Max Collins - Midnight Haul

“Probably. They haven’t gone bankrupt yet, but give ’em time.”

“That’s scary.”

“You’re goddamn right it’s scary. But the way I figure it, you just write the haulers off. Forget about them. They’re just lowlife fucking criminals, and there will always be lowlife fucking criminals around to do the shitwork for the likes of Kemco. It’s Kemco and the other corporations like it that have to be stopped. That have to be made to clean up their acts or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Criminal penalties. Civil penalties. People are going to jail, Crane.”

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“This is what Mary Beth and the others were onto. The midnight hauling. It is something that could’ve got them killed.”

“Of course. Of course! What do you think I’ve been talking about for the last three days?”

“But what do you have on them, Boone, really? Just some photos. A truck coming out of the Kemco plant. A truck being unloaded at a landfill. Photos that could’ve been taken any time.”

“No, Crane. We have pictures of a truck leaving Kemco at night, driving to an out-of-state landfill at night , where fifty or sixty drums were dumped. All very suspicious. And I have a feeling that the license plates on that truck will lead to some independent hauler with a less-than-spotless reputation. No, we have quite a lot for the Hazardous Waste boys to go on.”

“It still strikes me as...”

“Let me guess. Thin? It strikes you as thin? Pearl Harbor would strike you as thin, Crane. Understand this much: New Jersey has a manifest system, and what that means is paperwork; every drum of hazardous waste that exits a plant like Kemco’s is supposed to be recorded, from ‘cradle to grave,’ which is to say from Kemco, to the hauler, to the landfill. Do you suppose all the correct paperwork was filed for last night’s moonlight dumping? Of course not.”

“Jesus.”

“Starting to dawn on you, is it Crane? Just what it is we’re into? Still want me to leave the gun at home?”

Crane managed an embarrassed smile as he reached under the bed, pulled the gun out and handed it to her. “Maybe you ought to start wearing this in your belt,” he told her.

She returned his smile, put the gun on the nightstand, with a clunk. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “Kemco doesn’t know we’re alive.”

“They knew Mary Beth was alive. And now she isn’t.”

“Well at least you seem to be accepting it.”

“What? That Mary Beth’s dead? Or that ‘Kemco killed her.’ People killed her, Boone. Corporations don’t kill people. People kill people.”

“You sound like a bumper sticker.”

“Fuck you,” he said, good-naturedly.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, as they were dressing, Boone said, “I don’t hear you apologizing, this time around.”

“What’s to apologize for? I was terrific.”

“You weren’t bad. Where’s the camera?”

“Why? What did you have in mind?”

“No, seriously.”

“Didn’t you bring it in with you?”

“I was so tired last night all I could think about was flopping into bed. I must’ve left it in the car. Anyway, I want to get that film developed this afternoon. Do you want to come to Princeton with me?”

“No. I still have some people in Greenwood to talk to. I think you can handle the ‘Hazardous Waste Strike Force’ by yourself... though the notion of seeing you trying to work with some Jack Webb type tempts me to go along.”

“You can stay home and baby-sit with Billy.”

“Ouch.”

They were ready to leave.

Crane opened the door for her. “There’s a coffee shop down by the motel office. You want some breakfast?”

“Sure. Walk down or drive?”

“Drive. Why not be lazy?”

They got in the car.

The camera was gone.

“Shit!” Boone said.

They had searched the car thoroughly, looked all around it, underneath it, checked with the motel manager, everything. The camera was gone. Now they stood next to the car, one on either side of it, its doors standing open. Stood and stared at the car as if it might speak to them. It didn’t.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she said.

“Boone,” Crane said.

“Cocksuckers. The cocksuckers!”

A man a few doors down from their room was coming out of his; he looked at them with wide eyes, having heard what Boone just said, then walked quickly past them toward the coffee shop, looking at the ground as he did.

“Boone,” Crane said. “Please settle down.”

“Settle down my ass!”

He closed the car doors.

She was pacing. Then she stopped and pointed a finger at him.

“Now what do you think, skeptic? Now what do you think?”

“I think we ought to have some breakfast.”

“You think we ought to have some breakfast. You’re unbelievable.”

“Let’s have some breakfast and talk about this before we head back.”

She paced some more.

Then she said, “Okay. All right.”

She walked ahead of him. She walked fast, propelled by anger. He followed her into the small coffee shop and they took a booth by a window overlooking the highway. Trucks were rolling by, normally an innocuous enough sight; not today.

He ordered coffee and some biscuits; she asked for tea, in a tone of voice that scared the waitress.

“Take it easy, Boone.”

“Jesus you’re a wimp.”

“Boone. Just settle down.”

“Aren’t you mad, Crane? Aren’t you the slightest bit pissed off?”

“Of course I am. It’s just at the moment, you seem to have the hysteria market cornered.”

She let go a wry little smile at that; couldn’t help herself.

“You’ve made your point,” she conceded. “But do you realize what this means?”

“What does it mean.”

“Somebody knows what we’re up to. It means somebody’s trying to stop us.”

He took one of her hands in two of his. He smiled at her in such a way as to remind her, he hoped, that they’d been in bed together not too long ago.

“Boone,” he said, “I admit it’s possible we were seen by those truckers last night. That they followed us and stole the camera.”

She pulled her hand away. “Possible? What else could it have been?”

“Maybe your ex is on to your Kemco investigation. Maybe we were seen in your Datsun staking out the place.”

She thought about that.

“You think it might have been somebody from Patrick’s end of it who took the camera? Not the truckers.”

“Possibly,” he shrugged. “We were following the truck. Maybe somebody was following us.”

She thought about that, too.

The coffee and biscuits came; the tea, too.

“And,” Crane said, quietly, carefully, “there’s another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Somebody walked by and saw a camera in the car and stole it.”

“What?”

“Back in Iowa, when you leave a camera in an unlocked car overnight, you aren’t shocked when it’s gone the next morning. Is it different in New Jersey?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“Well, that makes all the difference.”

“Somebody happened along and just stole it, you mean. Just coincidentally stole it.”

“Boone, there’s nothing coincidental about a hundred-and-fifty-buck camera getting stolen out of an unlocked car.”

She slammed a small but china-rattling fist against the tabletop between them. People were looking at them.

“You just won’t believe it, will you, Crane? You just aren’t capable of accepting what’s really happening here.”