The old Chrysler rolled down the interstate and tiny flecks of snow began to fall. Christ, he thought, snow. Snow is all I need. He was in a hurry and anything that could impede him or slow him down was just piling more anxiety on top of his already heavy burden. He drove alone, the passenger seat empty except for a suitcase. THE suitcase. He had no idea what was in it, except that it was something vitally important and when Ortega said something was important, it was. He was used to the secrecy, the not knowing. He was a delivery man and all he was paid to do was make the drop. The roads became slick and he gripped the wheel with both hands as he tried to keep control of the car. The aged, bald tires weren’t doing him any favors as he could feel himself losing traction and sliding into and out of curves. He kept thinking he heard sirens or saw blinking lights and that some bored state trooper with nothing better to do than bother him with a speeding ticket would run his name and his warrants would come up. His heart raced, from the anxiety and the drugs and the fact that it was getting later and later and his connection in the city was expecting him at point X and he had no excuse for being late.
His mind drifted back to the last time he saw Ortega, the night Ortega killed Harding, a man once trusted who had learned too much and had to be eliminated. Only those who were very close knew about it and he was one of them. After the incident, Ortega pulled him aside and said “Eddie, I don’t think it needs to be stated that you have to keep quiet. If a word of this slips out, things will become very bad for all of us. For you, Eddie.” And that was all that was said. Since then, he had drifted a bit. The old crew had fallen apart and he only ran jobs for Ortega once in a blue moon. The snow was coming down more heavily now and Eddie was coming down himself. He broke into a nauseous sweat and he wished he hadn’t trusted his new dealer without checking him out first. Something with fiery red eyes and a serpent’s tongue that slithered and slunk crawled up into his brain just then. It was a notion. It sunk its venomous fangs into his feeble brain and filled him with poison. What if Ortega was tying up loose ends? What if the contents of the suitcase, almost definitely cash, was an arrangement for his own hit? He sweated and swore as he passed a sedan that was stranded by the side of the road, abandoned in the coming storm.
That doesn’t make any sense, though. Why not just send someone else? Who knows, he argued back. There’s no figuring these things out. Maybe you being set up is just part of it and he needed his guy in the city specifically for something else. He felt his hands swelling and the steering wheel felt alien and strange in his grip now. All he knew was that he had to pull over to the side of the road and open that suitcase. The snow was coming down so heavily now that to stop might mean an emergency situation. He didn’t care. His heart was racing and he could feel his brain fill with blood and dread and the heat of some sort of impending doom. His fingers grasped at the locked clasps of the suitcase and he tugged vainly and without worry. His fingertips shredded slightly and he bled. Dammit, he’d have to find something to use. He had no tools. The Chrysler wasn’t his and he started looking around for something that could be used to tear the suitcase open. Anything. He had nothing but his thirty-eight, which he began bashing against the lock, using the pistol’s stock as a hammer. It didn’t work and, in a moment of lucidity, he laughed at his own stupidity. He swore and screamed until his throat was raw and pointed the barrel of his gun at the lock before squeezing the trigger. The bullet shattered the suitcase open and lodged in the car’s seat. Fuck it, he thought. He tore the case open and found it contained a manila envelope stuffed with wads of bills. No note, no instructions, no markings on the envelope. After meticulously counting, it came to seventy-five K. What was going on? What was this money for?
Strange scenes screamed into his mind. He heard a description of his own appearance being recited out loud and realized it was Ortega, on the phone with someone, planning a hit. He heard laughing at the irony of a man delivering his own death warrant. He saw a conversation between Ortega and his lieutenant, recalling the men who knew about Harding and deciding what best to do with each of them. Eddie felt like he was going to pass out but he had to keep going. He figured that if he kept driving all night, he could put enough miles between him and the city that he could take the money and escape. It would be a death sentence on his head but he had already convinced himself that he was going to die anyway. He started the ignition and shifted into drive but the car only spun its wheels, now stuck behind several inches of snow. He didn’t have a shovel to get out and dig, he was just going to have to floor it and hope for the best. He slammed the accelerator against the floor and the smell of burning tires crept into the cab. The steering wheel was slick with sweat, as he gripped it with both hands. He can’t die like this. He needed to get the money and run.
He attempted to close the damaged suitcase but couldn’t quite so he started stuffing bills into the pockets of his suit jacket. He laughed again, a sick laugh that surprised him with its loudness.
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Walter was attempting to get home before the storm got any worse, it was hard enough to drive as it was. He was surprised to see, as he barreled down the last mile before he started seeing city exits, a man apparently hitchhiking down the road, with loose money occasionally spilling out of his pockets.
(Source: misterpeace.com)
