Vincent
threw the newspaper onto the seat next to him and shook his head;
what was wrong with the people in this world? The cockpit of his
truck was sour with cigarette smoke and stale sweat. Soon, this
fourteen hour journey would be over. He pinched the bridge of his
nose and rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes, fighting
against the stifling monotony of truck driving.
He
smiled at the thought of getting back home to see Antonio. Checking
his watch he saw that he still had three hours until 'Tonio's
birthday was over - perhaps he could keep his promise to be home
after all!
Camila
had pleaded with him to stay home, but they needed the money.
Out-of-hours work always paid well.
"What's
the cargo?" Camila had asked.
"Somethin'
dodgy," Vincent had replied. "Somethin' to do with those dirty
shops. You know these white boys."
"We've
got a son, you shouldn't be hauling that stuff."
"Hey,
gimme a break, I'm just carrying it, not using it."
Eventually,
they had agreed to disagree.
A
shrill wail and flash of blue hastened him to the present. In his
mirror he could see three police cars. He pulled over to the side of
the road and the police cars followed. An officer got out and asked
him to open up his truck.
Vincent
put the key into the lock and opened the shutter. He took an inward
breath to steady himself at the embarrassment he knew was about to
come.
He
dropped the key onto the floor.
Staring
out at him were the dark eyes of seven young Eastern European girls.
"For
god's sake, get his guy out of here and get these girls some
blankets," an officer said. Vincent barely heard him. He was
crying.
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