Straits of Fortune - Anthony Gagliano [51]
I rolled left, and the truck went by like a giant bull.
I got slowly to my feet and looked around. I was on a two-way road with nothing on either side of me except mangrove swamp. There were no streets signs, but I had a fairly good idea of where I was—in the middle of nowhere. The long day, the longest I’d had in quite a while, was heading west where the slate-colored storm clouds were massing and gathering their strength. It was still hot, but an unexpected breeze swirled through the air. It was going to rain big time, and soon.
That far south there was very little traffic on the roads. It would be mostly trucks hauling produce up from the farms in the southern part of Miami-Dade County and maybe a few vans full of migrant laborers heading home. It didn’t matter much. In my orange jumpsuit, the official uniform of illegal aliens, I couldn’t afford to hitchhike. That meant I had to walk—but not along the road. The cops would be looking for me soon; that was for sure. There was also the truck driver of the eighteen-wheeler that had nearly flattened me to think about. He had probably seen me roll out of the way at the last moment, in which case he would simply be glad to have missed hitting me. Or he might decide to use his radio and call it in. Either way I had to get off the road.
I limped into the mangrove swamp and headed east. It began to rain. I had no money, no ride, and no idea what I was going to do.
It was slow going, and after an hour I began wondering if I’d made a mistake by busting out of Krome. But there was no way I could have sat still in there for days without going crazy. At least now I had a chance to get some answers. I could worry about the trouble I was in later.
I was tired, thirsty, and, despite the soup and sandwich, still a bit weak from hunger, but at least I was moving. After another mile of the swamp, I came out onto a side road across the street from a shopping mall that with its neon lights and parking lot full of cars seemed like an oasis. I had never been so glad to see and smell a Burger King in my entire life. What I wanted most was a Whopper, a Coke, and a giant order of fries, but I was broke and still dressed in orange. That was going to have to change.
I ran across the street and stood between a corrugated shed and the loading dock of a Kmart, where six or seven workers were loading boxes into the back of a trailer. A security guard appeared at the edge of the bay and looked casually in my direction. I nearly stopped walking. I wondered if he could see me from where he stood. I was almost tempted to turn around and look when he disappeared back inside the warehouse.
My next concern was clothing. The orange jumpsuit I was wearing was a police magnet, and I needed to get rid of it as soon as possible. Then, across the lot, over near the fence, I spotted one of those giant green metal bins put out by the Police Athletic League for people to donate their old clothes. I headed for it through the last of the rain.
There were only a few cars at that far end of the lot, mainly because it was exactly the kind of place where they tell you not to park if you want to avoid getting hit in the head and robbed. I was fairly certain that there were surveillance cameras covering the lot, but I was equally certain that the men watching them were not terribly observant.
I reached the bin and casually stuck my hand into the opening, like a man trying