Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Friend, this isn’t about money. Me and Travis, we broke out three days ago. We’ve been hiding out around here ever since. What we need is a ride out, understand? Now, Travis, he says he can drive a big rig. But, me, I got my doubts. So you’re going to be the chauffeur, understand?”

“I . . .”

“A ride, pal. That’s all. We don’t need to make this a murder rap. You can’t see what I look like, and Travis’s going to be behind you . . . in that sleeper . . . all the way. You get us to where we need to go, we jump out, you keep driving. Far as we’re concerned, you can tell the cops the truth after that—we’ll be over the border.”

“The border? I’m not set up for—”

“Yeah, you are, pal. You don’t have to make the crossing into Canada. All we need to do is get close. The rest of the way, we go on foot, get it? Now, let’s go. Either you be the chauffeur, or we find out if Travis can really drive. Your choice.”

I had him open the cab, turn his head to face me as Ann climbed inside and got in back. I let him get in from the passenger side, the scattergun so close he never even thought about doing anything but obeying, me right behind.

We pulled out of the parking lot and headed north.

“Your name’s Norman?” I asked the driver, glancing at his license. I’d made him hand over his wallet, but hadn’t touched the bills inside. “What do your friends call you? Norm?”

“Hoss, my friends call me Hoss.”

“Used to play some ball, huh?”

“In high school,” he said modestly. “Defensive end.”

“Uh,” I said, thinking of Pop, “must have been brutal.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“Neither is this, Hoss. I promise you. Just keep this rig rolling, don’t be silly with the lights, you know the deal.”

“I got you. Don’t worry.”

“We’re not worried. Are we, Travis?”

For answer, Ann stuck the tip of a hunting knife just behind the driver’s ear, then flicked the lobe.

He shuddered.

I shared a sympathetic look with him. “That’s right, partner. Be glad it’s me holding this shotgun and not Travis. He is one stone-crazy psycho motherfucker.”

We were gone almost an hour when the CB crackled with the news that any trucker in the area could go pedal-to-metal without worrying about the law. Seems the troopers were all converging on the spot where some drunken lunatic was driving a bulldozer right through some little town. I mean through the town. Had the ’dozer all covered up in sheet metal, like a damn tank, one of them said. And the driver was armed. Kept shooting out windows and stuff like that, too.

“Kee-rist!” Hoss said. “Some people.”

“That’s the truth,” I agreed.

The roads were near-empty. A light rain came and went. And the big rig motored right on through, just a tad over the limit. Hoss and I talked about football, women, and prison. . . . He was real interested in prison.

I gentled him down, working the job. When you need people to do as you tell them, you need to induce a little fear. But you have to avoid panic at all costs. If you’re going to be with them for a while—like if you’re waiting for the banks to open in the morning so they can make that phone call you want—the sooner Stockholm Syndrome sets in, the better. You handle it right and they start to see you as a friend, not a hostage-taker.

Just like I was taught, I thought to myself, thinking about hijackings I’d pulled with my own family. Next to those, this was a cakewalk. I felt my people with me, heard the Prof in my mind: “You want to walk that track, you better know where the third rail is, Schoolboy.”

When we got close, I had to give him step-by-step directions, but he handled the semi like a maestro, never missing a beat.

Somewhere in the darkness, a rich woman was watching. A rich woman with a cell phone. When we got within sight of the warehouse, I could see the door was wide open.

Hoss pulled in. Killed the motor.

“Okay, partner,” I told him. “Hands on the wheel. I’m going to cuff you there. By daylight, someone will be here to open up.”

“But we’re not that close to Canada,” he said, sounding almost disappointed.

“No. That was kind of a scam, Hoss. We’ve got friends waiting. Right outside. In a few minutes, we’ll be gone. Ka-poof! Let’s see, it’s almost four in the morning. By the time they get you loose, we’ll have three hours. More than enough. Come on, now, let’s get it done.”

He put his hands on the wheel. I worked the cuffs one-handed until I had him locked.

“Look straight ahead,” I told him as Ann slithered out of the cab. “You know better than to yell, right? I mean, I don’t have to gag you or nothing?”

“No,” he said, shaking a little.

“Re lax, Hoss. If I wanted you dead, I would have let Travis go to work with his blade as soon as we had you cuffed.”

I jumped down from the cab, leaving him alone.

We let a few minutes pass, just to be sure Hoss was going to play his role. Then we let him hear some car doors slam, people moving around. . . .

I popped back into the cab. “Okay, partner, we’re ready to split. Your smokes are right here. Be a little tricky, but you can reach them all right. Just flick the butts out the window when you’re done. Don’t worry, the floor’s all been swept—they’ll just burn themselves out. I can’t offer you much to pass the time. Sorry I had to disable the CB, but you want the radio on? It won’t run the battery down that much.”

“Yeah. Please.”

“All right, Hoss. You’ve been a man about all this. Now that my boys are here, I’m not broke anymore. I’d like to show my appreciation.”

“You don’t have to . . .”

“I know. I was thinking, maybe you could use an extra ten grand,” I said, bringing closure to the job the way I’d been trained, by cementing the bond. When you make the victim a beneficiary, it may cost you a little cash . . . but it costs the cops a witness. “But I can’t just stick it in your wallet,” I told him. “The cops look at all that, they might think you were in on this. Maybe I could stash it somewhere in the cab for you?”

He didn’t answer, but his expression told me everything I needed to know.

“All right. Now, I could just have it mailed to the address on your license,” I said, “but, for all I know, your wife . . . Ah, look, never mind. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I got ten thousand, right here,” I said, holding up the thick wad of hundreds so he could see them. “I can mail it to your address, plain brown wrapper . . . or even mail it someplace else, if you want. Your call, Hoss.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he gave me an address. A different one than was on his license.

“Okay,” I said, shaking his cuffed hand to seal the bargain. “Now, how about a cold one?”

“A beer?”

“Sure. The boys brought a cooler-full. Been a few years since I had one, but there’s plenty to go around.”

“I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

“Wait here,” I told him.

When I got back with an ice-cold bottle of Bud, he was real grateful. I even held it for him as he gulped it down.

He was out in ten minutes.

I walked past what seemed like dozens of people unloading the truck and transferring the cargo to all kinds of different vehicles. A couple of women ran around with handheld bar-code scanners and clipboards. A lot more folks than I’d expected. And a lot more efficient, too.

I found the anonymous little Neon out back, where they’d promised me it would be.

Clipper was standing next to it. “You did a great thing,” he told me. “This load, it’s going to change the lives of—”