CHAPTER 25

 

.25.

“Mr. Jimmy, sir,” one of the men called out. He was older than the others, with hands like knotted wood and a voice that sounded like gravel in a blender.

“I’m Mark Miller, sir,” he said, removing his cap. “Lead driver. These here are Bernie Smith and Frank Davis.” Beside him, Bernie and Frank stood like silent bookends, their eyes darting toward the garage entrance as if to check for eavesdroppers.

Jimmy stopped, his hand hovering over the door of the Auburn. “Mark Miller, yes.” He paused for a moment. “I heard you were still running the valley route.”

“We’re running more than the valley, sir,” Mark said, stepping closer. “And we’re doing it on our own time.” He offered a quick, stiff nod of condolence, but he didn’t linger on it. He had the air of a man whose house was on fire and didn’t have time to discuss the weather. “We need a word, sir.”

“What’s going on?” Jimmy asked.

“The company is making us work double overtime, sir. Taking new routes, night routes, way out toward the desert and the coast. Routes that aren’t on any schedule I’ve seen in twenty years. And the trucks, sir…” Mark paused, glancing at his partners. “Sometimes a truck goes missing from the bay. No record of it leaving. We have to sit here and wait for it to come back before we can start our own runs, and we aren’t being paid for the standing time.”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed. “Since when?”

“Started more or less a year ago. I even managed to get a word with your father about it before… before he passed. He said he’d look into the logistics. But nothing changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse since… since Mr. Ole took the chair.” Mark’s voice dropped an octave, turning hard. “There’s talk, sir. In the bays. The men are talking about a strike.”

Jimmy looked at the three of them, the weight of the “King’s” responsibility pressing down on him in the hard midday light. “Have you spoken to Mr. Poulsen about this?”

Mark let out a short, jagged laugh that held no humor. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Jimmy, but Mr. Poulsen is Mr. Ole’s man now. And Mr. Ole? He doesn’t care about the drivers. He only cares about the clocks.”

***

The Auburn’s tires screamed as we exited the parking lot. Jimmy was silent for the first ten miles, his eyes fixed on the road but his mind clearly back in those grease-stained drivers.

I leaned back against the leather seat, the wind whipping my hair. “Night routes,” I mused. “Trucks disappearing and reappearing. Missing records.”

Jimmy didn’t look at me. “It’s a big operation, Ray. Logistics break down.”

“Do they?” I asked, my voice flat. “Or do they get hijacked? Think about it, Jimmy. You’ve got a fleet of trucks that look like they’re carrying nothing but danishes and rye bread. They have legitimate routes all over the state. It’s the perfect cover. You might want to make sure no one is using the RDP fleet to deliver bootleg liquor.”

Jimmy gripped the wheel so hard I thought the wood might splinter. “Not even Ole would be that reckless,” he hissed. “Using the family name to move hooch? That’s a one-way ticket to San Quentin.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But your uncle owns two percent of a company he’s trying to sell for a hundred. He needs capital to look like a King. And liquor is the only thing in this country with a higher margin than sugar.”

Jimmy didn’t argue. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather notebook. “Ron Montano card is inside,” he said, his voice cold. “I’m hiring him for this. I want to know where those trucks are going when the sun goes down. Just in case.”

I looked out at the passing palms and felt the first true chill of the California autumn. The “Viking King” was dead, the drivers were ready to revolt, and the “Danish Prince” was finally starting to look at the shadows.