“What else do I need to know about this place?”
“A few things. Always wear your van line shirt. They’ve got twenty-four-hour armed security here. They’re here to protect the movers and the trucks. The story I heard is that the owner used to be a road driver years ago and has a soft spot. Nobody will mess with you here if you’ve got your shirt on. The hookers and the dealers understand that. It’s open season on everyone else, though. In other words, it’s the opposite of the world outside. The other thing is to ask for the mover’s rate. The posted room rate is eighty-nine dollars. You’ll pay forty-nine and get a room with a fridge and a key to the pool. Everyone else has to pay extra for those. Last thing is, don’t go outside the property. This is a nasty neighborhood, but it’s safe inside. The food here is excellent, and there’s nothing outside anyway except a Mickey D. You need to go somewhere? Ask the bartender for a taxi. They’ve got the right guys who will bring you back in one piece.”
“Thanks for all the info.”
We shook hands. “Wait till you check out the jukebox. No George Strait or Waylon Jennings. It’s all Led Zeppelin and Grateful Dead. Welcome to the alternate universe.”
The bartender turned up with another Coors. Before handing it over he asked, “I’m assuming you’re parked and off duty, right?”
“Oh yeah. Those days are long gone.”
“Not around here. Not yet, anyway. You checking in? It’s forty-nine bucks with a room in front near your rig. I saw you talking to Kurt. He give you the lowdown?”
“He did.”
“Welcome, driver. I’m Bill. You’re with Joyce in Connecticut? Ever run into a driver named Perry Walker?”
“I know Perry. He just retired.”
“Perry’s a real gentleman. He’d sit here all night drinking club soda, soaking in the scene. Told me this was the only bar he’d been in in his whole life and didn’t think he’d need to see another one.”
“That’s Perry. Church every Sunday, even on the road. He’s home in Texas. He’s got cancer. Never had a drop of liquor or a cigarette pass his lips in sixty-five years.”
“Tell Perry I said hello if you see him. If you need anything, let me know. Enjoy yourself.”
“Actually, I have a question. What’s the protocol for getting a shirt up on the wall?”
“Just bring one in. The whole bar does a shot of Jack Daniel’s together and we put it up. I know for sure Joyce isn’t up there. It’s about time.”
“Thanks. I’ll come back later for the ceremony.”
I finished my beer and went to my room. It was squeaky clean, though it did smell a bit like cigarette smoke. But hell, I smoke. I took a long hot shower. The water pressure was superb. As I toweled off I grabbed my phone. I was dying to call Willie Joyce.
“Willie, guess where I am?”
“Hmm, let me see. The two lesbians who had a fight and split the shipment up when I was unloading? Naw, that was Northampton. Oh, I know . . . where the guy shipped his own golf cart for driving around. Had a custom paint job and a lot of extras. Reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. Nope. That was Sun City. Where are you?”
“Think harder. I know there’s more in that brain than load plans and bogus driver debits.”
“Wait. I remember a bar. Lot helpers. Hookers.”
“Come on, Willie. That could be anywhere. Think harder.”
I told him, and he said, “Hey, I know that place. That’s the bar with the moving company shirts all over the ceiling. I loved that place. They had a guy out by the pool selling dollies.”
“Bingo, driver. Bad news, though. There’s no Joyce Van Lines shirt here on the wall. I consider that a serious deficiency. So does the bartender. He knows Perry Walker.”
“He can’t know Perry. Perry doesn’t go to bars.”
“He goes to this one.”
“Good for Perry. Listen, Finn, we need our shirt on that wall. What does it take?”
“You have to fly out here and put it up. They’ve got shirts here with movers from Germany, Russia. Everywhere.”
“I should have left my shirt there back in ’79.”
“It would have said North American. That’s no good. How fast can you get out here? I’m unloading up north tomorrow and can swing back the day after. They have a ceremony. You’ll have to buy shots of Jack Daniel’s for the bar and then they’ll put it up. You should see the parking lot. It looks like the AMSA annual meeting. The guy at the pool has expanded. He’s now selling walkboards and Oxycontin. You should see the girls.”
“You know I’d love to. Damn. Glad to hear the good old place is still going strong. You’ve made my day. I can’t do it, but I’m glad you’re there.”
“For sure? What’s the point of owning a company if you can’t break out for a laugh? You’re a multimillionaire, for crissakes, and you never have any fun. You can help me drop this mini day after next, and we’ll spend the night here, have a couple pops at the bar, put up the shirt, and you’re back in Oxford in the afternoon.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Won’t do it, laddie. I know the difference. You should too.”
“I do. I just get so tired.”
“OK. I’ll go as your proxy. I’ll bill you two hundred and fifty dollars for the Jack Daniel’s toast.”
“That’s cheaper than me flying out there.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Willie. I’ll bet there’s never been a van line owner in that bar. Much less a van line owner who used to be a driver. You’d be king for a night. A real-life hero with a hundred long-haul drivers in the room. Face it, Willie, you go to the AMSA conferences and they treat you like a leper because you came up through the hawsehole. Here they’d carry you around on their shoulders. We’d need a lot of guys to do that, frankly, but we’re movers. We could do it.”
“Sure. And like the king I’d be stuck with the whole bar bill instead of just the Jack Daniel’s.”
“That’s what kings do, Will. They feed the peasants on feast days.”
“It’s tempting, but no. It’s crazy busy here. I can’t get away.”
“I’m done with the sales pitch. I’m going over to have a beer and check out dolly prices. Goodnight, Willie.”
“Be safe, laddie. Hey . . . I’m glad you called. I’m glad you asked.”
“I know you are, Will. One of these days you’re going to need to say yes before it’s all over. For both of us. You know that, right?”
“We’ll see. Maybe one of these days . . .”
Chapter 13
THE GREAT WHITE MOVER
I was loading yet again, a GE exec. This time it was a Boston to Santa Barbara pack and load and looked like another easy $20,000 layup. I’m now one of those ghost movers I wondered about years ago. The guys with the nondescript white Peterbilts and the squeaky clean, brand-new unmarked trailers who strut up to the fuel desk like they’re doing Flying J a favor.