Page 7

“How about we⁠—”

The slamming continues. I sigh.

“Hold that thought,” I tell her as I spin away and walk to the back exit of the truck.

I throw open the door to find two men standing there in dark blue jumpsuits with two square boxes under each arm. They’re nameless and faceless, mostly. Every day is a different pair of them. They come back but never in the same week and rarely the same pair twice.

Paranoid much?

“Delivery,” he spits at me around the tip of his half-smoked cigarette.

I take a step back, begrudgingly welcoming them inside.

They barge in, shoving me to the side as they head for the freezer.

I glance at the girl, and she squints at me. I flash an awkward grin. “Meat dealers,” I say. “They, uh... they take it real serious.”

She barely smiles.

“Just give me a minute...”

They toss open my freezer and lay the boxes inside. One casts discreet glances over his shoulder while the other grabs the stacks of cash I had hidden within. He fans them out casually and shoves them in a rubber zip-lock bag from inside his jumpsuit.

As they finish, one of them slaps a white envelope in my hand.

I pocket it. “Pleasure doing business, gentlemen,” I say. “The people really enjoy your meat...”

I look for the girl again, but she’s gone. I crane my neck out the window and find she’s wandered away from the truck... and onto the lap of some other guy across the street outside The Smoothie Zone.

I sigh at the two bastards stomping toward the back door. “Hey, buddy, what’s the Irish word for cockblock?” I ask.

He stops and takes a long drag of his cigarette before blowing it out in my face. “Cockblock,” he answers.

I wave to clear the air. “Figures…” I cough.

I flip the open sign over and slam the window closed.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I roll into the South End Truck Lot. I don’t bother answering it. I already know who it is and I’ll be face-to-face with him in about thirty seconds, anyway.

I pass by the long line of food trucks. Coffee. Sandwiches. Churros. You name it; they house their precious trucks here at night. Most of them are legit and honestly have no idea that their rent money is going into the pockets of the Irish mob family who owns the lot, The Quinns. The rest of us know all about it.

It’s a simple system. The drug kingpins have their product. The mob buys it and distributes it. Tale as old as time, but that’s where things get tricky.

The Boston cops have gotten a little too savvy to the tricks of the trade. The family had to get clever. They needed to move around the city undetected and make deals in plain sight. Dirty backrooms in laundromats and Italian food joints are a thing of the past.

Food trucks are the future.

I park my truck in their lot. The mob fills it with cash overnight. I drive out to a specified location and wait for the pick-up, all the while running my totally legitimate taco truck business. The dealers come in, trade out the money for completely discrete boxes full of whatever is hot in the streets nowadays, and hand me an envelope with tomorrow’s pick-up location written inside. I take home a slice of drug sale profit pie for being such a cool dude about it.

Easy money.

I’m not saying I condone it. But I ain’t snitchin’ either.

I pull into my spot and park the truck. My phone vibrates again and I take the chance to look at it. As expected, it’s just a few simple texts from an unknown number.

Dinner’s getting cold. I miss you.

Translation: Get your ass over here or I’ll kill you.