Hot Cargo

Hot Cargo

Which is hotter? The cargo, or the crew?!

The package was wedged between the screen door and the real door. The UPS delivery guy had pulled a straight back chair over against the screen to keep the wind from blowing it back and forth. Alphie MacCash unlocked the door, pushed the package through with her foot. She threw her purse and sun glasses onto the nearest chair.

She went into the modest kitchen, opened the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of pinot grigio. She retrieved the package, took it back into the kitchen. Un-Deliverable the label said, taped across the face of the shoe box shaped package, Return To Sender.

She played the mental video over in her mind: her taking the package from the guy, them leaving Daytona, the Firecracker 250 just ended. Writing an address onto the label -- somewhere out from Charlotte he had told her; the name of the town not meaning a damn thing to her.

"Return address?" she had asked.

"Just use yours," he said; being facetious, but not giving her more specific instructions.

Alphie put together a plate of left-overs, mostly things she had brought home from work; put it into the microwave.

The package, when she studied it, gave few clues: a name, Finn Irish, a street name and house number, Lake Norman, NC. A shoe box wrapped in brown grocery store paper. Her own name in the upper left hand corner.

The girl opened the wrapping carefully, from the bottom side. 'There might be a clue inside as to where I can re-send it.' Two size 11 1/2 running shoe boxes, taped together. She flipped the box over, right side up; lifted off the top.

"Shit ... " she mouthed the expletive. The box was filled with $20.00 bills. Wrapped in bundles with violet colored bands, neatly stacked.

She locked the doors, killed the overhead light; left only the light over the sink on. Taking a deep breath, she took out a bundle, counted. ... One, two ... ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. She did a quick mental calculation of the math: $2000.00.

"Shit ... " she repeated.

Alphie topped off her wine, filled it up over the rim; bend down and sucked the capillary pooled liquid from the top of the glass. She took both, the wine and the shoe box, into the tiny living room/den. Balancing on her left foot and using her right, she pushed the accumulated magazines and books onto the floor. Then dumped the strapped bundles from the first box onto the coffee table. Counted twenty-eight bundles: $56,000. 00; just in the first box.

"Shit ... "

There were no clues as to who this Finn Irish guy was, how to forward him a shoe box full of $20.00 bills.

**_**

Daytona Beach A week earlier ...4 July 19__

Finn Irish had never considered himself a thief. He hadn't really intended to steal the money. He was just there, watching the end of the race.

" Neal Bonnet and the number 27 car up into the wall." Ned Jarrett was shouting into the microphone. " ... coming out of turn four,"

Venders and ticket sales had already brought in their proceeds, counted it. The room was full of cash, laying around in boxes and bags. Everybody in the press box ran to the big plate glass window, looked back to the left.

"... Sliding down into traffic!"

They watched the cars slide across the home stretch straight-away.

"... two, no, three cars caught up in the tangle," Buddy Baker picked up the narrative. "... a whole gaggle of drivers diving down on the grass, looking for cover."

It, the money, was just there. Nobody watching, them all glued to the smoke and rubber down on the track.

" ... Yellow flag coming out," Ned said, " ... Eleven laps left. Are they gonna Finnish it under caution? -- or red-flag it and do a re-start?"

Finn picked up the bag, walked out the door and down the stairs.

**_**

Alphie had come down to Florida four days earlier with the proverbial high roller. He had shown up at the Big Orange booster club get-together in Gatlinburg driving a red German convertible, flashing $100.00 bills, impressing his old fraternity brothers. Her serving up drinks, showing her ass sometime, setting Bud Lite bottles down on the tables.

"Ever been to the races?" he had asked.

Alphie gave him a look. "NASCAR?" she asked. "Bristol: been up to Bristol a couple a' times."

High-Roller held open his Big Orange sport coat, showing at least an inch's worth of hundreds in the left breast pocket. "Daytona," he told her, his eyes holding hers. " ... you want'a go. Work on a tan." He ran a thumbnail across her bare midriff.

He was cute, in an athletic sort of way.

Ten o'clock the next morning they were doing it in the southbound, I-75 to Atlanta. Long red hair blowing in the breeze, his hand squeezing the inside of her left thigh. The truck drives loved it. Noon the next day she would be on the beach, catching some rays.

Now the son-of-a-bitch's wife was showing up. "Get your shit together," the high roller yelled at her, hanging up the phone. "She in Gainesville already!... Oh, throw them sheets in the washer before you go."

"Wash your own fuckin' sheets," she told him. He had been good, but not that good. Standing at the end of the bed, in just a cut-off tee shirt, she stuffed jeans and bikinis into a carry-on bag. A little black dress.

The gig was supposed to last another week, a cool grand in small unmarked bills. Instead he had dumped her at the local Rent-A-Car place, one way money back to Tennessee.

**_**

The guy in front of Alphie MacCash finished his paper work with the fellow behind the Budget Rent-A-Car desk. Turned, asked her, " ... where you going,"

She gave him a look. "North," she said.

The guy laughed. "That covers a lot of territory," he said. His eyes were not as hard as his face. "New York?... Detroit?"

She didn't answer.

"Anyway, I'm offering you a ride," the guy said. "No need driving two cars off-up-north, we can go together."

"You a bloody ax murderer?" Alphie asked him.

He wasn't bad looking. Maybe he had been a tennis player or a wide receiver a few years back. "Rape me and dump me off in an orange grove up around Lake City?"

He laughed. "Finn," he said, stuck out his hand; "Finn Irish. -- I need somebody to ride with me, look like we been on vacation. Going home."

She, Alphie, knew she was treading on thin ice. But, what the hell. It was already 94 degrees in the shade, and it only 10:30 AM, in the morning. It was a ride from Port Orange back to Knoxville. And that was what she needed, get back where there were people who knew her, might loan her a couple hundred. Just until she could get a waitressing job, make a little money. She knew how to ensure the tips were good. Get a little extra from the middle-age crazy customer, leave their business card inside a couple of folded over twenties. Their wives never even knowing.

"Who you runnin' from?" she asked Finn. "I don't want 'a wind up in jail.... Maybe get shot at. "

"Bill France Junior," he said.

"The race car guy?" she asked, incredulous.

He laughed. "The same."

"You drive race cars?" she asked.

"No. I build 'em. Make 'em go fast.... You coming or not?"

"I always wanted to ride in a fast car," Alphie said. "Where you going, anyway?"

"Mooresville.... Up near Charlotte," he said.

She picked up the carry-on bag. "I'm coming," she said. Walked out and got into the GMC Jimmy.

They bought three big, cheap suitcases at the K-Mart up on Beville Road. Threw them, empty, into the back of the SUV. She added her carry-on to the collected bags. Finn had a shaving kit and a set of cheap golf clubs.

"Get a couple 'a beach balls," she said. "A blow-up air mattress."

He looked at her funny like.

"Look like we going home from vacation," she said. "And a cooler,"

Finn said. "We have to have a cooler?"

"Beer and water and Gatorade," one or the other of them said. "A big stack of magazines."

"Regular married couple," Finn said. They both laughed.

She stood on tip toes, kissed him on the cheek, danced away.

Then: "We got one more stop," he said. "... Drop a package off at UPS. Up near the speedway."

"How come Mr. Bill France Junior is looking for you?" she asked, them not even up to South Daytona yet.

"There's some things I know he wouldn't want spread around. Things would upset his apple cart a bit."

"He would come after you for that?... Who you gonna tell." Excitement sounded in her voice. She sat forward in the seat, turned her body toward him.

"He would... he will. Most likely got ever cop in north Florida, south Georgia, looking out for me already. Some NASCAR guys too."

"They all know you?... What you usually drive?"

"Dodge Ram," he said. "Crew cab.... Came down here in the big truck, the tool truck. Need a 'ride' home."

Finn opened a leather bound notebook, gave her a blue and orange FedEx form, them driving up US 1.

"Fill this out," he said, like it was Alphie's job. Gave her a North Carolina address.

"What do I put in the contents square," she asked.

"Suntan lotion," he said, being a smart ass. "Value: $250,000. 00."

She laughed, wrote it down. "Maybe that's Mr. France's money, not suntan lotion you sending up to Charlotte." Then: "Return address?"

"Just use yours," he said. Watched the highway in the rear view mirror, changed lanes.

She gave him a look. What the hell, she thought. Wrote it down: Alphie MacCash, 2233 Mills Ave, Maryville, TN.

He went to the pay phone mounted on the outside of the building, made a phone call. She took the package in to the FedEx place, paid the lady behind the counter, went back to the GMC Jimmy; it double parked, motor still running.

"I don't want it in the car, somebody stops us," she heard Finn say into the phone. He hung up the phone, ended the conversation.

"What was that?" she asked.

His eyes went hard. "We ain't that married," he said. Pulled out into traffic. Headed west on SR 40.

**_**

"I'm bored," Alphie told him an hour later, tossed the un-read magazine into the back. He hadn't said a word since they had crossed I-95. Playing that Texas cowboy music on the tape player. Hank Thompson and such, all that really old shit. He turned the volume down. "What do you usually do when you're bored?" he asked.

"Fuck," she said. She could tell, watching him, that that wasn't the answer he was expecting.

He recovered quickly, she gave him that much.

"Who's gonna drive?" he asked. "Me and you in the back seat getting it on."

"Maybe you could just play with me a little," she said. Turned around sideways, her back against the door. Watched him get into the possibilities. "It ain't the same, but it beats the hell outta reading about Martha Stewart's chicken coop, listen to all them steel guitars and twin fiddles."

She pulled up the front of the mid-riff tee shirt, showed him her tits.

Finn looked, quick, at the traffic ahead, be sure they didn't rear-end a semi. He looked back at her, her shirt pulled up high, showing off her chest.

Even in the middle of the national forest traffic was as heavy. People from Ohio going home from the beach. Folks in the eastbound didn't matter, they were gone before the driver could even say to his wife, "What the fuck!... Did you see that?" His head on a swivel, looking back, almost running off the road.

"Let me get in behind this Beamer," Finn said. He checked the highway, both ways, eased in some forty yards or so behind the black BMW sedan, Kentucky plates, set the cruise control at seventy-six, keeping pace.

"I thought those were real," he said, checking out her boobs. "What the hell are you doing way over there?" He didn't reach over, give them a squeeze, just looked. Then: "Goddamn, you are gonna be fun. Bring those babes over here closer."

Alphie lifted the console lid, folded it back. She undid the seat belt, worked her right shoulder up against the dash: the radio, the GPS. One foot down behind his on the floorboard, the other leg curled up on the seat. She thrust her chest out.

Finn did squeeze this time. First one and then the other. "God damn," he said. "You and me are gonna go away for awhile when this is over.... Take these tits with us."

He pinched her left nipple, she inhaled audibly. "Ocala, Silver Springs, coming up," he told her. "You might wantta pull that shirt back down."

"You're no fun," she said, stuck out her tongue at him. Took another deep breath, him rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Alphie watched him watch her walk across the parking lot, straw beach bag in hand. Them stopped at the I-75 intersection west of town. Wall to wall traffic from Orlando and points south headed toward Atlanta. They, Alphie and Finn, were going west on 27, staying away from the interstate.

"You changed," Finn said, eyeing her legs. "You got on anything underneath that shirt?"

"No," she said. The tail of the khaki shirt reaching just to the top of her thighs.

"I didn't think so," he said. "... Panties?"

"No." She watched his eyes, him studying on the how this was gonna work out. "So you can play with me," she said. "I'm horney. I wantta fuck."

"Not yet," he said. "We gotta get a little farther away from all these cars, these people." He looked up at the non-stop mass of moving vehicles on 75.

Alphie turned, followed his gaze, raised her hand to her eyes against the sun. The tail of the shirt rode up. Red hair showed just above the top of her legs.

"People are watching," he told her.

"I know," she said, taking her time.

A Florida Highway Patrol car passed, did a U-turn and came back, pulled into the lot. It drove toward the lines of diesel pumps in the back, the refueling semi's.

"Get in," Bo said. "Let's get the hell outta here."

She spread a beach towel on the seat, got in and closed the door. Men still watching, open mouthed. Twenty minutes later they were in Levy County, cattle country. Finn kept an eye on the review mirror. Nothing yet.

Alphie twisted around in the seat, lay back against him as best she could, the console between them, in the way. She scrunched her feet up against the shotgun door. Unbuttoned the front of the shirt, opened it up, looked down at her tits.

"Now, play with me a little," she said.

"You've done this before," Finn said. It wasn't a question.

"In college," she told him. "My boyfriend liked me to ride around with him, me naked."

"Did you?" he asked. He ran a hand down the front of her torso, getting the feel of her.

"Sometimes. Not every time." She caught his hand, moved it to her mound, the trimmed red hair. "Didn't want him getting cocky, thinking I was easy.... Uh!... God damn, that feels good."

He had touched her with the tip of a finger, her wet beginning to flow. He rolled the finger around a little. Her hips rose up, reaching for him. She held her hand on top of his, pushed the pressure harder against herself. Her eyes closed, she made sounds. Female sounds.

"You don't know how." She pushed against his hand harder with hers. "Am I gonna have to teach you how?"

"I know how.... We're coming into a little town here," he told her, starting to pull his hand away.

She held it, kept the hand between her legs. Pulled the two halves of the shirt over her body, covering her tits.

It was a two stop light town. They made the first light, got caught at the second one. A couple of high school kids in an oversized pick-up pulled up next to the Jimmy. The driver looked over, stared, stupefied. Alphie gave him the finger. The kid laughed, started telling his buddy.

The light changed.

"Now, where was I?" Finn asked.

"My pussy," Alphie reminded him. "Playing with my pussy. I think you still there."

"Here?" He thrust a long finger deep inside her. Found her G-Spot.

"Oh, shit!" She lifted her ass off the towel covered seat, held his hand firm between her thighs. Moaned.

**_**

Just past Cross City the rain started. Alphie sat against the console, against Bo's shoulder. Her legs folded up underneath her. She held his upper arm with one hand, the other down the front of his un-buttoned jeans.

"Did you ever fuck in the rain?" he asked.

She perked up, gave him a look. "No.... Not right out in the rain. What you got in mind?"

He touched the brakes, cut off the cruise control. "Next side road we see, I'm gonna fuck you," he said. "... My turn."

The rain was warm: July thunderstorm warm. Violent in its suddenness and intensity.

"In the rain?" she asked, squeezing him. "Not in the back seat?"

"On the hood, in the rain," he said.

He eased the Jimmy onto the two-lane black top.

Alphie pulled off the khaki shirt, threw it onto the dash. "I'm gonna run in the rain!" she said. "Run naked in the rain! You have to catch me."

She did, he did: run naked in the rain, catch her. She didn't run with much sincerity, danced back and forth. Watched him shuck off his jeans, his cock spring out into the light.

He caught her, carried her back to the car. Rain hitting them, drenching them both.

"You have to be on the bottom," she told him. "... I want'a watch. ...That rain in my eyes, I can't see."

Finn vaulted onto the smooth, slick, and wet metal; worked his ass along the length of the hood; his back and shoulders pressed against the windshield. Alphie, her legs spread wide, straddled his thighs; the Greek fisherman's cap shielding his eyes from the driving rain.

She caught his hardness with her free hand, lowered herself onto him.

"You a bad ass man I bet," she said; looking down past her tits, down at the hardness of him sliding into her pussy. "A real bad ass.... sometimes 'you-heart- pumps- piss' bad.... I been fucked by some mean mother-fuckers....!" She slammed down onto him; "... Uh-h-h-h shit!"... the rain dripping from her hair -- drops forming on her nipples, falling away into his eyes, his face. "... but I bet you the meanest mother-fucker ever had me."

Finn laughed, held her hips, watched the rain run off her body; watched it bead up and then drop off her nipples -- down onto his flat, washboard torso.

"God damn, you fuck good!" Alphie mouthed; raising up, slamming back down onto to him.

He watched her eyes, grinned. "You the fucker," he said. "I'm just the fuckee," showing off a little. "... Play with yourself," he moved her hand, her fingers down to her pussy. "I want to watch you play with yourself."

She moved one finger, then two over her clit; moaned, screamed into the storm. Finn lifted his head, licked, sucked the gathered rain drops from her tits, the valley between her breast, from her nipples. Bit her nipples.

The almost blinding flash of lightening and the crash of thunder came simultaneously; no space in time between them. The tallest pine tree split into pieces, fell (almost) around them.The organism coursed through her body. Her Ann Margret hair, wet and streaming, fell down into his face. She collapsed onto his chest, the hardness of him still deep inside her pussy.

They lay there. The storm subsided; the worst of it moving off toward St. Augustin, Jacksonville. Still, it would rain for a while yet. They would have time to stand in it, wash themselves off in it: the epicenter had passed.

"You still bored?" Finn asked, running his hand over her naked and wet body.

Alphie laughed. "I been fucked in the shower many times," she said. "But never like this."

"You still bored?" he asked again.

"Temporarily -- no.... But I'm gonna need this, want this again." She rubbed her body, her boobs against him.

He reached into the vehicle, pulled out one of the beach towels. "Dry off," he said. "Let's get on the road.... I want to get to Charlotte sometime this week."

**_**

They reached the North Carolina city sometime in the night; slept in a Red Roof inn. The ensuring fuck was perfunctory -- both of them too weary to really 'get-into-it.'

There were, on the lamp table, when Alphie woke up, three twenty dollar bills and a note: Things to take care of, it said. I'll be in Knoxville, Find you, in three or four days.... We'll go to Arizona, or maybe Jamaica.... Finn.