Do They Know I'm Running? Read Online Free PDF Page B

high inside a twenty-footer. The shippers were notorious for over-packing those, so the cans were too heavy. And they knew which were which, the vessel planner had to balance the weight onboard the ship, but that kind of info never got passed on to the terminal operators or the stevedores, let alone the drivers. You could get a tri-axle chassis from the yard if you knew you’d be heavy ahead of time, but that never happened. Insteadyou found out only after you got your load and who could afford to wait another few hours to change a chassis at that point?
    You took your chances.
    Tickets for weight could cost you ten grand. Worse, if the load wasn’t just heavy but stacked too high? Might not even clear the truck yard before the thing went over on you, spend the rest of the day dealing with cops and the port people, all that paperwork. Or worse.
    Trucker in Florida pulling a reefer load crushed a young model when his rig flipped, trying to dodge a wreck. Another guy right here in Oakland found out the chassis the yard crew gave him had shot brakes—same deal, swerved to miss a pileup, the thing went over on him, pancaked a Saturn wagon, whole family inside. And of course they always blamed the drivers, never the shippers. Everybody had a story like that or knew someone who did.
    Faustino’s involved a load of goats.
    He was carrying them to Guerneville where they were going to be used to clear brush—four hundred animals in all, stacked tight on tiered shelving in the trailer, to keep them from moving around, hurting themselves en route. None of them was more than two years old, babies almost. Faustino petted a few before closing up the back, heading out.
    Right outside Sonoma, he blew out a tire on a tight turn—the rig belonged to the company, not him, he’d pointed out the wear but they’d said it was fine, go, drive. The cab nosed down with the blowout, the load shifted, the trailer went with it. Some of the goats got crushed by the shelving. Others scrambled free through the back door that busted open in the crash, dozens of them, roaming around wine country, chewing up anything they could find.
    When the cops arrived they closed the trailer up again. Faustino tried to tell them no, don’t, the animals will suffocate,but they ignored him. The rest of the goats died, the ones on top smothering the ones below. Their screaming was terrible to hear.
    The woman who ran the company, called to the scene, watched animal rescue pulling out one carcass after the other, bodies twisted, bloody, limp. They were stacked five deep along the roadbed like cordwood. She came to the patrol car where Faustino sat in the backseat and just stared for a moment, then broke down, cursing him.
    Eight years ago that happened, Faustino thought. He still winced at the memory.
    Someone started banging on his driver-side door. Glancing down, Faustino recognized one of the men from the circle who’d been yabbering all this time. McBee, that was his name.
    “Better run,
amigo.”
He pointed back toward Maritime Street.
    Checking his rearview, Faustino saw the swirling lights, the unmarked sedans speeding forward. They’d blocked the end of the cul-de-sac as well—there was no way out, except on foot.
    A low-rising green lay between him and the inlet, with sapling elms and small tussocks of beach grass lining the walkway, but it offered nothing like a hiding place. Could he swim across the channel to the next berth over? Would he be any safer if he did?
    The rosary and San Cristóbal medallion hung there from his mirror, helpless.
    “Forget the truck, Faustino. We’ll get it to you somehow. Leave the keys. Run!”

GODO SAT ON THE SOFA BESIDE TÍA LUCHA, BEFOGGED BY a follow-up Percocet, a Lexapro for good measure, his leg wound clean and re-dressed, courtesy of Roque, who sat across the room, patting his hands together nervously. He was eyeing his guitars as though afraid they too might somehow get dragged off this morning. Such a punk,