“Go on, all the way back.” They obliged. The metal door was rolled down and locked. Jon-Tom heard the click as it was latched from outside.
There were no windows, but the truck had been heavily used and there were a couple of spots where roof and walls didn’t quite meet. Starlight was visible through the cracks. At least they wouldn’t suffocate. The truck lurched backward, then started forward, picking up speed. Heading down the dirt road that led away from the house, no doubt.
He smelled Weegee close by. “Is it all right to talk now, Jon-Tom?”
“What do you mean, is it all right to talk now?” Kamaulk sounded at once puzzled and bitter at the hand fate had dealt him. “What are the two strange humans going to do with us?”
Jon-Tom ignored him. “It’s okay to talk, Weegee.”
Cautious made a disgusted noise. “Your world not very hospitable, man. Doen think I like it much. Is always this violent, people throwing thunder and lightning at each other?”
“No. We just got lucky.”
“That’s right, mate, Lady Luck loves travelin’ in your company, she does.” Mudge was working his way back to the rolling door. “If they take us too far from that place we’ll never find our way back.”
Mudge, you don’t know the half of it, Jon-Tom thought worriedly. The one named Cruz had mentioned Chicago. They couldn’t go to Chicago. No way could they go to Chicago. They had to get back to the Cave-With-No-Name.
“You’re all frightened.” Kamaulk’s tone dripped contempt. “Even you, man, in your own world.”
“You bet your green feathered ass I’m frightened.”
“Pagh! You should prepare to meet your fate with dignity.”
“You meet your fate with dignity, buttbeak. Me, I’m goin’ down kickin’ an’ screamin’. Hey, wot ’ave we ’ere?”
“Where?” Jon-Tom could barely make out the silhouette of the otter. Mudge was fumbling with a large oak trunk.
“Somethin’ in ’ere smells peculiar. Luv, ’and me my pack, would you? That’s a good lass.” Weegee passed his backpack over. Mudge fumbled inside, removed a couple of small bits of metal and went to work on the trunk’s lock. Jon-Tom didn’t see the point of it, but at least it kept his companions’ minds off their incipient demise.
The trunk produced a pair of Samsonite suitcases, also locked.
“Can you make a little light, mate? These locks are new to me.”
Three matches remained in Jon-Tom’s back pocket. He struck one alight, held it close to the latch of the first suitcase. Mudge leaned close, squinting.
“Bloody tricky clever, this design.”
“Can you spring it?”
The otter grinned at him in the matchlight. “Mate, there ain’t a lock in any world that your bosom buddy can’t figure. Just give me a minim to think ’er through.”
The match burned Jon-Tom’s fingers and he flung the stub aside, lit a second. “Only one match left, Mudge.”
“Don’t matter none, mate. I can work it by feel.”
“You always could,” said Weegee, and the otters shared a not so private giggle.
Two minutes of quiet, intense work remained before Mudge had all four suitcase latches sprung. He opened the first. Jon-Tom leaned forward.
“I can’t see a damn thing. What’s inside?”
“Nothin’ much, mate. Just some plastic bags full of funny smellin’ stuff. Maybe a better whiff…” and he used a claw to slit one of the plasticine sacks. As he did so he leaned forward and sniffed deeply.
Someone must have lit a fire under all his toes because he suddenly leaped off the floor of the truck and fell backward over a crushed velvet sofa.
“Mudge—Mudge, you okay?”
“Okay? Okay? Okay ain’t the word, mate. Weegee m’luv, have yourself a sniff, but just a bitty one.”
Curious, she did exactly that and let out a whoop as she jumped halfway to the roof.
“Hey, what is that stuff? Take it easy, you two. We don’t want to let our friends up front know what we’re doing back here.” He had to forcibly keep Mudge away from the open suitcase.
“What is it? I’ll tell you wot it is, mate. That there is pure stinger sweat, that’s wot it be. More than I’ve ever seen in one place. More than ever were in one place. It explains a lot to me. I expect ’tis worth as much in your world as in mine.”
“Stinger sweat?” Jon-Tom frowned, thought hard. He didn’t have to think too hard.
Shotguns. Business in Chicago. Stop to pick up some luggage. Clear bags of funny smelling stuff.
“What color’s the powder, Mudge?”
“Why, ’tis white, mate. Wot other color would it be?”
“Christ.” Jon-Tom sat down in a conveniently close-by chair. It bounced and rocked as the truck fought its way down the dirt road but his mind was on something other than the smoothness of the ride. “It sure does explain things. This whole deal: the van, the furniture, it’s just cover. Those two guys are coke runners. Two suitcases full of cocaine. Jesus.” He got out of the chair and against Mudge’s protests shut the suitcase. They they checked its mate. It was just as full. He lifted first one, then the other.
Allowing for the weight of the suitcases, he estimated that between them they contained between eighty and a hundred pounds of pure uncut “stinger sweat.”
“I need you thinking straight, Mudge. That stuff will mess up your head.”
