Half of Paradise by James Lee Burke Page A

me.
    Toussaint pulled into the road and hit his brights, illuminating the grove of trees. A yellow haze of dust still lingered in the air over the road. There were two lines of heavy tire marks crushed into the dry ruts. He stopped the truck and turned off the engine and cut the lights. He could faintly hear the engine of the other truck toiling along the back road through the woods. In a few minutes the truck would take another road and cross the border into Mississippi.
    Toussaint felt among the tools beneath the seat until he found a heavy tire iron. He went around to the back of the truck and inserted the flat end of the iron behind the padlocked hinge on the two doors. He pried the screws loose and twisted the tire iron sideways until the hinge snapped. He pulled the doors open and climbed in. The crates were stacked against one wall. He fitted the iron under one of the crate tops and wedged it ajar, and thenpulled it loose with his hand. He took out the packing and looked at the fur pelts inside. He turned the crate over on the floor and struck a match. They were nutria and rabbit pelts. He splintered another crate open with the iron. It was the same thing. He smashed in the sides of three more and scattered the furs over the floor. They were all rabbit and nutria pelts. The whole thing is almost worthless, he thought. They hired me to carry a load that ain’t worth two hundred dollars. The other truck is carrying the good stuff, and they was going to let me be picked up. They robbed a fur company, and the stuff is so hot they can’t get it out of the state. Bonham loaded me with cheap pelts and was going to feed me to the police while his other boy slipped out on the back roads. The police don’t know the difference between nutria and beaver. They’d think they had the real stuff. By the time they found out, the other truck would be gone. Bonham set me up for a stretch in the penitentiary, and I stepped right into it.
    He climbed down from the back and shut the doors. He was going to leave the truck and hitchhike to the city. It would be better to leave it here than in town. An automobile came down the highway and slowed as it passed the farm road. It pulled off on the shoulder to make a U-turn and came backtowards Toussaint. He threw the tire iron under the truck as the car turned into the road and caught him in its headlights. He walked to the cab and opened the door to get in. The car drew abreast of him and stopped. On the door was the white emblem of the state police. Two officers sat in the front seat. The driver turned a flashlight on Toussaint.
    “What are you doing back here?” he said.
    “Pulled off the road to get some sleep.”
    “Most companies tell their drivers to stay on the highway.”
    “Mine’s different.”
    “Who do you work for?”
    “Bonham Shipping Company in New Orleans.”
    “Let me see your papers.”
    “I ain’t got any. Take the light out of my eyes.”
    “See what he’s carrying,” he said to the other officer. The far door opened and the second officer got out and went to the back of the truck.
    Toussaint looked around him. It was too far to the woods, and the fields afforded no cover. There was nothing to do except stand there and listen to the whirr of the cars on the highway and look into the hot circle of light held in his face.
    “The lock’s broken,” the second officer said from behind the truck, and then, “This is the one. There’refurs all over the place. He’s been breaking open the crates.”
    The driver got out of the car and took the handcuffs from the leather case on his belt. He snipped them open.
    “You don’t need them,” Toussaint said.
    “Put out your wrists.”
    Toussaint held them out.
    “What’s wrong with your hand?”
    “I broke it.”
    “All right. Get in the back.”
    The second officer returned and got in beside the Negro. He handed a small notebook to the man in the front seat.
    “Here’s the license number,” he said.