Page 22 of Goodbye Paradise
“What’s the matter?” Caleb asked when we finally stopped moving. “Did you really just get a flat?”
“Sure did.”
“Hell. Can we change it ourselves? Those big rims are probably dangerous.”
“Correct, son. We gotta call a tire shop to come out and do it for us.” He reached for his phone and dropped it into his shirt pocket. Then he unhooked his seatbelt.
“Is this gonna set you back?” Caleb worried. “I know you keep a tight schedule.”
“Sure will. But that ain’t the biggest problem. This isnotin a good place to be stranded. And I gotta set flares, it’s a safety regulation.” He removed a molded plastic box from under the driver’s seat and popped it open. “Imma be right back. Now stay in the truck, you hear? This here is ashittyneighborhood. With a capital ‘shit.’ You sit tight.”
When Washington left the truck, Caleb slid into the driver’s seat, watching from the rear-view mirror. After the flares were set, Washington stood in front of his truck, making his phone call. Then he took a walk around the truck again to look at the tire.
Although this stretch of road was awfully quiet, before long, a car stopped, pulling up in front of us.
“That isnotthe tire truck. That guy looks like a real punk,” Caleb said unhappily. “And why would you park right there, if you weren’t trying to look intimidating?”
I looked, and saw thattwoguys got out of the sedan. Both of them were all muscle, wearing T-shirts with the arms ripped off, and bandanas tied on their heads.
Slowly, as if trying not to make any noise, Caleb eased the driver’s door open a couple of inches so that he could listen.
The men walked slowly toward Washington, their eyes roaming the truck.
“Get down,” Caleb hissed. He and I dipped our heads to avoid attention.
“What you hauling, old man?” one of the men asked Washington. “You need some help?”
“No thank you. I already called roadside assistance. They’re on the way.”
“Why don’t you show us what’s in the truck?”
All the hair stood up on the back of my neck.
Washington’s voice was calm, though. “Can’t do that, son. Against the rules. I need this job. The load is for a paper company, though. Couldn’t be nothing too interesting.”
That was a lie, though. Washington had told us last night that he was hauling a whole lot of bottled wine for a California distributor.
Caleb ducked down, grabbing his backpack off the floor.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer me.
Outside, the men had stepped even closer to Washington, and now I was sweating. “Where your keys at?” the bigger man pressed.
“Don’t do that,” Washington warned. “Roadside is going to pull up, anyway.”
“I don’t see nobody coming.”
I couldn’t see Washington now, I could only hear his voice. But the next thing he said was, “getyour hands off me!”
“Where’s your wallet, pops? Is it in your cab?Yo. Check the cab!”
And now I was in a full panic.
Caleb grabbed my wrist. “Josh,” he hissed. “Don’tmovefrom your seat unless one of those guys is climbing in here.” The next second he disappeared out the door.
I held my breath, wondering what he thought he was going to do to help. And that’s when I heard the cock of a gun.
