The Final Delivery

People snorting bad shit?

Tommy straightened up at the accusation.

“My shit? Fuck’em.”

Growing up in the projects hardened one’s view of life.

“It’s their choice, man. I only sell it. What they do with it . . . who gives a shit?” he said, his voice flat.

“The shit you’re putting out on the street is bad. Poison.”

Tommy shrugged and went back to stacking the bricks in a large canvas bag.

“Yeah. Probably somebody wants a bigger cut and’s spreading bullshit,” he said without looking up.

“It ain’t bullshit, Tommy. The cops are shakin’ everyone down. Your name’s come up.”

“Me? Someone give ’em my name?” His eyes narrowed and his mien darkened. “You rat on me, Bit?”

“Nah. You know I’d never do that to you. I’m good. You’re good. I’m just givin’ you a heads up. It’s getting tense and the cops is pissed.” A sheen of sweat rose on his bald scalp. He wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his head.

Tommy inhaled sharply, placed his hands on his hips, and stared at the remaining bricks sitting on the open box lid. He pursed his lips, then worked them between his teeth, finally licking them. He glanced at Bit.

“Okay. Tell your contacts I’ll back off for a while.”

“How long?”

Scowling, he said, “A while!”

Bit raised his hands, palms out, and nodded.

“Okay. Okay, but I gotta give them something . . . an estimate or they won’t be happy.”

Tommy’s jaw twitched.

“You know or they won’t—”

“I got it! I ain’t stupid.” He splayed his arms as he scanned the museum storeroom, “We gotta a good thing here. A museum. I’m night security. What better way to sneak the shit in?” He turned to Bit and gave him a broad smile. “Tell your customs guys I’ll lay low for a couple of weeks until the cops back off. They’re gonna find nothin’. They ain’t got a clue. When it blows over . . . in two weeks . . . a month, we’ll let’em know. But I want one more delivery. There’s an Egyptian exhibit comin’ in tomorrow.” He shivered uncontrollably, like someone had just walked on his grave. He shook it off. “It should be in customs now. Lots a crates. Put it in them.”

Bit scratched the back of his neck.

“That’s cutting it close.” He rolled his head back against his shoulders, staring at the ceiling, jutting his chin out and stretching his neck. His head still back, he let his eyes turn down until he looked at Tommy across the tops of his cheeks. “I’ll tell’em this’ll be the last one for at least three weeks and that we’ll let’em know when it’s okay to start again.”

Tommy made an exaggerated frown, nodding, then broke into a wide smile. “That’s my boy.” He patted Bit along the side of his head. Bit jerked his head away from the patronizing gesture. “Oh!” Tommy’s face stiffened. “Piss you off when I do that?” He brayed like an angry mule.

“I don’t like that.”

 “You won’t like a lot if you fuck this up and the cops pay me a visit.”

Bit backed away. Shoving his hands deep into his front pockets, he nodded toward the coke stacked on the box.

“You gonna sell that? Might be more bad shit.”

“Not your worry. Now get outta here. Gotta get this out of sight. The sun’ll be up in a couple a hours and the staff’ll be here not long after that.”

Bit turned on a heel and slipped out a side door. Tommy locked it behind him and then turned and walked back to the open exhibit box. He pulled out a chair, sat and opened his lunch box, taking out a thermos and pouring coffee into the lid.

What an opportunity, he thought, and the cops don’t know squat.

The dank storeroom held an array of boxes waiting to be unpacked, moved, or just forgotten. Some were stained as though something inside had leaked. An air of decay surrounded him. The chill he experienced earlier returned and dashed up the back of his neck. The hair on his neck stood up.

“If it weren’t for the dope . . . moving so easy . . . I wouldn’ta been here. That freakin’ spider show last month—” he rolled his shoulders and gave his head a violent shake, “—give me the creeps . . . and now we got a bunch a dead Egyptians.” He emptied the thermos lid and poured more coffee.

Tommy had been with the museum for about a year, switching to graveyard about six months ago. The job was a gift from his parole office. He’d copped a plea and got a slap-on-the-hand sentence of eight months for possession with intent to sell. With his extensive connections, the current setup came together with little effort. An upscale museum, the exhibits scheduled far in advance, and security lax, it provided an opportunity for him to smuggle in his contraband unseen—Bit’s connection with customs agents; the coke hidden in the packing material, and Tommy on the graveyard shift—Simple. Flawless. Smooth.

A sudden shadow stole into his thoughts, muting his confidence like a wary alley cat. Three dead. Are there more? What do the police know? Maybe Bit is right. Maybe I should cancel the shipment and take a small vacation.

He glanced around the storeroom and the stacks of boxes. The stuffy smell of age and dust caused his nose to wrinkle.

“Fuck’em.”

He filled the thermos lid again, swished a sip around the inside of his mouth, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

###

Tommy checked his watch. Ten thirty. A soft tap against the loading dock door drew his attention, and he raised the door.

A driver with a fistful of papers stepped inside.

“You, Tommy?”

He nodded.

“Got a dozen boxes for you. You’re gonna need a forklift.”

“Yeah. Leave it on the dock.”

The driver handed him a pen and pointed to the top sheet of the manifest.

“Sign here.”

Tommy obliged and went to get the forklift. When he returned, the driver and his helper pushed the last box onto the loading dock. He stopped the forklift when the driver approached.

“Need any help with this stuff?”

“Nah. No hurry. Got all night to move it.” He stuck out his hand. “But thanks for the offer.”

The driver shook it and gave Tommy a quick toss of his head, then walked back to his truck.

If only they knew, he thought.

Tommy cleared the dock, closed the rolling door, and went about opening each of the boxes. The largest, about ten feet long and six feet wide, intrigued him the most, enough to save it for last. It felt like the biggest gift at Christmas when he was a kid. Of course, his Christmas gifts were few and none were stuffed with coke.

He released the packing straps and unlatched a special set of installed locks. The lid was heavier than the others and when he lifted it, he jerked his head to one side, scrunching his nose as a waft of stale, heavy air scorched his nostrils.

God. Smells like something . . . died.

In a darkened corner, a groan emanated from behind one of the recently delivered boxes.

Tommy dropped the lid and spun on his heels.

“Who’s there!” He pulled a flashlight from his belt and pointed the harsh beam toward the groan. “Come on out. No one’s supposed to be back here. Best you show yourself.” He pulled a pistol from the holster on his hip. The barrel danced with the rhythm of the shaking beam.

His mouth turned dry as he said to himself with choking bravado, “What a dick. There’s no one in here,” a nervous laugh rattled in his throat, “and you’ve got the gun.”

He holstered it and snapped the light off, hanging it on his utility belt, then turned back to the box.

The stale smell grew as he slid the lid off, but the offensive odor dissipated at the sight of bricks of cocaine stuffed around an Egyptian sarcophagus. The foreboding chill returned, charging down his arms, raising the hair. He stared at the sarcophagus, ancient carvings adorning its cover.

Damn! Caskets give me the willys. I hope there’s nothing in it.

He shuddered as the sight of a shadow in the corner of his eye moved along the wall. He turned, a large knot forming in his throat, freezing the gasp in his throat struggling to escape.

“Fuck me!” He pulled the gun and fired. The round sparked as it ricocheted off a metal truss.

He swept his light in a wild search around the room. Fighting to breathe, his heart tapped loudly in his eardrums. Nothing. The gun and light sweeping from shadow to shadow, he hurried toward a far wall and grabbed two large canvas bags. He sprinted back to the open box and filled both bags, zipped them shut, and reached up to close the lid. He froze.

Creaking softly, the lid of the sarcophagus rolled up on its far edge. Empty, Tommy had a sudden urge to piss his pants. His head spun. A figure, a shadow, rose from behind the open sarcophagus. Tommy’s mouth hung open; his eyes welled; and the gun clanked against the floor, firing a round into the box’s frame. Rising over seven feet, the figure hissed loudly.

Tommy’s knees buckled. A frenetic groan fled from his lungs. The shadow, the body of a man with the head of Jackel, loomed above him and spoke in a low, growling tone.

“I am Osiris, the god of the underworld. I am here to guide you on your journey.”

Tommy screamed.

###

“This way, detectives.” The young man, a museum ID clipped to the collar of his shirt, pale and visibly shaken, led them to the storeroom. Members of the Crime Scene Investigative unit were already at work. A tall officer approached. She glanced empathetically at the staffer.

“I’ll take it from here.”

The staffer hurried toward the restroom, his hand to his mouth.

“He found the body?”

“Yeah,” said the officer. “He’s spent most of the morning in there.”

“I’m detective Koch. My partner, Harris.”

“Officer Megan. Nice to meet you.” She nodded to each of the detectives.

“So, what’ve you got?”

“A weird crime scene.” They walked toward the open sarcophagus and the mummy inside. “You’ve got two bags of coke, probably thirty pounds each. I’m betting it’s the same stuff that’s been killing the street users.” She pointed to the gun lying beside the bags and marked with a number 3. “Someone fired the gun twice.” She pointed toward the wall. “One hit that girder. The casing is in the shipping box. A second round lodged in the frame of the shipping box. That casing is next to the bag.”

“Hmm.” Koch bent over with his hands on his knees, focusing his gaze on the gun. “I’d guess something must’ve really scared whoever this piece belonged to. Probably discharged when he dropped it.”

“Who?” Harris asked, glancing into the sarcophagus.

“Good question.” Koch, short with a small paunch rolling over his belt, turned to the taller officer. “Any idea who caused this mess?”

“Nope. Only one set of prints on the bags and gun. Haven’t run them yet.”

“Who’s in the box?” asked Koch, watching his partner bend closer to the mummy.

“That’s the sixty-four-dollar question.”

Koch canted his head, his eyebrows arching over widened eyes.

“Yeah. According to the curator, this sarcophagus is a fake, a prop, and it didn’t have a mummy inside.”

“Hey, look at this.” Harris, his lean marathoner’s frame bent over the edge of the shipping container, peered at the mummy.

Koch and Megan joined him. He glanced sideways at them.

“I didn’t know Egyptian mummies wore Rolex’s,” he said, pointing at an exposed hand. “I know that watch . . . and the pinky ring.”

“Well, well.”

“You know’em?” asked Megan.

Koch nodded, the glint of a satisfied smile hanging on his lips. “I guess whatever was in this box didn’t appreciate Tommy using it to hide his dope.”

“What?” Megan’s eyes scrunched, her brows mashing together in disbelief.

“Long story,” Koch said. “We’ve had an eye on him for some time. He’s been selling bad dope but, we haven’t been able to tie him to the deaths. Maybe we’ll be able to close this case once and for all.” He glanced at Megan. “I don’t think you’ll find any clues to the killer.”

“You don’t?” She leaned toward him with her mouth open.

“I got a sneaking hunch this is not your usual murder. Just a gut feeling, but something doesn’t feel right.” He held out his hand to the officer. “Thanks for the help. If you find something let us know and we’ll take a good look. Otherwise, send us your report and when we can take the bags into evidence.”

“Okay.” She tilted her head. “We’ll give you a call.”

They shook hands and started for the door. Harris shook his head.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

Koch grinned. “Fuck’em.”