Rig Warrior Read online

  “I’m in the book. Cottonmouth said he told you my name.”

  “Yeah. There a motel near where you live?”

  “Yeah. They’re easy to find.” Her eyes once more searched his face. “Let me put something on you, Dog. What the hell is your name, anyway?”

  “Barry.” He took a chance.

  “Barry. All right. You may be the genuine article. I hope so. But if you’re workin’ for that frog-eyed son of a bitch Fabrello, you gonna be in deep shit.”

  They both looked up as a Peterbilt pulled off the interstate, hissing to a stop close to them. Cottonmouth’s rig.

  “See you, Barry,” Kate said.

  Cottonmouth climbed down and walked to Barry’s side. He waited until Kate had pulled out, then said, “Don’t get the wrong idea ’bout Kate, Dog. ’Cause if you’re looking for an easy lay, you best keep on lookin’. You know where I’m comin’ from?”

  “Yeah, I know. I got the impression she cusses as a protective measure, and nothing more.”

  “Uh-huh. So you got some education, too. Lemme put something else on you, Dog. You try to mess up Kate, and you’ll never get out of Louisiana alive.”

  “Yeah? I figured that out, too.”

  “See you ’round.”

  Barry checked into a small motel not far from Kate’s address, then drove to his dad’s teminal. Ten Kenworths were parked next to the fence. From the dust covering them, they had not been used in a long time. Several months, at least. The terminal area was clean, but deserted. Kate’s blue Kenworth was backed up to the loading dock. The way she’d been rolling, Barry had figured she was deadheading back from somewhere. There was a time, not too long ago, when no Rivers truck ever deadheaded back from anywhere.

  So business was that far off.

  Barry did not want to draw attention to himself, so he slipped his truck into gear and eased out. He drove past a cream-colored sedan parked not far from the business. There was no mistaking the two men sitting in the front seat. They both had the mark of punks about them, despite the expensive sports coats they wore. And they were staring at Barry through hard eyes.

  Barry checked his mirrors. The street behind him was deserted. He swung his eyes to the men in the sedan. They were still staring at him. He braked and returned the stares.

  Impasse in the middle of the street.

  “I fascinate you boys?” Barry asked.

  “Carry your ass, cowboy,” the driver said.

  “Fuck you!” Barry said, his eyes unblinking and hard.

  The punk on the passenger side got out. He was big and solid and looked to be about six three, at least; maybe two hundred and thirty pounds. But he had the beginnings of a beer belly. He walked around Barry’s pickup, nothing the license plates.

  “In case you can’t read,” Barry said. “The number is five-eight-seven-one-one-four.” It wasn’t that at all.

  “You about a smartass, ain’t you?” Beer Belly said. “Wait a minute, that ain’t the number!” He started back around the truck. Confused, as Barry had hoped he would be, after calling out the wrong numbers.

  Barry jerked the pickup into reverse and backed up, almost hitting the guy, putting the license plate out of his view.

  “You asshole!” Beer Belly said. “I think you need your jaw jacked.”

  Beer Belly walked up to the driver’s side, his hands clenched into big fists. Barry opened the door—hard, knocking the man sprawling to the dirty street. Barry stepped out of the truck just as Beer Belly was getting to his hands and knees. Barry kicked him in the face with his right cowboy boot. Teeth rolled and bounced on the street, glistening wet and white, red-stained.

  The driver was getting out. Barry leaped and hit the door, slamming it against the driver. The edge of the door caught the man in his belly. He screamed in pain and doubled over just in time to catch Barry’s boot in his mouth. He was out before his head hit the street.

  Barry looked around him. No traffic. He opened the trunk and stuffed Beer Belly in the cavity, slamming the lid shut. He stuffed the driver into the back seat and took the keys out of the ignition, tossing them into a garbage can. He got into his pickup and drove off.

  Across the street, standing on the loading dock, Jim Carson smiled and said, “Well, I’ll just be damned. The boy’s come home.”

  Kate stood beside him, her mouth still open in shock at seeing a much smaller man whip the hell out of two bigger men.

  “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked. “You know that cowboy?”

  “Know him? Hell, yes, I know him. That’s Big Joe’s boy. Barry. Ex-Green Beret; Medal of Honor winner. Now, Kate, my girl, things are looking up for Rivers Trucking.”

  Kate looked at the deserted street. “I just knew there was something about him I cottoned to.”

  6

  “You really think you’re something, don’t you?” Kate challenged Barry, talking before she got the door to her trailer open.

  She had bathed and washed her corn-yellow hair, tying it back with a red bandanna. She wore just a touch of perfume, but it was wrong for her, Barry noted; too heavy. But he wasn’t about to object; not with Kate’s temper. She had dressed in designer jeans and blouse. She looked delicious.

  “What do you mean, Kate?”

  “All that bull you spouted. All the time you being Big Joe’s son. Well, hell! Don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

  Barry entered the trailer and it was as he’d thought it would be: neat and clean. “You didn’t ask me my last name, remember?”

  “Uh-huh. Big Joe know you’re here?”

  “How did you discover who I was?”

  “Sit down. Don’t stand around lookin’ like a lost hound dog.” Barry sat. “Me and Jim Carson was watching the fight out front of the terminal. He told me. You know who them boys was, don’t you?”

  “No. But I can guess. Fabrello’s men, probably, right?”

  “Right. And nobody messes with Fabrello’s men. You gonna be in trouble, boy. They find out where you stayin’, somebody’s liable to wire a bomb under the hood of your pickup.”

  “Maybe.” Anybody who lifted the hood of Barry’s truck without flipping a hidden switch under the dash was going to be in for a very loud and rude surprise. “But maybe I took some of the heat off Dad and you drivers. Think about that.”

  She plopped down in a chair and stared at him. “Maybe. But why would you set yourself up for us? I can see why you’d do it for Big Joe, but why do it for people you don’t even know?”

  “I hate punks,” he said simply. And he did, passionately. He had lost two close friends to street-shit. One in D.C., one in New York City. His friend in D.C. had been mugged and killed; the killing had apparently been done for perverse pleasure, for Barry’s friend had lost both legs to a mine in ’Nam. His friend in NYC had gotten caught in a crossfire between rival NYC mobs.

  Kate shivered.

  “You cold?”

  “No. Your words caused a shiver to go up and down my back. I think you’re a dangerous man, Barry Rivers.”

  “If that’s true, than there are a lot of us walking around.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “But mostly you guys cool it, I think. You hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “Then, come on. You’re takin’ me to dinner.”

  The restaurant she guided him to was small and family-owned, and the smell of redfish cooking made Barry realize how much he’d missed New Orleans and her food. The owner and his wife greeted Kate as one might greet a long-absent daughter. Barry could tell they were more than fond of her. The couple gave Barry a good once-over and then spoke to Kate in rapid-fire Cajun French. Barry let them finish and then informed them he had spoken Cajun before he spoke English.

  The man and woman smiled, then laughed as they guided Barry and Kate to a table. They ordered, then Barry said, “In answer to a question of yours, Kate. I imagine Dad knows I’m here by now. Jim probably told him. How is Dad?”

  “Not too good. Fabrello
’s men leaned on him pretty good. Busted some ribs and broke an arm.”

  Barry fought back a sudden surge of temper. “At Dad’s age, that’s a tough lick.”

  “He’ll never regain full use of his arm,” Kate said quietly, but with considerable heat in her voice.

  “We’ll eat and then we’ll go see him. That OK with you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Big Joe Rivers sat down in his chair and cried. Barry had never seen his father cry before. He didn’t know what to do. And he had never seen his father looking like this. The man appeared to have aged twenty years since Barry had last seen him. He looked … like an old man.

  Defeated.

  Barry left Kate and his father and went into the kitchen, pouring three glasses of wine, stalling, giving his dad time to pull himself together. And giving himself time to get his emotions back under control.

  Defeated!

  That word hit Barry hard. Suddenly, he knew what his dad was going to do.

  No! What his dad was going to try to do.

  But Barry wasn’t going to allow that. Big Joe Rivers was not defeated, not finished, not through. Not by a long shot. Barry was going to prop his dad back up. By force, if he had to; even if his father was unwilling, which would probably be the case.

  Barry took the wine into the den and sat down in front of his dad. “You look like shit, old man,” he said bluntly.

  Kate’s look was one of utter disbelief and astonishment. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She was an outsider, to a degree; this was father-and-son business.

  A spark from a fading ember shot through the eyes of Joe Rivers. “You don’t talk to me like that, you pup! I’ll box your smart mouth.”

  “You couldn’t box anybody’s mouth, old man. Why don’t you just sit there and give up?”

  “What I do with my business is my business, you smart-mouth! Who axed you to come down here, get fouiner, anyways?”

  “Nobody. You want me to leave?”

  “Non. You can roder autour de. Just stay out of my affairs.”

  “My affairs, too, you old goat. Are you forgetting part of the business is mine?”

  “So I’ll write you out, you get too smart.”

  “That’s your ass, too. I’ll get the courts to declare you to be fou! I’ll put you away where a folle belongs.”

  Big Joe glared at his son. “Now you listen to me, boy. I’m not going to endanger any more of my drivers. I’m selling out. And that’s final.”

  “You can’t sell out, Papa. Not without the permission of the kids. Now Paul might give you his permission; he’s such a wimp. But I won’t, and Donna won’t. Not when she hears the whole story. Now you just drink your wine and think about that for a minute.”

  Father and son glared at each other. Kate sat quietly in her chair, knowing now what Barry was doing. She had not told Barry that she thought his dad felt himself whipped. Beaten. Maybe Barry could bring this off. She wasn’t sure.

  Big Joe slumped back in his chair. “So what do you want to do, boy?”

  “You retain your controlling interest in Rivers Trucking, Dad. But you name me, put on paper, make it legal, as chairman of the board and CEO.”

  “I don’t know from nothing about no damned CEO. What’s that mean?”

  “Chief executive officer. In other words, I make all the decisions and no one can overrule me.”

  “So? Alors qui?”

  “Then you take a vacation, Pop. Get clear and keep your head down. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Boy, you know who you’d be up against? Teddy Fabrello. Old Frog Face. You wanna commit suicide, go do it somewheres else. I won’t have your death on my hands.”

  “It’s worth a try, Big Joe,” Kate said.

  Joe looked at her, his eyes softening. He loved the woman like a daughter. “Hey, ma petite. You a good driver. I give you a rig. Everything. Sign it over to you. Clear. Don’t listen to this crazy son of mine. He get you killed, girl.”

  Kate slumped back, her blue eyes blazing. “I never thought Big Joe Rivers would turn chicken.”

  “Would you listen to this little chickie chirp?” Joe said, looking at Barry. “Five feet two inches tall and she’s going to fight the mob. You know what they do to pretty little things like you, girl? Nasty things. Sale! Lemme tell you both something about what is happening here. It ain’t all what it seems. Fabrello is bein’ used by somebody. Fabrello don’t give a sack of shrimp for my little trucking operation. The mob is being used—but they don’t know it.”

  Barry leaned back in his chair. Big Joe’s face had toughened and so had his voice. He was showing some of the fire that Barry remembered. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  Joe Rivers was thoughtful for a few seconds. “OK. OK. Kate, Barry, what you hear now, what I’m about to say, it don’t leave this room. You, Kate, it’ll get you killed, girl. I mean it. Comprendre?”

  “Oui.”

  “OK. Tout de bon. Some big shots from Washington, they flew down to see me. Me! Joe Rivers. I come out with a contract worth millions of dollars. Whole operation is gonna change. Pretty soon, we gonna be pulling SSTs. FBI, they come in and check everybody out. Reason I fire Benny? Bad record in his past. Stealin’. I didn’t know that about him. Well, too bad for Benny.” He shrugged philosophically. “Now, it stands to reason that nobody with no mob contacts could get a contract pullin’ SSTs—right? You both know that. So the way I figure it, the reason the local press ain’t jumped all over this thing is that Fabrello didn’t report back to New York. He bein’ paid privately to put pressure on me, the money coming from outside the mob. But I don’t know where.”

  SSTs. Safe Secure Transports. A government term for trailers that haul top-secret military equipment. Warheads, chemicals, prototypes. Two drivers to a rig; both heavily armed. Both well trained.

  Barry looked at Kate. Back to his dad. “Now, wait a minute! …”

  Big Joe smiled. “Yeah, boy. It don’t figure, does it?”

  “What else, Dad?”

  “Well, when old Frog Face and his boys start puttin’ the lean on me, I call this special number the FBI men gave me. They say, ‘Oh, we sorry, Mr. Rivers. We’ll take care of the matter right away. But don’t call no other number but this one.’ OK, I say. Fine. But the pressure don’t stop. It don’t make no sense, boy. I know the mob ain’t got the FBI in their pocket.”

  “Give me the number, Pop.”

  Barry took the number and walked to the phone. It was a Washington area number, but it was the wrong area code for the main FBI office in D.C. He looked back at his dad. “How many times have you called this number, Dad?”

  “Two times.”

  “Same person answer the phone both times?”

  “Ahhh … no.”

  He put his hand on the phone, then pulled it back. “Where’d you make the calls, Dad?”

  “One from the office, one from here. Just like they told me to do.”

  “Why would they tell you to do that?”

  “ ’Cause they said they’d checked these phones and they was secure. Made sense to me—then.”

  “What they are is bugged.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out, too.”

  Barry thought the house might be wired for sound, too. But if so, they’d already said too much. Hell with it. He walked to the stereo and turned it to radio, tuning into a Cajun station, turning the volume up. “I’m going to check this number out, Dad. But not from here. Something isn’t jelling about this whole operation. It’s almost as if the mob influence is secondary.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. But I been thinkin’ about it some. Look here.” He pulled out a trucker’s atlas. “First load comes out of Fort Huachuca, Arizona. That’s hauled to a site in Nevada. Next load comes out of Yuma Proving Grounds in Nevada. That’s hauled up to north California. Third load is hauled out of Texas. Fort Bliss. You wanna tie those three places together, b
oy?”

  At first, Barry didn’t get it. Then it came to him. All three places were central to Mexico. “All right,” he said. “Mexico.”

  “Go on,” Joe Rivers urged.

  Barry shrugged. Then the dim light in his head brightened. “Dope.”

  “Cocaine. That’s all I can figure, boy.”

  Kate leaned forward in her chair. Her blue eyes were bright. “SSTs are leased to the government. Loaded by government people. The drivers are employed by the government. All checked out for character and so forth. Any local weight-watcher would have a hell of a time poppin’ those seals.”

  “That’s right, Kate,” Joe said.

  “But where does the mob figure in?” Barry asked.

  “To take the heat off the real people behind it all,” Kate said.

  “Yeah,” Barry said. “But if that’s the case, it means some real FBI personnel are involved.”

  “Probably,” Joe agreed. “The Bureau ain’t what it used to be, boy. Not like when Hoover run it. You got bad eggs all over government now.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad. If one or two Bureau people are involved, they could easily keep their skirts clean in this thing. This is not a D.C. number. I think they’re setting you up to take the fall if anything goes sour.”

  “Might be. See why I wanted you out of it?”

  So Big Joe had it figured out all along, Barry thought.

  “It would be Fabrello and his people who took the first fall,” Kate said. “And they’d start singing like birds, pulling all of us into the soup with them.”

  “And the people at the bases would be clean,” Barry said. “They’d say all they were doing was loading the stuff. It would be the responsibility of the person who put the seals on the doors who’d be in hot water.”

  “The drivers,” Kate said bitterly. “The drivers always get stuck with the last responsibility. Whoever is behind this thing is a rotten, no-good, dirty son of a bitch!”

  Joe smiled thinly. “Kate, my dear. I agree with you. Now watch your mouth.”

  7

  “Something still doesn’t add up,” Barry said.

  They had seen Joe Rivers to bed, waited until he was asleep, and returned to Kate’s mobile home. Joe had close friends on either side of his house, and both families dropped in before Barry and Kate left, assuring the son they would look after the father.