by, joking around while wielding shotguns. Their arms weren’t for handling cattle, and whatever crops they “managed” paid more than corn or soy beans. I was sure there were several more of them outside that I didn’t see.
One look at Manny’s cousin and they motioned the three of us through an interior door leading deeper inside the warehouse. No turning back now.
Dead center was where all the action took place. Behind large sheets of plastic that doubled as makeshift walls, several cars and vans were being carefully loaded by elderly men and women who looked as if they had lived hard lives. In my mind, I began counting the armed men around us and memorizing their positions. Just in case. Around Houston, I liked to carry myself like a million bucks, but inside these walls, I knew that I needed to act humble.
A muscled older man no more than five foot five, with long black hair and a thick moustache, looked to be in charge. As he clipped the end of a fresh cigar, he turned to acknowledge us.
“Al!” he belted out as if we were friends. “Please. Have a seat,” he instructed me as a single chair was waiting behind him. Talk about a hot seat. He was military and very formal when he spoke; probably educated up north. Even while being polite, his voice was threatening, like he was used to not being questioned. Those with questions probably asked them no more.
I listened and sat my ass down, knowing how to play the game.
“That bumbling idiot Gerald Ford is President now,” the man in charge said, obviously having no love for him. He went so far as to imitate the President’s fall down the stairs of Air Force One, which we’d all seen on the television. “But this DEA that Nixon started has us concerned. We don’t know if they’re serious about drugs like they were about alcohol during the Prohibition Era, but perhaps that is good for what we do. Just a few years ago we were worried that marijuana might be legalized, but of course it wasn’t. Nevertheless, we must always plan for the future. And that involves expansion and forging new alliances.”
From my seat, I listened to his history lesson, nodding like it was the only thing that mattered. But I also watched a team of younger men busy switching out license plates on several cars as if on an assembly line. I saw the New Jersey plate on the car closest to me and smiled. They must’ve known I could drive—and fast.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, seeing what really held my attention.
“No,” I replied, feigning ignorance as I repositioned myself in the chair. I suddenly hoped I wasn’t here as a lesson myself.
“You represent the new breed who can blend in, and that is why you’ve been given this opportunity. That is an asset, Al,” he lectured, stopping to chuckle. The other men followed his lead and laughed even harder at my expense.
But they could laugh at me all they wanted. Unimportant, jealous fools were what they were to me. I was the one being given the opportunity to run with the wolves, to prove I deserved more than just peddling joints in nightclubs and bars.
I focused on the shiny new Gran Torino I was about to have all to myself. I imagined the highways opening wide for me, like the actor Steve McQueen in Bullitt, dealing out justice from behind the wheel. Except that was a Mustang Steve McQueen drove. Well, I could have one too one day, but for now the Gran Torino would do. And if they let me keep it, who knows how much * I could get around here.
“You want me to drive the Torino for you, no?” I asked as I dared to stand up. With my sudden move, I heard one of his men chamber a shell into his shotgun. My employer motioned to them it was okay and smiled wildly at me.
“Oh. That’s not what you will be driving,” he stated. He had his men pull the plastic down from around another car. This one had a Jersey license plate too, but was quite different.
“A Country Squire,” I muttered aloud as I grimaced over what I was being shown. It was an old station wagon. Not a new Gran Torino, but a f*cking station wagon, complete with wood panels along the sides. It was like something you’d see on The Brady Bunch for all those f*ckin’ California kids and their stupid dog. But even theirs looked better than this monstrosity.
“That. That is what you will be driving for us, Al.” He cackled gleefully as he let a puff of cigar smoke blow into my face. “It’s good, no?”
“But . . . I don’t understand, sir,” I began as respectfully as I could. This had to be a joke. “It’s a station wagon. I will look like a fool.”
“What? You thought we would let you go out there in a flashy racecar? You are already too flashy with your pretty hair and gold chains. We’re sending you to deal with the head Italians, but not in a car that will attract the attention of the police or this new DEA.”