Chapter 5: Chester

The change from the normal routine was what got Chester's attention. Normally, he'd pull in the garage with his pickup truck, and grab a cup of coffee while Paco would talk with the largely Mexican crew that worked at the "drop shop", as he called it. Then again, "work" was probably the wrong word, since he doubted they took more than 2 hours to check and bag the twice-weekly pot run. Still, they probably He tried not to think about that too much, since he knew his place. As the only Gringo in the gang, and the only one that spoke no Spanish, he knew that they could have easily found someone to replace him that wouldn't have the language and cultural barriers. However, he knew the realities of racial profiling in southern Arizona, and how often his fair hair, white beard and innocent looks had kept them from a takedown. Chester was window dressing for the operations, and helped them keep a low profile, one that had helped them expand from 200 pounds a month to 2000 pounds a week in this crew alone. He'd also heard rumors that they made no money from the drug operations, and undercut the competition mercilessly, but he'd just laughed at the idea – who would run drugs for free??

No, it had to just be that they had never been busted in two years, an amazing record that meant they were reliable and didn't lose product. So, Chester didn't mind being a bit of an outsider, it didn't seem to make any difference to Paco, or Carlos on the Tuesday dock crew either. Chester knew that he and Paco ran most of the risks in the organization, while this crew had almost no risk and was probably paid the same, if not more. They also didn't have to freeze waiting out in some field for hours, sometimes to find that the run had been cancelled or the mules picked clean by another gang on the Mexican side of the border. That record had enabled Chester to earn significant bonuses from Jéfe, pay off his debts from the divorce and bankruptcy, and he now had over $122,000 in his freezer and buried in the backyard. He was six months from retiring from the drug running business and life was good.

No, today was just weird. First, they'd checked in at the gate like normal, Bob signing them in, and joking with them about the weather, the success or (usually) failure of the latest Diamondbacks' reliever, or some NASCAR race. He was a chatterbox, but Chester didn't mind, he never talked with him for more than two minutes. Today, he stopped his brief diatribe on the inbound cold front to say he had an envelope for them from Alan, the cover name for Jéfe. Chester opened it, saw it was in Spanish, so he handed it to Paco with a snort, "Here, Paco, this must be for you." To avoid complications, he dropped the truck into Drive and drove away, stopping once the perimeter road took them out of sight of the guard shack, but still just short of where he knew the camera would have detected their uncharacteristic pause. Paco was already done reading, and smiled with his characteristic high-watt, large grin the ladies found so disarming. "No problem, mano, this is a milk-run, and we just pick and go." Good, thought Chester, those were easier, and he appreciated these runs when they happened. Instead of normally waiting around while the packing crew broke the 30kg bundles into 2.5kg packages, this was a bulk run. They could bypass returning to the shop after the pickup, and drive straight to the New Mexico warehouse, where the shipment could be loaded onto trucks. Chester smiled back, "Woohoo partner! Gotta love those milk-runs!" Beer and señoritas at The Barn tomorrow night! The drive was long, but the extra distance on the run meant they'd be staying two extra nights with a nice little bonus and pocket money to blow, and Chester and Paco both had some honeys on speed dial for those runs, cute local girls who liked to dance with the "traveling salesmen" who were so quick to buy them drinks and dinners at the only decent bar near Folsom, NM. It was a squalid bar, but they both liked the run as a break in routine.

No, the really weird thing was the reception at the shop. Normally, the front of the shop was bustling with activity in the metal works that actually legitimately operated as a machine and fabrication shop. Today, nothing but a "CLOSED" sign was hanging on the door. It appeared the power was out, which was probably why they were closed, but Chester still wondered why the shop manager wouldn't stay to at least take orders and talk with customers. When he drove around back, he also found the back door closed and no cars in sight. Fear gripped his guts then, and he reached for the Spingfield 1911A1 he kept tucked under the seat. Paco had already armed up, the big Ruger .357 in his left hand, his right on the door handle. They stopped the truck and sat for a moment, scanning the closed doors and vacant access alley that normally filled them with relief that their transaction would go unobserved. Today it was eerie and ominous.

When gunfire, sirens nor squealing tires disturbed the quiet for two minutes, Paco got out warily to try the door, finding it locked, as was the large roll-up door. It was getting stranger. Where were Manny, George and Big M? Paco got back in the truck and cursed softly as he fingered his large-frame magnum and they drove away. On a whim, Paco looked at the letter again, hoping for explanations or instructions he'd missed, and that's when he noticed the key still in the envelope. Chester felt the hairs raise on his neck, as tension and adrenaline took hold. When you're job is outrunning and avoiding the police, you were used to being on edge, but that didn't mean the complete change from normal routine made it any easier. Chester drove stopped the truck, did a three-point turnaround, and drove back down the alley, parking near the door. This time they both got out, but Chester left the truck running and door open. When the key fit the standard door easily and opened to the darkness, Chester felt a little silly, what did he expect if the power was out? He stepped quickly to his truck and got the two large flashlights they kept on hand for all their runs, big black flashlights that had been used more than once as clubs as well as constant companions for their night work.

They went in quickly to either side of the door, Chester stumbling over a chair and cursing at his pained shins. Their lights revealed nobody lurking in the dark, so Paco opened the rolling door to let in light. There on a table in the middle of the room were the customary three large red toolboxes they always used, and another envelope. Paco read the note and it merely said, "Enjoy the milk run boys. Trail 6. Had to send Manny and the boys to take care of business, you guys don't need baby-sitting. -- It's signed by Jéfe, but this is freakin' crazy."

"Si, Paco, está poco loco," said Chester, and Paco laughed, "Damn C., who are you, Speedy Gonzales? Your Spanish is horrible, but you're right that this is weird." The toolboxes contained the usual bundles of $100 bills, along with a fat envelope marked "Milk-run bonus". They grabbed three red toolboxes from the truck, exchanged them for the three on the table, and looked around. Nothing else to do but go thought Chester. "They don't even have coffee!" grumbled Chester, as they locked up and left.