Scout’s Honor: Chapter 5

Piece of Cake

Behind the wheel of Roy’s tricked-out Malibu, Eddie pulled into the A&W the next day, thinking—hoping—he looked pretty cool for once. The burger joint was mobbed, cars circling the lot for a parking spot beneath its sagging orange canopy. Teenagers slouched across the picnic tables near the front door, catching the last of the July sun. A couple twelve-year-olds rode past Eddie on their Schwinns, popping acrobatic wheelies no one noticed. He looked for a salt-rusted, red Toyota, and was relieved when he failed to see it. Maybe the deal was off. Maybe he was truly done with Roy Cross. Eddie turned up the car radio, jamming his misgivings about running marijuana. A moment later, he spied the tattered Toyota behind a camper, eased into a tight spot, and waved the pair toward him, curious about the Customs guy. 

“There he is, Music Man,” Roy said. “Does he look normal or what? Now you can decide for yourself about the easiest ten grand you’ll ever make.” Barbiturate calm from a red, he’d been selling Eddie Kawadsky to the dubious Tommy for the better part of an hour, retailing his boyhood friend as another Tommy: someone so bland, so banal no inspector would ever look twice at him. Roy lit a cigarette with his Dunhill lighter, grabbed a greasy white paper bag, stepped out of the sedan and stretched. He put his arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “You know, T, what if we not even call it coke when we talk to Eddie or maybe just call it the shit? In case somebody’s trying to overlook our conversation.”

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” Tommy said, as shocked as he was pleased by Roy’s newfound caution. 

 “Yo, Wad,” Roy called from a couple cars away, pulling a joint from behind his ear. “Let’s toke up. It’ll make this shit taste delicious.” He waved the paper bag. 

“Damn it, Roy.” Tommy pleaded. “Hide that. There’s like a hundred people here. Come on.” 

“It’s cool.” Roy shrugged. “I got you a cheeseburger and a root beer float, Wad. What’d you think about the ride?” 

“Whoa, it’s like flying. I ran it up to La Jolla in nothing flat. My van’s a wagon compared to this rocket.” Eddie caught himself before claiming it was better than sex, certain he wore his virginity like a merit badge. He raved about the car, the looks it drew, the way it cornered, the chromed rims—everything down to the 8-track tape deck—until he realized that Roy, intent on selling him, would let him prattle on forever. He sighed. Changing gears, he glanced about, appraising the A&W. “This place could double its business if they paved that dirt lot. They could add twenty parking spots.”

“Dude, what about our business? Let’s double that,” Roy said.

“Tell me about your setup.” 

“It’s pretty simple,” said Tommy. “There’s nineteen lines—you say lanes, we say lines— at the border. Each day, the shift supervisor has to figure out a random schedule for us so…,” he paused, glanced at his ragged sneakers, sighed. “So we can’t collude with, you know, smugglers. So we start in a random booth, then each hour we move to the next one, the guy who starts in Line 1 moves to Line 2, then to 3 and so on. Simple rotation. With me?”

“Yep. The boss picks the opening slots out of a hat and after that everyone goes in order.”

“Bingo.” Tommy was surprised again, this time that Roy could have a friend so quick. Maybe one last deal—ten thousand was a fortune. “Except our bosses don’t use hats and some of them have been doing it so long their random isn’t that random. I figured out one old guy’s system, uses the first letters of his family’s names for line numbers. So we make sure he’s on when King comes through with the stuff.”

“What if he’s not on duty?” Eddie’s thoughts sprinted from picking the plan apart to wondering whether marijuana should even be illegal to Roy’s proven unreliability and then to the money. The money. The money that would allow him to attend the university full-time and be flying years sooner. Everyone smoked pot. Everyone knew it was better for you than alcohol and that it’d been the liquor industry alone that had it outlawed. Yes, it made you stupid and hungry, but where was the harm in that? Was sneaking an innocuous drug across the border really a sin? How risky was it? Roy wasn’t a total moron and he’d been running pot for years. And the money would free him. Instead of coddling the Inn’s neurotic rich, he could be his own man. 

“We only plan it for shifts he’s working. Like Monday night.”

“But what if he gets sick or forgets his own system, or traffic’s too heavy and you have to switch lines or go on break before we get there? It’s not guaranteed, is it?” Eddie quizzed, watching Tommy’s reaction, ignoring Roy. The greasy burger dripping in his hands was the only free lunch he’d ever get from Roy Cross. 

“There’s always a traffic jam, always some wait,” Tommy said, improvising. “While you’re sitting there idling, you can hop out, walk over to the pedestrian Customs, you know, on the right-hand side, and get close enough to see if I’m in the booth. If I’m there, go back to the car. If not, make Roy drive through alone and bus it home.”

“Way to go, T,” Roy hooted. “Wad, you see Tommy, you drive home; if you don’t, you take the ‘Hound.’”

Eddie bit off a chunk of burger and chewed slowly, giving himself a chance to think. This was way too good to be true. “What about my van? If Roy gets arrested, they’ll keep it, won’t they?”

“Yeah, they’d impound it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Roy slammed the dashboard. “The King goes down and you’re worried about that piece of crap? Fuck it, make it two grand. Deal?”

“How much, how many pounds of—”

“You don’t want to know, man,” Roy snapped. “You know what you want to know? Nothing. More insurance. Anyone ever asks you, you don’t have clue one. You’re clean.” Roy’s fingers trembled. He regretted not taking the other red. He lit a fresh cigarette, sucking the smoke deep, fearing the deal might blow, wondering whether to throw more money at Eddie. 

“Two thousand in cash before we leave the Riviera and if I don’t see Tom in the right line, I walk to the bus station? That’s your offer?”

“I’m shaking on it,” Roy said, extending his hand. 

 “I don’t get it.” Eddie was struggling against his judgment. Something must be wrong. Roy was offering too much. But he’d begun aching for it, the money that would launch him off the carrier deck. “If it works like you said, you don’t need me. Why pay me so much?”

“I wouldn’t pay anyone else that much,” Roy said, “but we’re old buds and I kind of, like, owe you for before—”

“That’s bullshit,” Tommy interrupted. “I’m making him do it. Look at him, all this stupid leather—this ridiculous vest—he looks like a pimp. Or this crazy car. How many times does a guy dressed like Mick Jagger bomb through in a hot convertible before Secondary pulls him over behind me? The surfing, your van with the boards, and all your stuff is a perfect cover. With you—a normal guy—and your VW, it’s a piece of cake.” 

“I don’t know.” Eddie chomped into the burger, chewing deliberately. Tommy seemed sensible. “I need to think it over.”

“Look, Eddie,” Tommy began. “I’d feel the same way in your shoes, but a week from Friday is my last day. Monday’s the only day my schedule matches with that old supervisor’s. It’s now or never.”

“Why did you quit?” Eddie asked. 

Tommy looked toward the pick-up window, seemingly distracted by the spirited kids on their bikes. After a moment, he said, “We’ve made so much doing this I can take a year off. Travel with my wife Dolores and our kids.”

Eddie swallowed, contemplating what he could accomplish with a couple years off, imagining himself supersonic in an F-4. He glanced from Tommy to Roy, weighing the two, half-convinced by Tommy, certain Roy was trouble. A natural businessman, Eddie had yet to learn that the thrill of the chase—of cutting a brilliant deal—could veneer the merits off the prize. He countered. “Three thousand and I’ll consider it.” 

“Three thou? No way. Kiss my ass.” 

“Three thousand and kiss your own ass,” said Eddie. 

 “You’re fucking me. Hey, there’s a cop,” Roy said, as a squad car swung into the drive-in. Roy jumped up onto his seat in the open Malibu and yelled at the patrolman. “Officer, officer, help. This guy’s trying to rob me.”

“Would you cool it?” Tommy grabbed his wrist, tugging him down, his eyes wild with fear. “Please. Take it out of my share.” 

“No way, T. You got kids. The King will pay this dick three large, but if he asks for another goddamn dime, I’m…” he paused, and then adopting a credible Donald Duck voice, added, “I’m going to have my big brothers beat you up, you big bully.” 

Their laughter eased the tension. 

Tommy sagged with relief and glanced up at the blue sky, allowing himself a vision of driving his small family through forgiving forests on their way north. Maybe Seattle. “Got to go, guys. See you Monday.”

Roy drove Eddie back to the Inn, his forefinger steering from the bottom of the wheel, singing with the radio, his free hand failing to keep time. He pulled a paper from his leather pants and read off a list, his lips moving. “You still got your old man’s gun?”

“So?”

“Don’t bring it Monday.”

“Why not?” 

“Think about it, dude. If that million-to-one screw-up happens and you walk across the border while the King goes down, the gun adds years. Cool? No guns.”

Eddie often worried about the .45, his second-most prized possession. His van was as easy to break into as it was to unlock, and the thought of losing his father’s Colt distressed him. He weighed stashing it in the bushes, but then remembered the gardeners, the moisture, and salt air. 

“So you’re in?” Roy nodded, checking the gun off his list, ignoring Eddie’s failure to respond.

“I’ll let you know.”

Watching him drive off, Eddie decided to walk away. He had little fear of getting caught, thinking he could parry a border inspector even if he ended up in the wrong lane. He thought he could handle pressure. When a Tenderfoot had drowned years before, he alone among the panicked Scouts had scrambled down the bluff, fished the bluish body from the stream, and calmed the troop until the drunken Scoutmaster returned. Eddie knew thousands of cars pulsed across the border daily, only a handful searched, and guessed he could ingratiate himself with any inspector, using the charm he’d honed at the Inn. It was neither the risk nor the morality—marijuana was a waste of time, nothing worse—but dishonoring his father that had him saying no.

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