morning. I never knew what I was hauling. I sat in the cab with the engine running while guys with shotguns unloaded the truck in the wee hours before daybreak and I’d watch my haul disappear into the shadows. Whatever Mr Poppa was running worked like a well-oiled machine and he had the connections to make it happen. I never asked questions. But the mystery paid well. I remember running two loads out of Miami one week in ’83—both times feeling that I was being followed. I spent more time checking the rearview mirror than I did watching the road. Another time, Benji took me aside in his slick Italian suit, sat me down in the back seat of his white limo, and handed me two thousand in cash. “A bonus,” he said, “from Jimmy.” Then he handed me another five grand and said, “And make sure you give this to the cop at toll booth nine when you make the run to Chicago tomorrow. He’ll give you an escort to the pier. Just unhitch and leave the load outside of the Navy wharf.” I did as I was told. Drove safely. Didn’t ask any questions. Later, I started making runs to the west coast. San Francisco in the early ’90s. A few to l.a. One to Sacramento, as I recall. One of the loads was so light I nearly lost the rig in high winds driving across Texas. I even thought about taking on some sandbags for ballast, but Benji was adamant that I keep my nose out of Jimmy’s business. “Never look in the back,” he told me. “Just drive.” And another time he told me, “Anyone stop you, even a cop—and they want to look in the back, you use this. No questions asked.” He handed me a snub-nosed revolver. I kept it taped to the bottom of the seat. It wasn’t a rule, but I got the idea that I wasn’t supposed to stop for any reason. I just rolled on—down those two-lane highways, down gravel roads, across dirt roads that weren’t even drawn on maps. I committed the Rand-McNally atlas to memory. I knew locals by sight. And when my prostate started shrinking, I whizzed in plastic jugs and kept my foot pressed tightly to the accelerator. I made more runs to Seattle. Houston. Salt Lake City. And once, in ’98, I even made a run to Toronto, which was tricky as hell. Cold day in January. Brass monkeys shivering in the wind. Border patrol sticky and eager to take an inventory. Fortunately, I was carrying everything of consequence in the cab that day and no one bothered to look under the seat cushion. Benji handed me six grand for that one when I returned. I never went back. And I never knew what I was hauling. I’d seen Niagara Falls on my first and last honeymoon and had no desire to visit again. There were more loads to Detroit in ’01—far more than I can count.
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