through my imagination as I started it up and drove it into the car wash.
What if there’s a bomb? my inner voice asked.
It would have gone off when I started the car or when I drove out of the motel parking lot.
Are you sure?
No.
Pumping the toonies into the coin mechanism allowed me to close the front and back doors of the car wash. It was when I was hidden from view that I went to the wheel carrier. I found nothing. I got down on my knees and searched under the bumper and inside each wheel well. Still nothing.
Getting kinda paranoid in your old age, aren’t you, pal? my inner voice asked.
“Probably,” I said aloud.
I went back to the wheel carrier and searched again. This time I cautiously ran my fingers along the black metal brackets and crossbars. I felt it before I saw it, a black pouch made from the same material they use in body bags. It had been carefully hidden between the crossbar and the wheel, attached with black electrician’s tape. I would never have known it was there if I hadn’t been searching for it.
I cut the pouch free with a pocketknife and opened it. There was a clear plastic bag inside. I could hear blood rushing in my ears and my own heavy breathing. My sight narrowed until I could see only what I held in my hands. By weight, I guessed it to be about three quarters of a pound of cocaine—make it a third of a kilo. The price of coke varies in the Twin Cities. If you’re buying from a black kid in the less desirable blue-collar neighborhood of Frogtown, you might pay seventy-five dollars a gram; from a lily-white kid in upper-crust Lake Minnetonka, it’ll cost you twice that. Anyway, figure an average of a hundred dollars a gram and I was holding thirty-five thousand dollars. It seemed like someone was paying an awful lot of money to set me up.
Who?
It had to be Daniel Khawaja.
If it is, then he’s a moron.
Given that I already had expressed my reason for coming to Thunder Bay to a detective constable of the police service and that nothing had come of it, to call the cops now—anonymously or not—and report that I was transporting drugs would have been silly. It would be like hanging out a sign announcing that I was on the right track. ’Course, criminals have done dumber things. Except, if it was a setup, why hadn’t I been arrested when I claimed the Cherokee or when I drove out of the parking lot? Unless the call had been made to the Ontario Provincial Police and they were waiting to jump me when I left the city and headed for the border.
Ahh, the border. Customs.
I slipped the cocaine out of the pouch, broke open the plastic bag, dumped it over the drain, and used the power hose to flush it, vinyl pouch, plastic bag, electrical tape, and all. Afterward, I searched the Cherokee as if my life depended on it. When I discovered nothing more, I cleaned the vehicle inside and out. By the time I was finished, it sparkled just like it had the day I drove it off the lot. All that was missing was the new car smell.
* * *
I approached the Pigeon River Border Crossing as if I were driving up to a parking lot ticket booth—that is, I was trying real hard to act casually. I powered down my window and handed the border agent my passport. Icy air slapped me in the face. I was sure that was what made me shiver.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” the agent said.
He took my passport and examined it. It seemed to me that he examined it for a very long time. Meanwhile, a second border agent appeared out of nowhere and approached the rear of the Cherokee. In front of the vehicle and off to the right a third agent stood. It seemed to me that his hand was resting awfully close to his gun.
“Open the tailgate, sir,” the agent in the booth said.
“Certainly.”
I opened my car door.
The agent said, “Stay in your car, please.”
The snap of his voice startled me, and I quickly closed the door. I had no intention of leaving the Cherokee. I opened the door to
What if there’s a bomb? my inner voice asked.
It would have gone off when I started the car or when I drove out of the motel parking lot.
Are you sure?
No.
Pumping the toonies into the coin mechanism allowed me to close the front and back doors of the car wash. It was when I was hidden from view that I went to the wheel carrier. I found nothing. I got down on my knees and searched under the bumper and inside each wheel well. Still nothing.
Getting kinda paranoid in your old age, aren’t you, pal? my inner voice asked.
“Probably,” I said aloud.
I went back to the wheel carrier and searched again. This time I cautiously ran my fingers along the black metal brackets and crossbars. I felt it before I saw it, a black pouch made from the same material they use in body bags. It had been carefully hidden between the crossbar and the wheel, attached with black electrician’s tape. I would never have known it was there if I hadn’t been searching for it.
I cut the pouch free with a pocketknife and opened it. There was a clear plastic bag inside. I could hear blood rushing in my ears and my own heavy breathing. My sight narrowed until I could see only what I held in my hands. By weight, I guessed it to be about three quarters of a pound of cocaine—make it a third of a kilo. The price of coke varies in the Twin Cities. If you’re buying from a black kid in the less desirable blue-collar neighborhood of Frogtown, you might pay seventy-five dollars a gram; from a lily-white kid in upper-crust Lake Minnetonka, it’ll cost you twice that. Anyway, figure an average of a hundred dollars a gram and I was holding thirty-five thousand dollars. It seemed like someone was paying an awful lot of money to set me up.
Who?
It had to be Daniel Khawaja.
If it is, then he’s a moron.
Given that I already had expressed my reason for coming to Thunder Bay to a detective constable of the police service and that nothing had come of it, to call the cops now—anonymously or not—and report that I was transporting drugs would have been silly. It would be like hanging out a sign announcing that I was on the right track. ’Course, criminals have done dumber things. Except, if it was a setup, why hadn’t I been arrested when I claimed the Cherokee or when I drove out of the parking lot? Unless the call had been made to the Ontario Provincial Police and they were waiting to jump me when I left the city and headed for the border.
Ahh, the border. Customs.
I slipped the cocaine out of the pouch, broke open the plastic bag, dumped it over the drain, and used the power hose to flush it, vinyl pouch, plastic bag, electrical tape, and all. Afterward, I searched the Cherokee as if my life depended on it. When I discovered nothing more, I cleaned the vehicle inside and out. By the time I was finished, it sparkled just like it had the day I drove it off the lot. All that was missing was the new car smell.
* * *
I approached the Pigeon River Border Crossing as if I were driving up to a parking lot ticket booth—that is, I was trying real hard to act casually. I powered down my window and handed the border agent my passport. Icy air slapped me in the face. I was sure that was what made me shiver.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” the agent said.
He took my passport and examined it. It seemed to me that he examined it for a very long time. Meanwhile, a second border agent appeared out of nowhere and approached the rear of the Cherokee. In front of the vehicle and off to the right a third agent stood. It seemed to me that his hand was resting awfully close to his gun.
“Open the tailgate, sir,” the agent in the booth said.
“Certainly.”
I opened my car door.
The agent said, “Stay in your car, please.”
The snap of his voice startled me, and I quickly closed the door. I had no intention of leaving the Cherokee. I opened the door to
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