Free Good Intentions (Samogon 1) by Eric Gilliland Page B

and would be staying at the Motel 6 on the south end of the city. They agreed to meet in the parking lot of a Walmart store near the Motel 6. While they talked, Chris could hear a phone ringing in the background and then a woman’s voice: “Boiler Room Lounge. How can I help you?” Chris knew now the name of his customer’s upscale bar. Chris felt a little tired playing these shadow games, but it was, after all, his first big run without Mr. Donovan. Maybe he was overreacting, but the paranoia kept him alert. Complacency he could not afford, not with this big of a load.
    The worrying, watching, and waiting kept him hungry. He ordered a king-size meatlover’s pizza and a pitcher of beer. The slices of Canadian bacon were hickory-smoked and almost three inches around. The ample chunks of Italian sausage had a spicy bite. Thick sliced pepperoni and mozzarella cheese covered the rest of the eighteen-inch pizza. For the next three hours, Chris sat in the pub staring out the window, watching the storage facility, eating pizza, and drinking beer.
    After looking up the address, Chris got in his truck and drove down to the Boiler Room to scout things out. Surprisingly, the bar wasn’t but fifteen minutes away. Chris didn’t know if he would go in and have a drink or what he would do. It was shortly before nine in the evening when he arrived. Right away he knew he didn’t belong.
    The parking lot for the Boiler Room was filled with high-end vehicles, mostly sedans. Mercedes, BMW, Lexus, Cadillac, Jaguar, Audi―you name it, it was parked. At the front door were a doorman and two valets. Everyone coming and going was over forty years of age, well dressed and white. Must be lawyers, doctors and corporate executives , he thought to himself.
    He parked across the street and just sat there, watching from the cab of his truck. He didn’t have any idea what he could do or what he should do, but curiosity had the best of him and so he just sat there watching.
    Chris passed his time thinking of Rochelle and remembering her father’s words — grab that daughter of mine and make her yours. He wanted nothing more than to have Rochelle as his own and have a family with her. At times, though, he thought she was so smart, so beautiful, that he wasn’t good enough to win her heart, or that sooner or later she would move on to someone more promising. Other times, he knew no other man could make her happy.
    Another hour past and then a curious event played out. A black four-door Chevy Impala with government tags pulled into the bar, bypassing the valet and driving right into the parking lot. A man in his late forties exited the driver’s door. He was tall, wearing blue jeans and a simple sports coat. From the passenger-side a woman in her late twenties exited. She too was wearing blue jeans and a suit jacket. Moments later a man exited from the service door of the Boiler Room. The three of them conversed at the front of the Impala. It seemed as if the tall government man was doing all of the talking and all of the bossing around. The other man didn’t seem happy but appeared to be going along with whatever he was being told.
    Chris wasn’t liking this at all. He didn’t like not knowing if the man was his customer. Only one way to tell , he thought. Down from where he was parked was a payphone. Chris quietly got out of his truck and walked to the payphone. He called his customer, ready to hang up. Sure enough, when Chris heard the phone ringing he saw the man in the parking lot reach into his pocket and pull out a cell phone. “Hello?” Click.
    This isn’t happening , Chris said to himself. He drove around Charleston while thinking about what to do. There was no way he could follow through with the sale. Chances were he couldn’t reload the truck before heading home, not with this much heat. Had he not heard that woman’s voice over the phone, had he not driven out to the Boiler Room, in just a few hours he would be in handcuffs and