The Deliveryman
Author’s note:
I wrote this recently as a response to a conversation I had with someone regarding isolationism – which can be a paradox in a world of mass communication where everybody and anyone seems perpetually connected. In spite of all technology advancements over the decades it still remains about quality, and the lack of it, can sometimes lead individuals to do things they wouldn’t otherwise.
“We live as we dream — alone.” — Joseph Conrad (1857-1924).
By late-afternoon a slight haze hung over the lake. The temperatures were warming over the cooler waters — a common feature of mid-spring — and the weather wasn’t quite sure what it wanted to do next. Even so, the visibility was quite clear with high Cirrus clouds sketching their way in an otherwise blue sky, but as the shimming aqua of the surface stretched in all directions, the distant horizon ultimately terminated into an opaque edge like a vanishing stage.
Joshua Malone was quite conscious of his vessel’s wake as it seemed to slice a feathery white arc in the relatively placid waters. The white foam turbulent from his single motor fishing craft; tracing a tail of some ten yards before washing and healing behind him with each passing mile. Glancing at the stern he saw only the faintest outline of the water’s scar he had traced through the enormous lake. There were few other craft about. Still too early in the year for most, he thought. His eye currently counted three small fishing boats like himself — some four to six-hundred yards to his starboard. Dark specs at this distance; drifting along the current, presumably, with unseen fishing lines in the water. Good. The less the better. He had made this run about a baker’s dozen now — that was his guess — But it only takes one, he reminded himself, that can ruin your day in a hurry.
Malone’s destination was his contact on the opposite shoreline — beyond world’s end — of the lake. He knew him only by the name Ghassan, and for this business that was enough. They had been brought together by a mutual friend, Mina, who had cultivated Malone over the last year. Malone’s coarse hands gripped the wheel of his small craft a little harder as his thoughts flowed into soft and delicious memories. The feeling of her silky skin slithering atop him, and for such a hard man who spent a lifetime aboard ships of various sizes; traversing innumerable waterways, it was amazing how quickly he melted at her touch. Their romance — Was it a romance? he pondered — had slowly blossomed over the last eighteen months. Malone first saw her at the club in the same crystalline city to which he now navigated the boat. Her exotic eyes, deep pools of black pearl, hypnotically soaked him in. Her skin, pure and intoxicating, and her Arabic ancestry held vibrant with thousands of years of captivation. Cleopatra must have looked the same, he felt. Malone smiled and re-gripped the wheel again.
Like all things it had been, of course, a business transaction. Malone had paid for his dances at the Cartwheel — a gentlemen’s club on the rough edge of the enormous city — for the privileges of having such a beautiful woman snake over him.
“What do you do?” she asked on that first encounter.
“I’m retired.”
She smiled infectiously. “What did you use to do then?”
Malone had known the routine. She was feigning interest of course, and attempting to gauge the depths of his pocket.
“I was a sailor.” he replied evenly.
“That sounds exciting.”
Of course she would say that. “It sounds more glamorous than it is.”
“Were you in the Navy?”
“Yes. In the beginning.”
“Then what?”
He sighed. The conversation was polite but extraneous. When will the music start? he wondered. How more better this would be without your clothes.
“Then I was aboard various container ships delivering all kinds of cargo all over the world.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been?”
“Everywhere, really. South America, the Mediterranean, Southeast Asia and the Pacific.”
She squeezed his arm with delight. It was an excellent maneuver, but he moved his leg slightly to make sure the bump of his wallet was still there. Thankfully, he felt the bulge. Still, the tactic worked, and he felt the wonderful rush of blood-flow to other areas.
“That’s amazing. I bet you’ve seen so many cities!”
“I have.” Malone replied evenly; fighting to not show any melancholy. The fact was his life was quite lonely. An amazing paradox really considering an individual can be isolated while still existing in a vast crowd of people.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Cairo. Have you been there?”
“Oh yes, many times.”
“I miss it there.”
“Why don’t you go back?”
It was her turn to retreat some. “It’s complicated.” she replied, and an awkward silence descended.
Eventually, blessedly for Malone, the god awful rap music began, something he didn’t like nor comprehend, and Mina began with her serpentine gyrations. Her hips slowly moving as she extended an arm and her hand held the side of his thatchy, gray, tangled beard. Not long after the remains of her inadequate lingerie lay on the darken carpet next to the sofa, and the beautifully nude Venus glided over him, and Malone fell into paralysis.
So it went on. For months on end. Heaven only knows how much money she drained from him. It didn’t matter to Malone, however. He had enough, and it wasn’t like he had any kind of family or children of his own to pass his modest wealth to. He had enough to pay the taxes on his small cottage, fill-up the pick-up and the boat, and surviving the days to the point he couldn’t distinguish one from the next. Each week, after a modest supper, he climbed into his pick-up, drove out to the marina, boarded his vessel, and crossed the breath of the lake across the international border to the metropolis and visit Mina. On the rare occasions she wasn’t there the melancholy returned, and while the other club offerings were beautiful in their own way they weren’t quite Mina. So when these odd incidents occurred he considered it a savings, and with the exception of a handful of boilermakers — served with quite substandard whiskey by his estimation — he would leave early and sail back across now shadowy waters; in some cases at dusk with only twinkling lights and an olive electronic navigation screen for guidance, calling it an early night.
Then one evening, it happened.
“Do you always sail your boat across the lake?”
“Yes.” Malone replied. It wasn’t a sailboat, but he wasn’t about to correct her.
“May I ask a favor?” her arching eyebrows raised.
“What is it? You need a lift somewhere?”
That produced a giggle. “Oh no! Nothing like that.” She re-positioned herself upon his lap so that his eyes were level with her full and bare breasts.
“My cousin, Ibrahim. He has a business on your side of the lake. I have some rugs for him. Could you deliver them to him?”
“Rugs?”
“Yes. Beautiful Persian rugs. It is our family business. It is why we came to this country in the hopes of selling them here as well.”
“Well, I...”
“We would greatly appreciate it. We’d compensate you of course. Unfortunately, Ghassan and I have little money, but we will still pay.”
Malone thought that curious as the neon lights caught a hint of cobalt reflection from her diamond earrings. Still, knowing better, he accepted her statement given they were the only article of clothing she was wearing.
“We could work out payment.” Malone replied. “Just rugs?” he added with a side-eye.
She returned the look with a cock of her head, something she always did playfully, now in adoring fashion. “Yes, silly, just rugs. What do you think it be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry, it isn’t drugs or narcotics. Just some beautiful rugs. Honestly.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please? You would help us out greatly. Ghassan’s brother, Ibrahim, has a small shop on your side of the lake.” she said again. “Perhaps you have seen it?”
Malone explained he hadn’t, but that meant nothing. Most of the businesses on Main Street were boarded up now in the economically depressing town. He’d have to look for it. Something he’d remind himself on later trips, but to date, he still hadn’t.
Malone felt constricted, and didn’t immediately offer a reply. Mina took note of this.
“Please? My cousins and I would be very grateful.” She re-positioned herself, and a hand dropped lower. He was pleased the move was away from his wallet.
“We are a bit desperate. Business has not been good, and shipping has gotten expensive.”
A sob story, he mused.
“If you say yes, I could help you in other ways too.” Her hand inched closer.
Malone’s strength had all but left now, and against his better judgment, he found himself saying, “Okay, but how would that be arranged?”
“I will get in touch with Ghassan, and he will tell us where we can meet him.”
“I will like to have a payment before hand, Mina.”
She paused. “We could arrange to give you half, and then have Ibrahim give you the rest? Will that be okay?”
Malone thought. It would help out with the fuel. “Yes.” he told her. “I can work with that.”
“Great. We are so grateful to you. I want to give you a present.”
“A present? What kind?”
She answered with actions; in the darken recesses of the club, and away from the CCTV cameras and the neon and chaos of the dance floor, her mouth was around him fully, and he fell helpless as his head tilted back.
Malone could see the metropolis now. The towering skyscrapers seemingly stretching out from the horizon’s edge. A quick glance at the digital time displaying on the GPS he calculated another thirty-minutes until he’d be at the pier. The weather was good and the lake calm, and this far out there were no other vessels. He hadn’t even seen any of the large cargo ships as he crossed over the standard shipping lanes. They always reminded him of his younger self. There were no signs of the coast guard of either the countries, but even if there had been they were all familiar now with his fishing boat and paid him no attention. “Yeah, that’s old-man Malone.” was their common phrase. “He’s been fishing here for years.” In the beginning they used to pull up along side, and there was bonding between young and old of the sea, and it brought back fond memories for Malone. Now they don’t even drop by and say hi anymore, he regretted.
The city was closer now, and he was pleased that there still was no signs of harbor patrol. His destination was a relatively abandoned and ramshackle pier in much need of repair. No doubt it had been chosen for its isolation and disrepair.
As he cruised towards the dock he saw them, and his muscles became tight. He had done this several times now, but the rush of adrenaline when seeing them was always the same. There was Mina on the pier with her ‘cousins’ — Ghassan and Youssef. Tall hulking types, with dark features and perpetual scruff that comes from long days and infrequent shaving. They were dressed in black casual wear.
Malone didn’t like them — even if they were Mina’s cousins. He considered them hoodlums of one sort or another, and he wondered what the customers thought of them when they came to buy rugs. Probably more security or warehouse guys in the back, Malone assumed. That would account for the guns holstering at the waistband. Malone took them to be Makarov’s. Similar to what he had seen at Eastern Bloc borders a lifetime ago. That’s probably it. Security guys.
Mina saw him, smiled, and waved as he pulled up the boat. Youssef made the short jump onto the boat, grabbed the line, tossed it to Ghassan who secured it to the pier.
“There’s my deliveryman.” Mina came forward and hugged him, and then landed a peck of a kiss on the forehead. “I cannot ever stop thanking you for your help.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Malone replied. He thought he’d seen a sneer from Ghassan out of the corner of his eye.
“There not much today.” This came from Youssef as he took a large step back up on the pier to assist Ghassan. Both had rolled two flatbed handcarts to the edge, each containing about a half dozen long Persian rugs — their end tassels dangling with the sea-breeze.
“A dozen? Not too bad.” Malone said in reply. He always attempted to make some conversation with them, but was never successful. Again he was shunned. “Well, you know the drill.” he added after the silence.
They did. Malone watched the loading process, and was always amazed how careful they were with the rugs.
“Are they expensive?” he asked Mina.
“Very. It takes a lot to create the patterns and such.” she explained. “The equipment is quite expensive. I don’t know how long we can continue, but it is the family business so...”
Malone nodded. “I understand. It’s good you keep it in the family though.” He was certain of the sneer — this time by Youssef.
It took the two men roughly thirty-minutes to get everything transferred, and when it was done Ghassan handed him a white envelope filled with cash. Neither man said anything.
“We will let Ibrahim know you’re on your way.” said Mina, and Malone saw Youssef take out his phone and thumb the screen.
“Are you going to be around this weekend?” Malone asked Mina. He didn’t have to add he meant at the club.
“I plan to.” she smiled.
Malone smiled back, and inside him a youthful sailor leapt with joy. However, he could not be aware that he’d never see Mina again after this day.
Now he pointed his fishing boat back in the direction of another derelict dock on his side of the border. This one was near the outflow of both a sewage treatment plant and vacated chemical factory. Most of the town steered clear of both. One for the constant toxic biodegrading smell, and the other quite simply because it was haunted — or so the locals claim. The factory served only for dares among teenagers who were brave enough to crawl over the chain-link fence to prove they weren’t chicken.
It is still getting dark rather early in spite of the days lengthening, Malone thought on the journey back. He looked at the sky and the clouds seemed to be thickening up which no doubt attributed to the sudden ominous cloak that had enveloped the lake. Likely a front moving in, was his speculation.
He was back to his isolation, which was almost a metaphor for his life. There was the constant rhythmic rumble of the engine which filled the ears and his own thoughts which filled his head. He noted that the waves were becoming choppier, and the small fishing crafts he eyed on his trip over were now fewer in number. It will be good to get the rugs unloaded and make safe harbor himself before whatever system rolls in. It will be good to get the rugs unloaded regardless.
Malone didn’t like the fact he let himself get sucked into this. There had been such an adrenaline rush in the beginning. A rebel. Something akin to an old-time bootlegger. A smuggler of whiskey across the borders, and the adventure of sorts had made him feel young again. Now, after several crossings it had become more of a job. A laborious, monotonous, job like any other. A grind, and he wanted out. He was retired after all, and while it had all been a thrill for a while, the luster had worn away. Could he just not see Mina without all this complication? She was so very beautiful, and she had taken pity on such an old man. Malone had never known love. He was empty of experiences and relationships. He had rarely experienced the touch of such an incredible woman, and as he thought of Mina, was forever captivated and weaken by her.
A sound drifted across the water, and Malone’s ears plucked. It was an unusual sound, and instantly he was able to filter out the whine of the engine. Almost a moan? A groan? It was difficult to tell, but it appeared that it was floating across the border. Perhaps it was the souls of ancient lives lost in the lake storms coming to haunt him. To taunt me for my actions? Perhaps so. And I probably deserve it, he scolded. He didn’t like Ghassan nor Ibrahim. Yes, they were Mina’s family — Allegedly, right? — but they seemed like a couple of hooligans, and he didn’t like her around them. They held that dangerous vibe and something was a bit off with them by Malone’s estimation. Likely they were there to protect her, and their goods. No doubt the rugs were expensive, as Mina had indicated, and they had to protect their investment, but the guns — any gun — were a warning sign. Malone felt he had an instinct about such things.
Again the waves groaned at him, and now he considered it a mock. He had to end these little trips. He knew it. His brain knew it. Other parts weren’t so sure. Yes, he would tell Mina on his next visit to the club. He had to. “I’m very sorry dear, but you see...” Yes. Yes, that’s what he would do. He had attempted once before but had lacked courage. He would not fail himself this time.
A tormented sea murmured again.
Yes, I will tell Mina. I will make it definite, he replied. This is my last run. I cannot continue. “You see dear, my health recently. It hasn’t been so good.” Yes, I can use the health card on her. She wouldn’t know otherwise. “Yes, you will have to find another method to transport your precious rugs. I’m so sorry dear but...”
Darkness had fully descended now, and Malone could see the approaching shoreline speckled with random lights taking hold above the rickety dock. The smell of rotten fish and death covered it. Thick wooden beams worn from ancient winter storms splayed with signs of decay held the structure together. There were two flashes from a halogen lamp on the shoreline, and Malone responded in kind.
Like Youssef had done, one of Ibrahim’s assistants stepped into the boat a threw up a line to secure it. Already there were a team of three with flat pull carts, lining up to receive the latest shipment of rugs.
“You are a bit later than usual.” Ibrahim said indifferently.
“I did not delay. There appears to be a front coming in,” Malone replied evenly, “and I was against the current the entire way.”
“There were no trouble then?”
“None.” Terribly impatient tonight, aren’t we Ibrahim? The current had been a bit of a fib. While true, he certainly hadn’t increased speed because as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t any deadline. You’ll get your rugs when you get them, Ibrahim, had been his mindset.
Behind him the waves groaned again. Mocking. Malone thought for a moment Ibrahim had heard it too. Impossible.
It took longer in the dark, but eventually all of the rugs had been unloaded. Ibrahim’s workers were efficient in spite of struggling a few times. They must be so heavy! Ibrahim said nothing, and Malone did not attempt to engage him; so the two men stood there as the process was completed. Then Ibrahim went to the carts, made sure the count was accurate — How could it not? — before approaching Malone and handing him his envelope.
“Here.” he said. There was no thank you or any form of appreciation. Not exactly enthusiastically grateful as Mina keeps saying.
Malone took the envelope, peaked inside and thumbed the bills. He would not count them in front of Ibrahim. He wasn’t sure if that would be an insult or not. Anyway, he had never been short-changed by them prior.
Malone heard a final groan.
Yes, yes, this is it, he told the Deep, I promise this will be the last.
The squeaky wheels of the hand-carts retreated down the dock into the darkness. Malone paid them no attention. Instead he had cast off, and began making his way for the inner harbor some twenty-five minutes away. Occasionally in the distance there was a flicker of lightening, and he was pleased that he was making good time and would be in port before anything drastic swept in. The troughs were noticeably deeper now. A sure sign it would be a turbulent night to be out on the water for sure, but at least they had seemed to silence. There no longer were any groans of displeasure from them. Perhaps they are finally satisfied that I will end this? he thought. Yes, this is truly it.
Malone reached his dock in the inner harbor, and the flashes of light electrifying the western sky were becoming more frequent. He was securing the craft for the night, and the cones of bright luminosity from the harbor’s light stanchions now poured inside his boat canceling all shadows. There was no one about, and the intense silence of the harbor at that later hour was broken only by rolling thunder of the incoming storm.
As he turned to his left Malone caught the puddle near the back — now fully visible against the reflective white of the fiberglass hull. At first he thought it was some sort of odd oil leak, But there? No, that couldn’t be. There’s nothing there that could rupture.
He approached it with curiosity. It was a sizable puddle, and fairly thick, but it wasn’t oil. He placed his callus forefinger into it. There was no mistaking it. Blood. Human blood, and quickly he realized that it had come from something inside the rugs. A chill washed over Malone, and he became ill. It wasn’t rugs he had been transporting for Mina, Ghassan, and Ibrahim. It was something else, and with this new found knowledge he lost his sea legs, and bent over the side of his boat to release his horror.