Chapter Three: High-Stakes Delivery Dashing

It was exactly 2:25 PM when I pulled up to a seldom-used dock down at the port. This location was supposed to be secretive, even seedy. A midday sun somewhat dampened the intended mood of this clandestine deal.

An open warehouse beckoned. I propped the Vespa up facing back toward the roadway (the better for a quick getaway, if needed) and then casually walked into the balmy interior. These kinds of organizations seldom pay for heating or air conditioning.

A mid-twenty-something looking gent with sharp and angular facial features sat at a plain fold-out table and accompanying chair. Despite the bare-bones abode, he wore a fine suit, a move echoed by two burly bodyguards waiting in the wings.

Organized crime jobs pay well, I have to admit. Why, they often don’t even involve anything strictly illegal on your part—often they were just innocuous document courier jobs that the Family needed to shift around in an untraceable fashion. Despite calling them the ‘Family’ here, I don’t think they were all actually related. Reasonably certain they were the good old-fashioned mafia, though. Fancy suit, steely-eyed and thinly veiled threat of violence behind every action, lots of talk about loyalty and an arbitrary honor code. Surnames ended in lots of vowels.

“Hello, Mister Texiera,” I began, offering a handshake.

Surely being forward, kind, and affable would prevent these hardened mobsters from chopping me to pieces at the first sign of any failing or slip-up. A smile and a friendly demeanor could be the only thing preventing me from winding up out in the port wearing concrete boots.

Mister Texiera did not reciprocate or even smile.

“You’re the guy who has been taking our jobs for the past month,” said the made man with a thin, ghostly frown.

“That’s me!” I said, putting my hand away. “Call me Vic—”

“No names.” Now it was Mister Texiera’s turn to hold a curt hand up.

I looked around for a package. There was none to be found.

“Normally, we don’t have the same mule do a gig twice,” said the mobster.

Skin on the back of my neck prickled. Was I about to get whacked?

Mister Texeira reached into his dress jacket pocket…

Foolish survival senses. You could have given me this feeling back before I walked into this secluded natural chokepoint far away from any help. I continued to quietly tremble, fearing for my life, right up until Mister Texiera pulled out two hefty envelopes.

“Deliver this.” He plopped a hefty manila envelope flush with documents onto the table. “To the listed address within the hour.”

I dared not pick the package up yet.

“Take this. Consider it an advance.” Mister Texiera held the second, plain white envelope out.

I tentatively accepted this gift. It was flush with cash. Organized syndicates like this seldom did credit card transactions and were too old-fashioned for elaborate cryptocurrency shenanigans.

The envelope was flush with cash, heavy in my hands. Most MenialTask4Tips gigs were numbers on a spreadsheet, so having actual money on-hand was rare for me.

“Why, thank you,” I said.

Mister Texiera gave no response. I scooped up the main package, stashed the cash where it wouldn’t fall out, and rushed back out of the warehouse before the made man could change his mind on some pretense.

I wonder what kind of accent Tex has, I thought, but was far too wise to say aloud. He seldom spoke more than a sentence fragment at a time. It was probably Italian or something.

Once I had the Vespa in order, I took a glance at the package. The address was emblazoned in rough and guttural black ink—mafiosos were seldom adept at handwriting.

400 Arrowhead Highway, San Dimas, CA 91773.

“San Dimas?” I asked with a frown.

San Dimas was practically up in the hills. Well past the airport, where I had a delivery pending in mere hours. It was mildly famous thanks to being the centerpiece of a comedic time travel movie. Y’know the one…

More importantly to my purposes, Dimas was nearly an hour away. I checked my elaborate array of timers gauging when I wanted to be at the airport. I… would be cutting it rather close. With LA traffic, the chances of being late to one or both appointments were high. If I booked it, San Dimas would be okay, so I wasn’t about to get whacked in retaliation. But I ran the risk of missing out on the airport gig. My precious tips from the J-pop star and her also-hot bodyguard were in danger!

Focus, Vic, I thought to myself. I input a route onto my phone that sent me down the least-trafficked, fastest route up to San Dimas, then back to the airport. I could still do this. Weaving together disparate high-paying gigs was how people made it big in this, uh, ‘industry.’

“Let’s get that bread,” I said to myself, and took off.

+++

The San Dimas job was easy enough. Traffic was merely moderate, greatly reducing the time to arrive at the destination. I’d need every second I could get not to show up at Yuki’s house with a cold bento box.

The Mafia just wanted me to drop the documents into a mailbox. It was outside some kind of virtual golf café. God, there was a great deal of money out here.

The timers continued to count down. I scarcely had time to double-check my instructions. Reasonably certain I wouldn’t get dismembered and strewn about the San Bernardino deserts, I hopped back on the Vespa and took off back down to the south.

Traffic was building as the evening rush hour approached. Luckily, I was able to weave between the building collection of SUVs, economically inefficient gas-guzzling trucks, and spiffy electric vehicles. Still, the Vespa could only go so far, so fast. It was a simple physical impossibility that I could reach the airport in the allotted time. The ‘airport’ timer ran down to zero while I was still on the 105.

I didn’t sweat it. Delays happened all the time while on the flight. Maybe the flight would be late? Got to keep a positive outlook. Positive vibes, and all.

A Japan Airlines flight attendant was sitting at the international terminal’s loading and unloading zone as I pulled up. How long had she been here? I didn’t even want to look at the steering column-mounted phone timer to see how long she’d been out here.

“Is it still good?” I asked.

The attendant gave no response. More than likely, she couldn’t understand me at all. Instead, she gave a polite bow and pulled out the double-sized bento box. I grabbed it and put it into the FECC.

Another timer was already counting down. I wasted no time in heading off for the freeway. I coolly moved into the left lane, ready to turn toward Beverly Hills, and that mansion I’d visited the previous week.

“Turn right,” the GPS said.

Oh, that’s not good. The delivery address was different. A rookie mistake—I should have double-checked the delivery instructions!

“This turn’s going to cost me a good fifteen minutes,” I muttered, already desperately attempting a course correction.

Where was this delivery taking me?