First Thrills - Lee Child [64]
Twinkle snorted again. “You don’t know, for real?”
Shorty shook his head and the light from his lamp danced around the cabin like the return of E.T.
Twinkle resettled the hammer and lowered the gun. “Guess that’s why you ain’t packing.”
“Exactly,” Shorty agreed. “I’m not packing because . . .” He hesitated, then sighed. “Really, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Heroin,” said Twinkle. “Sixty keys.”
“That a lot?”
“When it’s pure, uncut bone, baby. One hundred Gs a key.”
Shorty whistled. “Six million dollars. And somebody put it on a bus?”
Twinkle grinned, his Hollywood caps reflecting the light. “Who’s gonna rob a bus?”
“Except you.”
Twinkle shook his head. “ ’Cept you, Shorty. I work Wednesdays, ’member? The Washington run. Ask anybody.”
As the double-crossing realization hit, the blood drained from Shorty’s face. It didn’t have far to go.
“Keep opening bags.” Twinkle lifted his gun into the light as a reminder. “Find me the barking dogs.”
Shorty tossed suitcases and boxes aside, searching for the likeliest suspects, until he discovered four black canvas bags with reinforced seams and heavy-duty zippers.
“Here’s your barkers,” he said.
“Dogs,” corrected Twinkle. He moved in closer. “Heroin is called ‘dog.’ ”
“Ahh,” said Shorty as if he understood. “Because you have to be barking-mad to use it?”
Twinkle was unamused. “You’re a lost cause. Always have been. Open the damn bags.”
Shorty turned his attention and his headlamp to the bags. They were each locked with a tiny padlock.
“Who, in their right mind, thinks these locks do any good?” he said. “I mean, really. You can get better ones out of a gumball machine.”
“Just open them,” Twinkle growled. “Save the commentary for your eulogy.”
Shorty pulled a pair of folding snips from his pants pocket and snipped off all four locks.
“Open them,” Twinkle ordered.
The first bag contained twenty vacuum-packed squares of white powder. The next two bags contained the same, but the fourth bag held money. Lots of it. One hundred dollar bills, crisp and smooth, bundled in packages of 50. If Shorty’s math was right, and it usually was, there were at least 120 bundles.
Shorty whistled. “That’s not pocket change.”
“I wasn’t expecting any money,” said Twinkle.
“Oh, good. Can I have it?”
Twinkle sneered. “You can’t use it where you’re going.”
Shorty sighed and zipped up the bags. Bigger men than Twinkle had threatened him in his time, but none rankled quite so much.
“So how you getting off?” he asked.
Twinkle nodded toward the large loading doors that ran along the side. “I sure as hell ain’t going all the way to Boston. Open the doors.”
“They’re locked.”
Twinkle lifted the gun and pointed it at Shorty’s crotch.
“I hear you only got one ball, Shorty. Want me to even you up?”
Grumbling to himself, Shorty slipped the snips back into his pocket and returned with a stubby screwdriver that held six different bits. With the flick of his thumb, he made the Torx head shoot out of the compact handle and lock in place. Shorty settled in front of the loading door and worked his magic. Within seconds, the doors were ready to be opened.
“What about the driver?” Shorty asked. “He’s bound to notice.”
Twinkle cut him off with a snort. “He’s gettin’ paid enough to ignore what’s in his mirrors.”
Shorty spun around. “So everybody’s in on this except me?”
Twinkle grinned. “Somebody had to be the fall guy.”
“Fuck!”
Twinkle brought the gun barrel close enough to caress Shorty’s cheek. “What you waitin’ for?”
Shorty heaved open the doors to bathe the compartment in blinding daylight. A hurricane rushed inside, ripping open the lids of unzipped suitcases and forcing the loose contents to take flight.
Twinkle screamed as a giant pair of old-lady bloomers leeched onto his face. Its breathable cotton crotch stuffed itself into his mouth and became lodged in his throat. When Twinkle finally yanked the choking garment free, Shorty’s clenched fist was closing in.
Shorty hit him with everything he had, sharp knuckles against soft cartilage,