Runner by Carl Deuker Page A

headline shouted. I read the first sentence of the article and folded the newspaper in half. When I turned around, the fat guy was standing behind me. "Come with me," he said.
    I followed him into the marina office. On Saturday, the office didn't open until nine, so we were the only ones there. When we stepped inside, he turned on the light, but he kept
the blinds down. I followed him to his desk in the back. I sat down in a blue plastic chair as he slid into his swivel chair.
    "Is there someplace on the boat where you could store things for a little while?" he asked.
    "I don't know. I don't think so. Everything's pretty tight already."
    "Come on, there has to be someplace. It's worth another hundred dollars a month to you."
    I remembered the secret storage nook where Dad kept his service medals and his American flag. It was behind a false panel in my sleeping berth. Unless you knew it was there, you'd never find it. That spot was almost a taboo place—my dad never looked in there. "I guess I could store some packages. Not too many. But what's wrong with what's been going on so far?"
    "Nothing's wrong with it. And you're going to keep doing it. Only every once in a while there's going to be a different kind of package. When that happens, you bring it to the boat and store it. You understand?"
    "How will I know?"
    "You'll know. These packages will look and feel different."
    "For how long will I store them?"
    "Not long. Somebody will contact you, and then they'll take them off your hands."
    "How will they contact me?"
    "I don't know and I don't care. But they will."
    I stared at him for a long time, searching his dark eyes. Suddenly everything clicked. "That envelope a while back," I said. "That was a trial run, wasn't it? You've got a new
customer. Which means you're making double what you made before. So I should get double."
    He glared at me. "Double?" he replied contemptuously. "You're not doing anything more than what you've been doing. You're lucky to be getting an extra hundred bucks. Don't push it, kid."
    I didn't back down. "I want double," I said. Then I leaned forward. "I could go to the police, you know. I could tell them all about you."
    The fat guy jumped to his feet, reached across his desk, grabbed me by the shirt, and yanked me out of the chair with a strength I wouldn't have thought he had. His eyes darkened chillingly. "Listen and listen good. This isn't some high school poker game you're involved with. If the wrong people heard you talk about the police, we could both end up in body bags. Understand?" He jerked me forward so that my face was inches from his. "Understand!"
    "I understand," I whispered, my throat so tight I could hardly speak.
    Still he kept squeezing, and fear roared through my body. "Say it again. Only this time I want to hear it."
    "I understand," I said, my voice louder. He shoved me back into my plastic chair. I slumped down, my heart racing.
    "You think I'm scary, kid? I'm Mother Teresa, that's who I am, compared to the other people involved in this. Now get out of here."
    I stood, my knees like Jell-O, and made my way to the door. I opened it, stepped outside, and walked about halfway back
to the boat. Then I stopped and leaned over the railing and vomited.
    I was out of my league. The people I was dealing with were criminals. Big-time criminals. Million-dollar criminals. I didn't see them, but that didn't mean they didn't see me. I had to be very careful. And as soon as I could, I had to get out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Over Christmas break, my dad would get up early every morning, shave, and leave before I even got out of my bed. He never said where he was going, and I never asked. Maybe he was going to Labor Ready, a place for men to get temporary jobs, or maybe he was drinking at the Sloop Tavern. Probably one day it was one place, and the next it was the other.
    I slept for as long as I possibly could those mornings. Then I'd get up and hang out around the marina and along Market