A Courier with Morals by D. S. Stewart

Rasmus Dreyer eyes the edge of the macadam, screening the underbrush, the rows of apple trees, the delectable fruit that deer like to forage. It’s from the roadsides where the deer come, darting from the shadows in a shattering second, frozen by fear, leaping through the windshield onto the lap of the driver. The high beam shovels away the darkness, the road spanning over rolling hills, upstate, its post-carded portraits of redwood farmhouses, and white picket fences. Only Pleiades and Saturn provide company and those colliding black holes scientists are constantly clamoring about, making him feel small, insignificant.

At three a.m. in the brittle, dry air stars dazzle. His radio reaches Chicago, a twenty-four hour jazz station in the Windy City. On the outskirts he slows down, obeying the single traffic light. A yellow bulb burns in the sheriff’s office, the deputy asleep. Towards the far end of the ghost town- four adjacent corrugated cement buildings with aluminum awnings- is a filling station. Two soda machines shine in Coca-cola red and American blue.

Rasmus turns left smelling the noxious fumes from the ailing carburetor; the Oldsmobiles’s tailpipe grumbles as he accelerates. He drives off the pavement onto dirt passing a trailer. In front of the trailer is an assortment of car engines and fenders, washers and dryers. The hulls glow like skeletons. Ennui exudes like your oldest boring kin; even the guard dog sleeps. Rasmus keeps the motor running. One time he shut off the engine and could not restart. He had to leave the car, stolen at that, with over six thousand dollars of pharmaceuticals, and a steering wheel of fingerprints. Mayo blamed him, “Rasmus, you might want to learn how to swim.” The implication to Rasmus, a non-swimmer, was obvious.

A padlocked fence blocks the clearing. Rasmus parks, turns off his lights, and easily surmounts the six foot fence. Twenty yards is another fence with barbed wire atop which after tossing over a heavy burlap blanket, he straddles. In his left hand he holds a semi-automatic and in his right a cellophane bag full of enough fentanyl to kill a regiment in today’s be all you can be Army. He walks without a flashlight. He checks his chest for the tiny red laser that means he’s about to have a very bad day. On his knees, he lifts the slab. A suitcase is in the hole. He drops the package into the suitcase and snaps it shut.

At the edge of the field, beasts lumber towards him. The cows don’t give a damn but they always seem to notice. He’s been a vegetarian for nine years. He doesn’t like eating animals that suffer just to feed his gut. Mayo thinks he’s stupid. A courier with morals.

The other drops go without incident. Keeping to the backroads, he meets no cars. When he finally turns into his lot, the horizon has begun to light. Soaked with sweat, in the chilled air his body shivers. He requires several tries to fit the key into his lock. Once inside, he rubs his hands over the grille of a gas floor heater. The gas has yellowed his wallpaper. He shoves a pile of clothes off the sofa and lies down. An intermittent drip of water comes from the faucet in the kitchen. Fungus specks over the plates, and leftovers. Roaches scurry though he’s been putting out poison which has slowed their assault. Each morning there will be a half dozen in their death throes, on their backs kicking towards the sky. He wonders if that might be an omen as to how he might die. The wastebasket is overflowing. Banana peels, six ounce beer bottles, an empty can of pinto beans, a crumpled enema for his IBS, triumphs on top.

As soon as Rasmus falls asleep, his cell phone rings. Mayo is an insomniac. Mayo is also a pseudonym, the name given to Rasmus the night they met in the parking lot at McDonald’s. Mayo wore a three piece suit with a diamond tie-clasp, pressed trousers, button-downed collars. His shirtsleeves were pinned with jade cufflinks. Rasmus was a recently graduated high school Vo Tech double major who didn’t really want to inherit his father’s successful plumbing business. He never cared much for the smell of shit. Rasmus started working for Mayo, peddling bags of crack to local dealers.

“All good,” Rasmus replies on Signal. He expects that Mayo has a woman sleeping next to him which accounts for his whispering. Mayo is a distinguished citizen, a member of the Chamber of Commerce. His name is Buddy Bragan, but if I told you how I know that I would have to kill you.

Rasmus wants to end his association with Mayo. In the beginning Mayo promised it was a short term association, but once you are in with Mayo you are in for good. Mayo has two former UFC fighters working for him, one white, the other Black. The white man’s face is contorted like he’s been hitting too many steroids, flattening his cheeks, buttoning back his ears. Rasmus bets the guy is likely impotent but it’s not a subject Rasmus plans to discuss. The fighter chews gum constantly. Inside his coat pocket he keeps a straight-edge and a .380. In his trunk he has a baseball bat, chains with hooks on the end, and a blowtorch. When Rasmus saw that he thought of all the godawful ways that he might die. Rasmus knows that was the point of viewing the trunk.

“You’ve been thinking of leaving, Rasmus?”

“Nah, I would not want to do that.”

“That’s good Rasmus because it would make Mr. Mayo unhappy. And when he is unhappy he makes us unhappy. So me and Walter, we ask ourselves why should we be miserable because of Rasmus? You can understand.”

Rasmus wants to disappear to Albuquerque, perhaps living in one of those deserted locales that was on Breaking Bad. He has a sister in Santa Fe. Mayo would know that and might surveil his sister who is a schoolteacher who identifies as they/them. He’s unsure whether Mayo would think he moved to New Mexico. It’s such an obvious move but then he doubts Mayo has a theory of mind and just operates on instinct. Rasmus knew one courier who tried to leave. He got run-down in the middle of a street in Syracuse. The driver backed up the van and ran over him several times. Passersby were powerless to prevent it.

One of the ways a courier can leave is to provide a recruit. If Rasmus can find a replacement, there is a chance Mayo might show mercy and give him his freedom. Or Rasmus could go straight to the police who might give him a new name. New digs. A long shot really. But his sister and her two children would be vulnerable. As far as Rasmus knows Mayo has never hurt any mother or children, though there’s always a first time.

Mayo investigates every recruit. This background check was one of the things that impressed Rasmus when Mayo hired him. Mayo knew the name of Rasmus’s girlfriend, the bars he frequented, what Rasmus did for fun–billiards and pot limit Omaha. He knew about a stolen car and a few other misdemeanors.

Rasmus has a recruit in mind–Benny. He’s been loaning Benny money for years. Close to 9k not counting interest. Building up a debt that Benny has yet to repay and probably thinks has been forgotten or forgiven. Benny works as a dryer at Hot Wax. Benny has shaggy hair tied in a pony tail. Around his forehead he wears a red sweatband. In the bright sunshine, his eyes are like two black rectangles, the kind of sunglasses that darken with the intensity of light. He has on a pair of fatigue pants, and a gray sweatshirt.

The owners of the car wash request that drivers remain with their cars, so Rasmus gets to see the giant buffers and rollers at work. He watches the nozzles spray jets of water, blurring the windshield. The automatic treadmill trams the car out the end through a ragged series of streamers that are supposed to dry the car but always fail. Rasmus rolls down his window.

“So how you doing, Benny?”

“That you, Rasmus? You getting too lazy to wash your own car?” Benny grins, his hands working in wide circles. Rasmus sees the reflection of Benny on the hood.

“I thought we might talk,” Rasmus says.

“Kinda busy.”

“So take a break.”

“You think you can spell me?” Benny asks a tall Hispanic male. The man’s face is frozen in a petulance that makes every gesture appear threatening but he gives the “thumb’s up” sign, and says, “fifteen minutes.”

Benny climbs into the car. Rasmus smells the carnauba wax on Benny’s rag, like cheap herbal shampoo. Over the winter the wax has yellowed Benny’s fingernails. Benny looks at his reflection in the rear-view mirror and runs his slender fingers through his hair as a comb.

“So?” Rasmus asks.

Rasmus has never hurt Benny. He outweighs Benny by a hundred pounds. Benny is rail-thin. He claims pot cured his asthma, but Benny wheezes when he breathes. Four years ago, Benny was hitting heroin. He lived in a warehouse. Benny lost part of his big toe to a big toe eating rat; he was too weak to fight him off. A building inspector found him. The courts committed Benny to a mental hospital. Eventually, the doctors transferred him into an alcohol and drug program where he received treatment. The meds worked. But when he sees someone hustling on the streets, he starts shaking.

Benny got his job at the car wash through a day treatment program. Before his job at Hot Wax, he worked as a trash collector. That is where Rasmus met Benny. He and Benny used to ride on the same truck. Both got fired for harboring garbage. On Sundays, Rasmus and Benny would go to the dump and collect the refuse they had hid- knickknacks, occasionally a bronze doorknob, toys, a rare piece of china or silverware, millennials dumping all the shit their boomer parents hoarded. It amazed Rasmus what the kids considered unworthy. Most of the time the televisions actually worked. Their scheme cut into Mr. Davis who ran the dump. Rasmus and Benny were fired for being too slow at collecting, but both knew the real reason: for shafting Mr. Davis.

“So when are you going to have my money?” Rasmus asks. Benny places his hands on his knees and leans forward. Scars bubble-up and ripple down his wrists.

“What are we talking about?” Benny asks.

“$4000 now and we call it even. No interest because you and me, we go way back.”

“I don’t have it,” Benny says.

“Cindy showed me a set of pearls. She says you bought them for her.”

“On credit. You probably don’t know this. But oysters got a caste system. I took the lowest rung.”

Rasmus sits letting the desperation effuse throughout the car. It is a man’s most dangerous tell. To an animal like a bear or tiger, it’s a signal to attack.

“I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to give your name to my employer. I think he can put you in a better line of work. Give you more status than a car dryer. What do you think?”

“I’ll have to ask Mr. Stewart.” Mr. Stewart is Benny’s therapist. Benny tells me that Mr. Stewart and he talk for forty minutes but the sessions always boil down to two questions: are you clean and are you happy? Mr. Stewart got Benny the job at Hot Wax.

“Maybe, Mr. Stewart doesn’t need to know,” Rasmus says. “Like cheating on your taxes.”

When Benny gets out of the car, his Hispanic boss walks over, throws a wet rag at him, and hollers he is late. He points at his wristwatch. Watching Benny cower under the man’s glare, Rasmus feels confident Benny will agree to be a courier if Mayo will have him.

Before returning to his trailer, Rasmus stops at the local airport and checks the fares for a trip to New Mexico. A commuter flight can take him to New York and from there he can fly to New Mexico. He has enough money to make a new start for himself.

He decides not to call his sister. That way if she doesn’t want him, it will be too late. Though they rarely see each other, he’s her only family. Besides, the kids need an uncle.

II

Rasmus watches Benny shimmy under the barbed wire. A gibbous moon hangs at the end of the field, magnified by its low trajectory settling on top of a stand of yellow pine. Benny sprints into the field. The outline of Benny appears as a blue apparition. Mayo liked Benny. And after Mayo delivered his sales pitch, $2000 a week tax free, Rasmus knew Benny would accept.

Mayo acts normal at first. Avuncular. No one pays attention to the switchblade in his pants pocket. Also, status impresses Benny; and the one thing that Mayo has is status. The perfect cravat and tailored Brooks Brothers Suit. And no more wet rags.

Benny returns, out of breath. He wears a $600 flight jacket with a fur-lined collar. Benny bought it with an advance. Benny now owes Mayo money; Mayo has Benny in the palm of his hand. Rasmus shows Benny the rest of the drops: an abandoned well, a deserted boat dock, a hollow engine in the rear of a junkyard. Benny stuffs the sealed bags into the prefigured holes.

Now that Benny was established, Rasmus told Mayo he would be leaving. He didn’t tell him where but letting him know was the only way he could sleep at night. Otherwise, he’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Mayo’s face stiffened as if he had just had a stroke; his mouth snarled, a fierce brutality leaped into his eyes, but then abruptly, departed. ”So why mess up a good thing for yourself?” Mayo asked.

“I can’t do this forever,” Rasmus said.

“Some do.”

“I’d like to travel. Maybe overseas. Take a cruise.”

“So Benny’s your replacement?”

“He’s solid.”

“But will he stay loyal? If the man decides to be disloyal, then you know that could be a problem. And a Benny problem is a Rasmus problem.”

“He’s a good man, Mayo.”

Rasmus watches Benny shimmy beneath the fence, his hands uncurling the tabs with pliers. Rasmus hears the watchdogs bark inside. Normally, they roam but on drop-days they curl up with their snotty noses and sleep the slumber of working German Shepherds. Maybe they dream of  Czechoslovakia from where they come. Rasmus would like to visit Czechoslovakia but he’s worried about drones. Isn’t the country close to Ukraine? What are the odds a wayward missile might land on his head?

Watching Benny hurry back he sees himself eight years ago, selling himself, selling his future to Mayo. Benny has no idea how ruthless Mayo can be. “Turn up that heater, I’m freezing,” Benny says, his breath fogging the window.

“You don’t need to run. The last thing you need to do is step in some hole and hurt yourself.”

“Okay. Let’s get some breakfast. I’m buying.”

Benny is ebullient. Rasmus remembers his first route, how he had calculated by night’s end how he would spend his thousand dollars. He was not as generous as Benny. Turns out Benny is a swell guy. “Rain check,” Rasmus says.

Rasmus drives Benny to his car. When he asked Benny why he had parked two miles below his trailer in the woods, Benny told him that Mayo had suggested it. Rasmus decides that before he leaves, he will tell Benny about Mayo’s paranoia that always flares when business is booming; strip searches for weapons before you meet him, the late-night phone calls you must answer, being tailed for the first few years. He owes Benny that much.

Rasmus drives down the dirt lane, the car bumping on the rutted road. Tapered pine trees hover on both sides brandishing towards the sky. He pulls in beside the Plymouth. Rasmus notices that the muffler hangs by a coatwire. He tells Benny to replace the muffler. “Bad tail-lights and tailpipes draw police like carrion draws flies.”

“Get out, Rasmus.” Benny says the words so softly as if asking a favor but then Rasmus sees the nozzle of the gun, silvery, oiled, and pointed at him, and realizes Benny may not be such a swell guy after all.

“Jesus, Benny.”

“Get out, Rasmus.” Meaning business, Benny thrusts the gun into his side.

“All-right, I’m going,” Rasmus says. He steps out of the car, hears the snap of pine needles, the soft mat of straw, smells the acrid exhaust from the carburetor. Darkness swallows them. As they enter the woods, Rasmus stumbles. His heart beats behind his ears, in his throat, his stomach. Rasmus stops and heaves. “Keep moving, Rasmus.”

Rasmus wipes the spittle on his sleeve. His voice is dry and croaking. “Benny?”

“Keep walking.”

“Did Mayo put you up to this? You need to know something about him. You can’t trust him. Whatever he told you about me. I promise you it isn’t true.”

“You know what, Rasmus? You always talked too much.”

Rasmus hears the gurgle of a creek. Means they are almost a mile into the woods. The underbrush is thick, the ground mushy. Rasmus’s boots stick in the mud.

“You won’t get away with it,” Rasmus says.  For an instant, Rasmus thinks he feels a waver, Benny reconsidering, but then he realizes he was wrong; the straw filled ground welcoming his chest, and Benny, his replacement, not knowing you never shoot someone in the back, straddling over him, readying to fire again.

D. S. Stewart

Image: Drug paraphanalia – Lines of coke, a rozor blade and a baggie on black background from Pixabay.com