By John Wilkinson II
The room was a dull gray, with only a door and a cold sheet of mirrored glass on the walls. Sal Luttazzi sat hunched over in a folding chair, tapping his fingers against the metal table. Without a clock in the room, it was impossible to tell how long he waited, but he guessed it was at least half an hour. At last, the door opened, and a police sergeant walked in. He took a seat across from Sal without saying a word and began reading a stack of files in front of him. The sergeant made a point of reading all the files with great care. He would take a paper off the top of the stack and read through it, all the while shaking his head, or adjusting his glasses, or raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner.
At last, he looked up. “Alright Sal, I’m sure it’s obvious why you’re here. There are, however, some – details – which we need to work over. And it’s gonna be easier for you – for me – if you cooperate here.” The sergeant waited, expecting a reply. Receiving none, he rolled up his sleeves, and then he continued. “Let’s start with the easy questions. When did you first meet Mr. Garcia?”
* * *
Sal looked over his shoulders, then looked across the motel parking lot. Florida was surreal at night, especially hours after midnight. Cicadas buzzed in the grass, and lizards would run across the concrete from time to time. The streets across the way were empty, except for a few stragglers leaving the now-closed bars. He breathed in the heavy air, and reclined into the cheap plastic chair he was sitting in, and watched as a small pickup truck drove into the lot. Rising to meet it, his hand strayed towards his belt cautiously, a nervous habit. The truck came to an abrupt halt next to him, and a young man rolled down his window while turning off the radio. “So you’re the guy they sent?” the driver asked, peering out of the open window uneasily. “Come on, get in. The name’s Tony. Hey, hurry up. We have a delivery to make.”
* * *
The sergeant scribbled on a legal pad, taking furious notes. “Did you ever check the trunk? Were you aware of what you were delivering?” He stopped writing, and looked at Sal with a glint in his eyes. Sal’s face was blank, and he replied, “No. I never looked in the trunk.” The sergeant froze. “Don’t play me, Sal. Just answer the damn question.” Sal picked up a pen from the desk, looking it over. It was one of those cheap pens that come in packs of twenty. Under the table, he bent it one way and another, trying to break it. No matter which way he went, he was unable to snap it. “That’s the truth, officer. You don’t check the merchandise, especially in the open. Bad for business. I had a guess about what we were moving, but…” He shrugged, and went back to looking at the pen.
The sergeant slid a folder across the table, and tapped it twice. “Open it.” Sal flipped the folder open, revealing a few photographs of large duffel bags with their contents opened up. He whistled slowly, and wondered how much it was worth. Probably around 50 kilos, so likely more than half a million, he thought. He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a long, deep sigh.
The sergeant continued. “Yeah, it’s a lot. Thanks to you, I’m getting a promotion. Funny how life works, huh?”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and a secretary brought in two mugs of coffee, along with a thick stack of documents. The sergeant put down the two mugs of coffee, and then handed the stack over to Sal, and explained the situation. The sergeant said that they needed Sal to flip on Tony – to sign the documents which would incriminate him and greatly ease the job of the prosecution. The sergeant said that Tony would probably have done the same to Sal. The sergeant said that they would enjoy the coffees together – a strange and somber sort of toast – once the papers were signed.
Sal hesitated. The sergeant raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Look, I’ll show up to testify in court, but – I can’t sign this. You don’t rat out your associates, not like this. Officer, don’t make me sign this.” The sergeant stood up, his face becoming red, and his nostrils flaring out. “That is not your call to make, Luttazzi. Do not protect that criminal.”
* * *
The air was still cool, and dawn was breaking over the wide expanse of highway. Tony was quiet, but not unfriendly, preferring to blast the radio as they drove. They had been traveling for hours and were somewhere in Georgia when Tony decided to switch off the radio. “Hey man, let’s stop for some breakfast, yeah? You want something?” Sal nodded, and they pulled into a small diner.
Tony reached to turn the car off, but Sal stopped him. “Better to keep it running,” he advised. They headed in and sat down at the counter. A waiter came over and motioned for them to order. With glazed eyes and disheveled hair, it was clear the kid was not too happy to be working. Tony asked for scrambled eggs and rye toast. Sal took a second to look over the menu. “See, I’m thinking I want the Western omelette, but no ham, I want sausage instead. And a side of hash browns. Can you do that for me, Mr. – ” He squinted at the kid’s name tag. “Mr. Ralph?”
“So you want a custom omlette? That’s 2 bucks extra.” The waiter began collecting the menus.
“No, I want a Western. With sausage.”
“2 bucks extra.”
Sal threw his arms up in despair. “What the hell! Look, man, I’m short on cash, alright? I’ve got what – six dollars, two quarters, and a nickel – on me. Let a man eat!”
Tony jumped into the conversation, chuckling, but trying very hard not to let Sal see. He looked at the waiter. “I think my friend over here will be just fine without all that food. He’s not as slim as he used to be, ya know? Say, Sal, how about you lose the hash browns?”
Sal turned in his seat, nostrils flaring. Tony immediately backed up, sliding down the bench away from Sal, snorting with laughter. “What, you’re a joker now?” Sal demanded. “This is funny? Fine, I give up. Whatever, no hash browns.”
Tony burst out laughing, doubled over while the waiter looked on and Sal fumed. Then, he took out his wallet, and pulled out a few crumpled bills. “Here, for the hash browns. And two coffees, while you’re at it.”
* * *
It had been a nice meal, all in all, Sal thought. Once he had calmed down and they started eating, they began to talk at length – where they were from, what they were going to buy once they finished the job, Sal’s back pain, Tony’s family back in Cuba. It had been a nice meal.
Sal reached across the table and grabbed the stack of documents. He took the cheap pen he had been fiddling with and went through the stack of papers, signing them, one by one. Each time he signed a paper, his hand would start shaking. By the time he made it to the last document, the shaking was so bad that he could not write his name. He picked up his hand and slammed it into the table several times. The shaking stopped, and he signed the last file.
* * *
Tony was slumped over in the passenger’s seat while Sal drove. It had been about a day and a half since they started their journey back in Florida, and they were on the final leg of the trip. A light mist blanketed the road, and tiny raindrops pattered on the thin roof of the truck. Sal yawned and settled back into the warm leather upholstery of the seat, his mind wandering elsewhere. As the truck rounded a bend, Sal spotted two parked cars blocking the road. Their sirens blared, lights cutting through the mist in red and blue splotches. Sal nudged Tony, jabbing him in the guts. Tony woke with a start, then fell silent. Numerous officers took position around the truck, weapons drawn, and one with a bullhorn shouted at them to exit the vehicle. Both men surrendered and walked with hands above their heads towards the front of the car. Sal choked back a lump forming in his throat and looked over at Tony, who refused to meet his gaze. The rain began to pound their heads, and drops ran down their noses onto the concrete below. Two officers approached, and one put cuffs around Tony. The other, a sergeant, looked up at Sal.
“Good work, officer. Welcome back.”
* * *
“I tell you, Sal, that felt more like an interrogation than a debrief, wouldn’t you say?” quipped the sergeant. “Look, no hard feelings, right? C’mon, how ‘bout you go home. Get some rest, I’m sure you’re tired.” Sal refused to meet his gaze. “Alright, I’ll leave you alone. But just so you know, the department appreciates what you did. You did a good thing, Sal.” The sergeant walked out, and mumbled “a good thing” to himself as he shut the door. Sal grabbed a mug of coffee, and drank it all at once. It was watery, and much too bitter.
