01
Monday, August 23, 1993
Bernie Donatello held his breath and jiggled the accelerator pedal. The old truck coughed, jerked, and almost stalled. He yanked his foot off and jammed the clutch in, then tried it again, easing down on the pedal as he slipped the clutch out, praying mechanically, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, blessed is the fruit of thy womb …” His forehead was beaded with sweat, his jaw rigid. The muscles in his right leg were so tight they almost cramped. The truck lurched, coughed, then finally caught and jerked forward, easing out of the dark tunnel mouth of the bridge.
A cone of light flooded the doorway of the empty Customs shed as the truck inched past. Bernie caught a glimpse in the mirror of a uniformed man lurking in the shadows. The truck hiccuped again, faltered, then slid forward, finally slipping out of the bridge like a sick worm oozing out of a metal hole into the wet Canadian night. He hauled the steering wheel to the left, turning the rig toward Bridge Street, checking his mirrors again to make sure the trailer was okay. As the end of the rig cleared the bridge, he saw a shadow flit through the light and disappear into the shed.
Bernie started breathing again. He didn’t know what worried him more—the old rig breaking down, or getting jammed in the little bridge. He knew just how it would feel—he’d run it through his mind so many times—the screech of metal on metal as the rig suddenly jerked to a stop. He’d be trapped like a rat. It was bad enough worrying about the damned guard without having to worry about breaking down or getting stuck. What the hell would he do then? Jump out and run for it, he figured—hightail it back to America and leave the damn truck for Sal to worry about. It would serve the son of bitch right, too.
He breathed deeply, trying to slow down his racing heart. The headlights reflected off the puddles on the greasy black asphalt of Bridge Street. A sharp pain shot through his stomach, and he got that funny taste in his mouth. How much longer could he take this? Every time he came across, it was the same damn thing. It didn’t matter what Sal told him about it all being fixed. It didn’t even matter how many times he made the trip and nothing happened. A million things could go wrong. The truck could get jammed up. Or break down, more likely. They could change the Customs guy, put him on another shift at the last minute. Then what would happen? Bernie would eat it big time, that’s what. And Sal would be gone so fast, all you’d see was a little dust cloud, like in those cartoons.
He thought about being taken under the ground. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since that time he and Edie took the bus up to Toronto, he couldn’t get that picture out of his head. He hated going on the bus because he knew they’d get hassled, but she was worried about him drinking up there and she didn’t want to take the car. She’d put her foot down and that was that. He was right, though. They always stopped you when you were on the bus.
