Midnight Haul by Max Allan Collins Page B

at about twenty-five miles an hour. Crane, out the back window of the Datsun, took half a dozen pictures of the flatbed truck, which was waiting near the big green tin shed while one of the two men in its cab, a burly guy in a thermal jacket, hopped out to talk to a Kemco hard hat, who was gesturing, giving instructions for where the truck was to go to pick up its load.
    The Kemco plant receded behind them.
    Boone looked at him in the rearview mirror. “How did you do?”
    “I’m not sure,” he said, crawling back up in front, giving her the camera as she drove. “I hope there was enough light.”
    “You had it wide open, didn’t you? There was plenty of available light. I’m sure they’ll come out.”
    Crane hoped so. It was a clear night, with stars and a moon; that and the lights of Kemco itself should’ve made for some good shots.
    “What now?” he asked.
    “Wait half an hour and go back.”
    She pulled over to the side again; they were about a mile down from Kemco, now. She turned the motor off.
    “Don’t we have enough already?” Crane asked.
    “You’re kidding. We’re just getting started.”
    “If you say so.”
    “Are you nervous?”
    “Of course I’m nervous. I’m scared shitless. Aren’t you?”
    “Somewhat. There’s really nothing to worry about.”
    “You must not’ve seen the three-hundred-pound trucker that climbed out of that rig.”
    “Nobody spotted us. Nobody’s going to spot us.”
    “Next on the program, I suppose, is some shots of the truck pulling out of Kemco, loaded up.”
    “Right.”
    “Surely we’re not just going to go tap dancing by again, are we?”
    “No. We’ll pull into their parking lot. We can get some good shots from there and we won’t be noticed. I’ve got a zoom lens in the glove compartment. I’ll take the next shots. You drive.”
    “All right. We might as well switch places now.”
    He got out of the car and walked around to her side. The night air felt chill but he rather liked it; it was like splashing his face with water in the morning to wake up—it reminded him he was still alive. He opened the car door for her and she got out.
    They stood there for a while, leaning against the front of the car, enjoying the stillness, their backs to Kemco, looking out at the night. Pale ivory moonlight bathed the farmland around them with a quiet beauty. It didn’t look so bad on Boone, either.
    Half an hour was up.
    Crane drove back to Kemco, pulling into the parking lot, which was, as it had been last night, nearly full; but they found a place, and from it they could see the American flag, which Kemco flew twenty-four hours a day, and, just across the way, the loading-dock area. The truck was nowhere to be seen.
    “Did we miss it?” Crane asked her.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Couldn’t it have pulled out and gone down the other direction?”
    “Possibly. If so, it wasn’t loaded up; hasn’t been time for that.”
    “Where is it, then?”
    “Somewhere on the Kemco grounds picking up its cargo. My guess is they didn’t want to store the stuff in their normal loading area. What they’re doing here isn’t something they want to advertise, you know, not even to their own employees.”
    They sat and watched.
    Boone opened the glove compartment and got the zoom lens out and began attaching it to the Nikon. Crane got a glimpse of something else in the glove compartment, something that, although metallic, didn’t look anything like a camera attachment.
    “Have you got a gun in there?” he asked her.
    She didn’t look up from the Nikon she was fussing with. “I might have.”
    “You
might
have a gun in there.”
    “Okay, I have a gun in there. All right?”
    “How’d it get there? Or did it just grow there, organically?”
    “I put it there, what do you think?”
    “Boone, that’s it. That’s the end.” He started turning the key in the ignition.
    She reached for his hand and stopped him. Gently.
    “The gun used to be Patrick’s.