The Dope Runner by Mark Thorson

THE DOPE RUNNER

   Jack knew he had made a mistake.
   But didn't know where.
   He had been very careful about the whole thing -- he had done everything right. From the pick-up in Arizona to the drop-off in St. Paul - - he had carried out everything flawlessly.
   That's why he had taken the job. Because he was good at things like this. He was smart. He was also in great shape -- and not bad with guns either.
   The money was good too. Six grand a trip.
   But the money wasn't the reason he had originally gotten involved -- he had always had cash; he had gotten involved out of depression -- after his longtime girlfriend had dumped him for a thirty-five-year-old GQ stockbroker downtown. The dumping had put Jack into a serious a funk -- a painfully ugly doldrum -- where nothing seemed to make sense anymore, where nothing seemed to matter -- including his own life -- which left him somewhat defiant, and somewhat open for a little adventure.
   But after his first run now, all of that was beginning to change. He had been suddenly feeling good about himself again -- feeling confident and optimistic. In fact, for the first time in his life he felt like he was accomplishing something on his very own -- something out of his own merit and skill -- rather than just accepting something he'd been given -- like a trust fund, or his college tuition, or a summer job at one of his dad's Twin Cities car dealerships.
   Just the way he had run the package out of the southwest desert -- out of the San Simon wash -- had been a significant accomplishment. He had shoulder-strapped and belt-cinched the pack firmly to himself, then had run, trotted and climbed for seven hours straight, moving through darkness and over rugged terrain, then had jogged on, in treacherous heat -- through snakes and cactus and over uneven footing. When he finally reached his Trans Am, he had motored up highway 82 into Phoenix -- doing so perfectly, without drawing a spec of attention -- then up to Flagstaff, where he cleaned up at an old hotel in the downtown area -- picking out a room on the corner of the top floor -- which was a perfect lookout, and a great site for a shootout, had the situation come up. The room had reminded Jack of the one Steve McQueen had in The Getaway, except the one Jack had was even better.
   Yeah, Jack had certainly been careful alright -- and ready for anything. He had thought it all out beforehand -- and had equipped himself accordingly. In his Trans Am he carried a 9-millimeter Smith & Wesson with a fifteen shot staggered clip -- carried it in a quick-release holster just ahead of him, underneath the dash. It was a stainless steel model -- just like the ones the guys in that movie Pulp Fiction used -- except Jack knew how to handle one, and the guys in the movies didn't. Jack had been handling guns since his early boyhood -- firearms of all varieties -- shotguns, rifles, pistols -- the works. He knew everything there was to know about them too -- he knew loads, projectiles, actions, riflings -- and he could hit a target too -- moving. On his person, he carried a fourteen shot .380 Berretta, which he kept in a modulated holster attached to the inside of his jean jacket -- which was another thing you never saw in the movies. Those guys -- movie guys, like Mel Gibson or Stallone or Schwarzenegger -- they were always carrying some big oversized hand-cannon -- like a .45 or .44, or some big bulked-up .357 pig, which, the second you fired it, would box your ears in so damn bad, it would just about knock you silly. In reality, while the movie guy would be trying to get his bearings back, anybody with half a wit and a smaller, quicker .380, could easily let fly with another three or four rounds -- and accurately too.
   But these sorts of things were just common sense, and they were also the reason why the movies pissed Jack off. You had retreads writing the goddamn things and you had morons watching them.
   Which, generally, all boiled down to one thing: People were stupid.
   From Flagstaff Jack had headed east on I-40 towards Albuquerque, and then north up to Santa Fe. He drove the speed limit and used his turn signals and thought about that shootout back at the hotel. He thought about the shootout in The Getaway some more too -- and also about the one at the OK Corral. He thought about assault rifles and politicians and movie people, and about the public in general -- how goddamn dumb they were.
   Take assault rifles for an example -- which Jack contemplated as he cruised up I-25 towards Santa Fe. Everybody was so damn afraid of the things. ‘Scary," everyone liked to say. But not many of the scary, crowd were concerned about shotguns -- which were a hell of a lot more accessible, and far more deadly. A plugless short-barreled .12 gauge had a hell of a lot more firepower -- at least at close range -- than any AR-15 or AK-47 did. It was just common sense. Simple ballistics. An old hacked- off 870 Remington would clean out a room full of Hollywood movie guys with assault guns any day. Assault rifles, as they called them, were for Army guys. In other words, dumb ghetto kids and ignorant farm boys who thought that the guns looked "neat," and would easily pick one up and go off to die in some war that they knew nothing about.
   Or take the OK Corral as a case in point. A classic shootout with .12 gauge shotguns. If a person could go back in time, back to the old West, and take away the Clanton's shotguns and give them assault rifles instead, they would've gotten their asses kicked even worse.                 Again, it all came down to the same thing: Public stupidity.
   Alongside Jack, in the seatliner on the passenger side of the Trans Am -- built into the rear of the backrest -- Jack kept a sawed off pumpgun, loaded up with number two buck.
   Yeah, he had certainly been ready alright. Armed to the teeth. He had enough firepower to launch a small scale war, and he had been prepared to do it too -- if necessary. Well, not really -- but if he had to, he could've.
   From Santa Fe, Jack continued north towards Denver -- checking his rearview for approaching cars and watching the open country for anything that wasn't right. He glanced up through the tinted sky panels, checking for airplanes and choppers, and did all of his gassing up in rural areas -- at Exxons and Stucky's out on the interstates -- out in the middle of nowhere -- where he could see who was coming, see what was approaching. He never let the Trans Am out of his sight, and he never wandered off into wayside rests. He never entered any restaurants, and he was ready at all times to pull down on anybody that got too close -- too close to his load.
   As Jack passed through Colorado Springs, he had felt an urge to stop for a couple of beers, but had quickly thrown the idea out. He had decided to play it straight. Play it smart, be professional. Drink mineral water, take vitamins and eat health food. Vegetarian.
   But he had really wanted to stop, and it was a terrible shame that he couldn't have, because he was at his peak -- really looking prime. He probably could've picked up any chick he had wanted to. His hair was cut short, specifically for the job, trying to pass as an all-American jock -- which wasn't too tough to do, because that's exactly what he had been just a few years before. He had a good tan to go with it too -- and he was in great shape, like never before. He had a twenty-nine-inch waist and a forty-two-inch chest -- sixteen inch biceps, and good quads and calves too. Yeah he was looking good alright -- and most chicks -- if they could've seen him -- and seen what he was actually doing -- would've been absolutely knocked right out. The only exceptions would've been a few of the Buick Regal types whose lifelong goal was to marry their way into the suburbs, where they could park their asses in front of a television set, wear the latest hair, and shovel their faces full of a bunch of high fat, fiberless garbage.
   But any real chick, any babe . . . would've been absolutely blown right over.
   Somewhere north of Denver, Jack hit the wall and had to pull off the interstate to get some rest. He pulled into an approach off a gravel road and nosed the Trans Am back outwards again for a quick getaway. He shut the engine off and sat in darkness for awhile, and then just looked and listened. That had been an exceptionally peaceful part of the trip. When he finally felt confident that he was alone and not being tailed, he laid his seat rest back, gripped his 9-millimeter Smith under his jean jacket, and went to sleep.
   But by the time dawn arrived, Jack was already back on the interstate, headed out across Nebraska on I-80 where he started to dream about having a shootout with Federal Marshals and ATF guys -- which, by the time he hit Omaha, was a hell of a scene. He had dead SWAT guys laying out in the corn, wearing those silly black ninja outfits, and FBI agents wearing those foolish cop-show windbreakers laying strewn out along the highway -- several of them women who had wanted so badly to be a cop, had wanted so badly to be a man.
   After Omaha, Jack entered Iowa, and after Des Moines he headed north on I-35, and it was about that time that he started to think about the drop-off up in the Twin Cities. He had checked out the address before he had left, finding a nondescript cinderblock building in the industrial district, located near the river in South St. Paul. Jack had been given a key, and had been instructed to enter the side door at exactly two o'clock P.M. on the date of his arrival, and then to sit down in the black chair at the center of the room.
   And then to just wait.
   Which is exactly what he did.  
   The chair sat out in the middle of a large open area on a cement floor -- facing two other chairs with a small table in between -- which was where Jack had been instructed to set the package. . . . Which he did.
   The place had natural sunlight glowing in through overhead panels and clear-cubed blocks on the upper wails. Jack sat in the chair and listened to the sounds of a construction yard somewhere down the street. He examined the rows of pallets and pails stacked along the walls and looked at the package on the table in front of him, which he had kept exactly the way he had received it -- in a tightly bundled gortex back pack.
   It was somewhere around this time that Jack began to feel uneasy . . . uneasy for a reason he didn't quite understand. He was nervous. Even scared. He couldn't rationalize it, so he decided that it was just instinct -- which in turn, bothered him even more.
   Maybe it was just the idea of getting busted, he thought. He began to think about the moral and ethical aspects of what he was doing -- which led him to thinking about the Kennedys -- about old Joe making all that money running liquor during prohibition, which, to Jack, damn near justified his own actions. No, better yet, it gave the whole thing a very American dynamic. Even made it somewhat respectable.      But none of this seemed to help Jack's nerves.
   Jack decided that this would be his last run. He would go for a couple of beers afterwards, then go home and get some rest. Maybe in the morning he would even go see his dad, and take his old job back. His dad would be thoroughly impressed with Jack's new appearance. The shoulder length hair that had so severely disgusted him was now gone -- and he was clean shaven too. He looked like a young Republican, which was exactly what his dad had wanted -- had wanted so badly, had wanted for so long.
   Suddenly a sound -- the abrupt jarring of a door, which turned Jack around in his chair. Two men had entered the warehouse from the rear, and were walking towards him. One looked like an all-star wrestler with a tight orange t-shirt; the other looked like a convict -- a seasoned, weathered convict -- older and smaller, but meaner.
   Jack turned forward again. Did so on instinct. Don't look, don't stare. And don't make any eye contact. Just stay calm, stay cool and get     t    through this thing.
   Jack suddenly wanted out. His heart had started to pound.
   Two more people were sitting down in the chairs across from Jack -- and Jack hadn't even seen where they had come from. It was a man and a woman -- the woman Asian, elegantly dressed -- but it was the man that gave Jack the creeps. He was about forty-five, with tight oily skin and black eyes that didn't blink. He wore yellow slacks and a red golf shirt -- gold bracelets and big rings. He looked like a shark in country club attire. The man was dark, but he wasn't black. He wasn't Cuban or Mexican either. Jack didn't know what the hell he was, he just knew that the guy wasn't from the suburbs, and that he, Jack, wanted out.
   Jack suddenly felt like he was in a cave with a pack of wolves. The Asian woman sat at an angle on the chair next to the shark, her legs crossed, facing the shark but looking past him to the wall off to the side. She wore an expensive evening dress with golden earrings and flashy bracelets. She looked like she was on her way to a formal affair somewhere, her hair tied perfectly back in a stylish bun. She pulled out a cigarette from a golden case with a green dragon or seahorse on the side, and lit it. She never looked at Jack. She looked only at the pallets and pails along the wall, smoked her cigarette, and spoke to the shark -- speaking towards his ear, in a tone that Jack could not hear.    The shark looked directly at Jack and asked him questions. Short, direct questions. Did he talk to anyone? Anybody touch the package? Did he touch the package?
   Jack nodded and shook his head and answered, “no” and “no” and “no,” in a voice that was higher than his own. The shark’s eyes made repeated contact with the two thugs behind Jack -- which kept Jack's heart pounding wildly in his chest.
   Then the convict stepped forward and took the pack off the table. He opened it up and checked the contents -- and as he did this, stepped back behind Jack again. The shark did not speak anymore. He just stared at Jack.
   The place was quiet. Exceptionally quiet. The only sound was the light business of the convict inspecting the back pack, and Jack's own heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest, which was now climbing up into his throat, taking the breath out of him -- which, when he opened his mouth to get air, made an audible clucking sound. Jack was sure of it.
   At this point, Jack told the shark that he could keep the money -- that he really didn't want it -- which, next, Jack thought was probably a mistake, as it could possibly be interpreted by the shark as an admission of guilt. The shark just held his eyes on Jack. The woman smoked her cigarette and stared at the pails.
   Jack knew at this point that the predicament was not good. He thought about offering the guy his car too -- which, before thinking any further, he did.
   Then Jack noticed the black eyes shift to the two men behind him again, and the next thing Jack knew, the two thugs had hold of his arms and were pressing them forcefully downwards onto the armrests of his chair -- one on each forearm, pinning them down with enormous force.
   It was at this point that Jack knew he had made a mistake.
   But Jack did not struggle. Again, it was instinct. Maybe it was the embarrassment of struggling and losing in front of a woman. Maybe it was the thought that if he didn't resist, that then maybe -- just maybe -- he would be treated with more mercy.
    Which, perhaps, was another mistake.
   By the time Jack noticed the syringe in his arm, the contents had been mostly dispensed. The convict had stuck it into Jacks lower forearm, just above his wrist -- which was another thing Jack had never seen before -- had never seen in the movies -- which again, for a fleeting moment, kind of pissed him off. In the movies they were always sticking needles into the upper forearm. But this was the wrist. And this stuff was real! -- and again, the goddamn movies had gotten it wrong!
   The syringe dropped to the cement floor and the two thugs continued to hold Jack's arms.
   Then the dark man and the Asian woman stood up and started away.
   Jack thought about a short story he had read a long time ago -- back in Junior High school -- about a man being hung on a bridge during the Civil War, who, when the trap door opened beneath him, imagined the rope snapping loose -- and himself then falling to the river below, where he swam ashore amidst heavy gunfire and then escaped into the woods -- after which, when he was finally in the clear, found that his fantasy had ended, and that the rope above his head was just cinching taunt and snapping his neck.
   Jack thought about his own fate. He thought about being burned in his car. He thought about being dropped off out in the middle of Lake Superior -- of being sunken into the depths, never to be found, to be forever preserved in the frigid darkness with the missing crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. He thought about all the life he had wasted. Just goddamn wasted. Watching bad television, showing off, trying to impress people he didn't even like. He wanted nothing more now than to just walk – than to just breathe, than to just think. He thought about his ex-girlfriend and the stockbroker downtown. He thought about a girl he had known in school -- Sheryl Kruehns -- and wondered where she was, what she was doing. She was deaf -- and spoke in a funny monotone voice -- but she was very beautiful, and Jack had always liked her. Jack had often thought about Sheryl Kruehns, but had never let anyone know about that -- including her.
   But right now, for some crazy reason, Jack wanted to be with her. He wanted to be with Sheryl Kruehns like nothing more in the whole world -- and he wished that he could at least let her know about that.
   Jack tried to concentrate, tried to focus. He tried to stay straight -- tried to fight the drug -- just as he had done so many times in the past -- trying to sober up after getting drunk, after getting the spins. . . . He saw a fleeting image of his dog -- his best friend from his boyhood -- his dog Kipper. Jack had held Kipper while the vet slipped a needle into her fur and put her to sleep. It was the day before Jack had left for college -- left for Arizona State.
   Jack thought about his mother and wished that he could go home to see her, and maybe bring Sheryl Kruehns. . . .
   Jack was sorry for everything he’d ever done. He thought about God, and asked him for mercy. Not for help, but for mercy -- to clear his name, to make right for all the wrongs that he may have committed. He had never wanted to hurt anyone. He had never intended to hurt anybody -- and now he hoped that he never had.
   He also hoped that his mother would not find out. . . . He hoped she would never know about the places he had been . . . or about the things he had done. . . . He hoped he hadn’t disappointed her. . . . He hoped that. . . . He hoped . . . tha . . .

                                                                                                                              * * * * * * * * *

   Victor Bull picked up the empty syringe and slipped it into his pocket. He took hold of the boy's body and lowered it from the black chair down to the cement floor, then carefully stretched him out onto his back.
   From his rear pocket, Victor pulled out a thick flap of bills held together by a single rubber band. He counted quickly through them with his tattooed thumb. Sixty of them. Then he reached down into the boy's inner jean jacket and felt around for an inside pocket, finding a holstered weapon -- which he left undisturbed. He thought for a moment, then folded the bills over and stuffed them into the boy's front jeans pocket, where they would be easily noticed upon waking, easily found.
   Victor Bull then stood upright again and glanced about for anything left undone. When satisfied, he walked away from the boy, crossing the warehouse floor to the door at the rear of the building, which he then stepped through, and pulled firmly closed behind him.

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Bio: Mark Thorson is the author of  several screenplays including the award winning American Passage, and most recently, of  the forthcoming collection of  short stories Final Delivery,  from which “Final Delivery” was published in the  Prize edition of “The Mississippi Review,” and “The Poetry Bitch” published in Alaska. The full collection will be published  sometime in 2018. 

His first play "To Cheat A Clown" was produced in Los Angeles where it received critical acclaim including a review from critic Eric Lerner, of  the Los Angeles Herald who wrote, "This play is strong, funny, deeply emotional, and a remarkable work for a young playwright."  Lerner also referred to the play as, "The debut of an important new American playwright.“

An Alumni of  the prestigious American Film Institute, as a Screenwriting Fellow, Mark left the theatre to study script writing under Leonardo Bercovici, and was disciplined in dramatic structure by AFI's iconic headmaster, Antonio Valani.  Mark’s education also includes higher institutions in both arts and commerce including Concordia College in Minnesota as well as the Harvard Business School in Boston.

“It was a health scare about a year ago that prompted me to pick up the pen again.  After several years of  retirement from the theatre, I dug out my box of  unseen, unproduced scripts and began to get back to work. Since then I have completed the play, “A Flower for Death in the Wild Wild West,” which was put into production this past summer in Minnesota.

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