CHAPTER 21
“I smell a rat.”
The nonstop trip back to Tallahassee was uneventful. Paisley took a longer route back by staying on Highway 98 East all the way: first going southward through Port St. Joe and Ward Ridge, eastward through Apalachicola where the highway also became 319, then northward through Carrabelle and Crawfordville before reaching Tallahassee; this route roughly paralleled highways 10 and 90 East.
They were about twenty-five miles north of Highway 20 that went through Blountstown. Avoiding that road on the return trip was the safer thing to do; none of them wanted to be busted in Blountstown.
Santo was no longer angry, and Paisley ceased to be apologetic. They quietly chain-smoked as their neutrality remained a constant throughout the return trip. That is, until they approached Tallahassee from the South on 319 where it became Crawfordville Road meeting Woodville Highway.
Santo resisted the impulse to turn around when he noticed Paisley's change in behavior.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A cop car,” Paisley answered.
“What do you think?”
“I'm not sure. Coincidence, I hope.”
“Drive carefully.”
“I am.”
“And quit driving s o slow.”
“Stop worrying. I'm not going to give them any excuse to pull me over.”
Paisley suddenly stepped hard on the accelerator.
“What are you doing?”
“Turn around!”
The patrol car's flashing blue lights said it all.
“Shit!”
“Hang on!” Paisley said.
Paisley had the gas pedal to the floor. But the Volkswagen Bug rattled instead of roared. The little vehicle whined as if it was going to explode, but Paisley continued to push the engine to its limit. There was no possibility of outrunning that squad car on a straightaway; a series of maneuvers and turns was their only hope.
Paisley hit their first turn so hard that everything loose in the cab shifted and bounced in a fit of confusion as the vehicle almost rolled over. Santo stabilized himself by spreading both hands against the dashboard and both feet on the floorboard like a mad spider.
“We haven't got a prayer in this car!”
“I know that!” Paisley said. “Hold on!”
He steered the car off the road, plowed into an open field, then veered toward a wooded area. This maneuver slowed down the squad car, giving them enough time to stop at the tree line, disembark with their cargo, and break off on foot in separate directions.
Santo held the burlap sacks tightly under each arm. He zigzagged wildly among the trees until he felt the darkness swallow him up. Then he stopped and quickly scanned the area behind him. He saw two uncertain beams of light probing the darkness.
Santo quickly looked around and discovered a shallow knoll to his left. He scooped out the fallen leaves at the base of it and placed both sacks into the depression. Then he pushed the leaves back over them. He stepped back and inspected the area: it was the best he could do.
In an effort to prevent any noise from drawing attention to him, he didn't run. He carefully backtracked around the two flashlights instead. It was a daring choice to make. And he hoped the officers weren't considering this method of escape. They weren't: the flashlights continued their search straight ahead.
He felt a measure of relief, which he quickly suppressed. He knew there was no time for that. Until he was sitting on the porch at Six-thirteen, he was not safe.
He pressed on relentlessly, moving through the brush like a bush Marine running for his life: he half-expected to hear small-arms fire and choppers overhead.
He stopped. He listened. He pressed on. This behavior continued throughout the night until he reached a recognizable part of town. He regained his bearings and headed directly for Six-thirteen. It was close to daybreak when he arrived at the front door.
The lights were out. But he entered the porch without hesitation and immediately sensed a darkness charged with anxiety.
“Richard? Is that you?”
“Yeah. Is that you, Kerry?”
He heard sighs of relief all around him.
“Man.”
“Can we turn on a light now?”
“No. Are you crazy?”
“Did Paisley make it?” Santo asked.
“We all did. You were the last.”
He recognized Julian's voice and sat on the sofa beside him. “You mean…you and Nat almost got busted, too?”
“Sure did. But we didn't lose our car. We got away clean. What took you so long to get back?”
“I was lost. I don't know this town very well yet.”
“You've got to be tired.”
“I'm beat. But I couldn't sleep if my life depended on it.”
“Hell, me neither.”
Everybody began to giggle nervously and with relief, as if a floodgate had been opened. Then flashes of light appeared haphazardly, producing orange embers floating in the dark along with the smell of cigarette smoke.
Santo felt an anxious hand on his shoulder and placed one of his over it. He knew it was Melisa.
“Thanks a lot, Paisley, buddy, pal,” Nat said tauntingly.
“Sorry, guys. I did it. I know.” He almost sounded sincere.
“Where were we, Paisley, when all hell broke loose?” Santo asked.
“We were near the Leon County Fairgrounds.”
“And which way did you come into town, Nat?”
“Off Interstate 10 going East. When we took the exit onto Monroe Street, they were waiting for us. What're you getting at, Rick?”
“At what you said: they were waiting for us.”
“That can't be…”
“Shut up, Paisley. You've lost your credibility.”
“Don't be so hard on him, Rick,” Gladys implored.
“Alright, alright,” he relented.
The group became silent for a few moments, allowing the darkness to wash away some of the tension. Then Paisley penetrated the quiescence.
“We've got the merchandise stowed in the attic. I think it would be a good idea to hide the rest of the stash up there, too.”
“Yeah, that's true. But I don't have it,” Santo said.
Paisley almost suffocated with an anxiety attack. “But…what…you can't…shit!”
And when Santo felt he had tortured him long enough, he added, “But don't worry. I buried the sacks under a pile of leaves. The stash should be safe for the time being.”
He saw Paisley's shadow rise from its seat with relief. Dawn was beginning to spill through the jalousied windows.
“I'm glad you got back safely, Richard.”
“Thank you, my dear Kerry. Say, why don't we all go into the kitchen, turn on a light, and make some coffee. It's morning. There's nothing to worry about.”
They wandered into the kitchen like uncertain phantoms, turned on the overhead light, and set the coffee percolator on the stove. Friendly conversation ignited and filled the kitchen with warmth. And after the coffee was poured, they focused their attention on the stories concerning that evening's escape. Nat and Julian began their tale first.
“We didn't think we were going to make it. But my expert driving saved us,” Nat boasted.
“Only thing he forgot to tell you was he shit in his pants first,” Julian said.
Everybody laughed. Their comedy act was just the thing they needed.
It had been just as close for Nat and Julian, but they had a faster car and a better driver. They managed a clean getaway on the outskirts of town. Then they cut directly for the center of town and zigzagged their way to Six-thirteen as fast as possible without drawing attention to themselves. They realized time was against them; the longer they were on the streets, the worse their chances were for escape. They parked the car at Southgate Apartments' parking lot down the street and calmly sauntered into the safety of Six-thirteen, each carrying a burlap sack.
Cigarette smoke filled the room as they drank their coffee. Gladys nestled herself against Paisley while Melisa and Kerry attached themselves to Santo.
Paisley's story was an impressive odyssey that came to a climax when he made physical contact with one of the cops. He knocked the officer unconscious with a savage blow to the jaw and ripped the badge off his shirt to validate his story. Everybody's mouth dropped in amazement when he plunked the badge on the kitchen table.
“Crap. That's nothing to be proud of,” Santo said. “In fact, it's stupid.”
“What the hell was I supposed to do, let him arrest me while holding a cigar box full of cocaine?”
“You could have left the badge behind. Now we've got an angry cop out there looking for us.”
Santo's rationale sullened everybody's attitude toward Paisley, again. Even Gladys pushed herself away from him.
“Alright. I'm sorry…again!” Everybody waited for more. “I'll even cut you all in on an equal share of the profits. It's the least I can do for the trouble I've put you all through.”
“Okay, Paisley,” Santo said. He knew this was no time for serious in-fighting. That would get them caught. But he was glad they had cleared the air a little. “We won't say anything more about this. What's done is done. Everybody agree?”
“Of course, macho man,” Kerry said, as he poured coffee into their empty cups. A new warmth filled the kitchen. Gladys even reclaimed her position by Paisley.
Then Santo told them his escape story. And when he was finished, a sense of loss prevailed. Everybody knew the other two sacks of marijuana had to be rescued. But nobody volunteered to say it.
“Okay, guys, this was all my fault. But I've also lost the most.” Paisley raised his hand with one finger showing. “I lost my car.” He displayed his second finger. “I've lost my freedom now that the cops know who I am through my vehicle registration.” Then his third finger popped up. “But worst of all, I may have lost four kilos of prime weed.” He lowered his hand. “I'm not going to continue with this and bore you. But I am going to ask you for a favor.” Everybody shifted uneasily in their chairs. “Hear me out. You especially, Rick. I can't stay in this town anymore. But I don't have the money or the car to do anything about that. We've got to get that weed you buried so we can complete the deal tonight. It's all or nothing, Rick. I told you that yesterday. I'm dead if I walk into the Nextime Bar with a partial delivery. These people don't listen to excuses…not at all.” He pointed a finger at Santo. “They'll be looking for you, too.”
Santo slumped in the face of this truth; he even finished Paisley's line of thought. “So you figure we get the weed, make the deal, divide the money, and you get out of town with Nat and Julian.”
“It's the only car we've got.”
“What makes you think I want you along with us?” Nat said.
“Because it's always dangerous if anyone from a group is left behind to get caught,” Paisley said.
“I smell a rat,” Julian growled.
“Not me!” Paisley countered innocently. “But you never know. You've got to be careful about this kind of stuff.”
“I'd like to go to Atlanta,” Gladys said hopefully. “I'm getting tired of this little hick town, anyway. Would that be alright with you, Nat?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “What the hell, the more the merrier, I guess.”
“We could go together, Melisa,” Gladys said. “I could get us work. I know a good pimp up there.” Melisa glanced at Santo, feeling guilty. “Oh, come off it, honey. Rick's been around. He knows you've done tricks. Right, Rick?”
He didn't answer.
“Then it's settled,” Gladys said. “You're coming with us when this is all over.”
By remaining silent, Melisa agreed. The glitter in her eyes had gone out.
Santo wanted to comfort her. But he knew she would misinterpret his gesture as a commitment to her. Kerry clearly read the situation and came to their aid by offering Melisa his sisterly affection. She was grateful.
The speed they had taken was completely out of their systems and, coupled with coffee nerves, they were beginning to suffer from the drug's depressive aftereffects. The world began to look and feel ugly. Window shades and Venetian blinds were drawn closed against the reality of the day. and the kitchen light was turned off.
Seven empty shells wandered restlessly through the darkened house like solid shadows until their emotional and physical helplessness finally paralyzed them.
Time ticked by slowly as the day burned away. Six-thirteen fell into a state of dormancy.