Smith was edgy. It was a cash month—every fourth month they made a payment in cash, instead of routing the money into laundered external investments or offshore accounts. For the deliveries, he had to babysit the money with Brodie, which meant hours of painful silence waiting in the truck with a man who scared him like no one else did.
He leaned against the pickup, smoking American Spirits and watching the meth cooks emerge from Bunkhouse A, their long shift finally over. They stretched and blinked like moles in an afternoon sun newly bright after midday showers. There were smiles and laughter as they headed toward Bunkhouse B for a shower and some sleep.
At a desk inside Bunkhouse A, Brodie and Bentas were monitoring the money count. A worker ran bills through a pair of whirring mechanical counters, packing them into rubber band–bound two-hundred-bill wads with a practiced flip of the wrist. The standing order was simple: one million dollars, used, unmarked, in two duffel bags, split five hundred thousand in fifties in the larger, five hundred thousand in hundreds in the smaller. Brodie would then hand-count the packets into the bags, and the bags would be reweighed. Every weight was noted and cross-checked.
Finally, the door opened, and Brodie emerged with the bags. Both were navy blue canvas, stenciled TINA MAYWEATHER in block capitals, standard laundry bags; together, the two weighed less than fifty pounds.
Smith tossed away his cigarette and climbed in the driver’s side, then leaned over to help Brodie slide the duffel bags into the middle of the seat. Brodie climbed in after them and shut the door.
Brodie put on his sunglasses and spat outside the window, then rolled it up and turned to Smith. “What are you waiting for?”
As Smith turned the car, Bentas came out of the bunkhouse and waved with a grin. He had a stick of dynamite in his right hand, and was clutching a fistful of roofing nails in the left. Smith turned to Brodie and said, “What’s that about?”
Brodie said, “Turn up the AC.” He exhaled slowly, tipped his head back onto the headrest, and said, “That doctor is getting too nosy.”
Smith nodded: so that was how it was going to be.
He cranked up the air conditioning and kept his eyes on the road. Maybe Brodie would sleep.