Buffalo jump

CHAPTER 43

Buffalo: Friday, June 30

When the white truck passed the first highway sign for the Peace Bridge to Buffalo, it pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped, hazard lights flashing.

Ryan had to keep going-no way to stop without drawing attention-but he took his foot off the gas and coasted.

“What’s he up to?” I asked.

Ryan looked at the dashboard clock. It read 3:50 p.m. He said, “Shift change, I bet.”

“What?”

“He’s waiting for a shift change at the border. Four o’clock, half the guys change over.”

“He’s got someone on the inside?”

“Let’s find out.”

Ryan had told me his crew often crossed the border by getting the name of a bent Customs officer from Vinnie’s brother Luciano. Ryan got this Uncle Looch on the phone as we neared the crossing.

“Uncle?” he said. “It’s me. Yeah, that me. How you doing? Good, good… Yeah, I know. We all feel terrible, but what can you do? He had good health all his life. As long as he’s not in pain… Listen, Uncle? We got anyone on today at the bridge? Yeah, that one. Yeah? Comes on at four? Perfect. Okay. Give her my best too, Uncle. Thank you.”

“Lane 9,” he said to me. “Any bets that’s where our truck goes too.”

Security going into the U.S. was tighter than ever these days, whether you were flying, driving or taking the train. The lines stopped a good hundred yards from the crossing and inched forward from there.

“Open the glove,” Ryan said. “Give me the folder there.”

I handed him a green vinyl folder that had his registration and insurance papers.

It was four-fifteen when we pulled up to the booth in lane 9. As Ryan had predicted, the white truck was in the same lane, seven vehicles back.

The U.S. Customs officer leaned out of his booth, a heavy man of fifty or so, with exploded blood vessels in his nose and cheeks, watery eyes and a tremor in his hands. He looked like he’d sell his mother into slavery for a drink. “Citizenship?”

“Canadian,” we said in unison.

“Where you heading today?”

“Buffalo,” Ryan said.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“Pleasure,” Ryan said.

It didn’t feel that way to me.

The guard held out his hand. “Licence and registration, please.” As Ryan passed the guard his folder, he said, “Regards for you from Mr. Lewis,” he said. The guard’s eyes brightened and his face moved ever so slightly in the direction of a smile. He kept Ryan’s folder tightly closed as he withdrew into his booth. He knew the drill, knew there’d be five U.S. hundreds in there, tucked in by Ryan while we waited. Much stabbing of computer keys ensued in the booth. Then the guard leaned back out, beaming at least sixty watts brighter than he had been before, and welcomed us to the U.S. “Have yourself a nice day,” he said.

I’d settle for surviving it.

We pulled away from the booth and into a parking area. Ryan raised the hood of the car and checked the oil while we waited for the white truck to clear Customs. Checked it a few times, then slowly topped it up.

“Would Looch say anything to Frank?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like ‘Gee, you’re the second call I’ve had today. First was from Dante Ryan.’”

“First of all, Uncle Looch didn’t get to be his age by flapping his lips. Second, the other guy called first. He knew he had to wait till four o’clock so he’d already spoken to Looch when he pulled over.”

“Just checking how paranoid I need to be.”

“Right where you are is fine,” Ryan said.