Miles Away

I had only been waiting for a few hours, but I had a bad feeling. In this business you have to trust your gut. My gut told me to go home and crawl back into bed. I was just about ready to listen, when the truck pulled up.

The man who stepped out had the full get-up: long beard, flannel shirt, ripped jeans. He wore Harley Davidson sunglasses and a John Deer baseball cap.

“You’re late,” I called out to him, “What’s with the disguise?”

Miles took off the sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt. “How do you know I don’t dress like this all the time?”

“Because no one would trust you to fence their shit if you showed up looking like that.”

Miles had moved some illicit items for me in the past. He was a reliable guy, but tonight he was looking over his shoulder, shifting in his boots. If he was nervous, so was I.

“Well, let’s do the deal,” he said, “What have you got for me?”

I pulled a cardboard tube from inside my jacket. I hesitated for a moment as Miles looked back at some hedges behind him. I followed his line of sight, but couldn’t see anything. I handed him the package.

“Shit, man!” Miles held the tube out at arm’s length.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why did you give it to me? I tried to signal you!”

At that moment, a half-dozen cops emerged from the hedges and started charging towards us.

“Get in the truck!”

We scrambled into the cab. Miles had left the engine running.

“Next time, give me a better signal!” I yelled, as we plowed through the parking lot, towards the highway, “Better yet, next time I’ll just stay in bed!”