“Good.Any more problems?”
I scan the yard out of habit.Empty forklifts.A security light buzzing overhead.“Smooth run.Checkpoint outside Memphis, but nothing unusual.”
“You didn’t see the Jackson crew again?”
“Nothing.Not surprising.Adena shot out their tires.”
His laugh cracks like a whip.“Your flight leaves at eleven.And Jagger?”His voice drops.
I straighten, fingers tightening around the phone.
“Bring Adena to the club tonight.Eight o’clock.New supplier from Juárez wants to expand into prescription ops.I want to reward her good work.”
My jaw tightens.I force it loose before I speak.“We’ll be there.”
“Don’t be late.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there with the phone still against my ear, even though the line is dead.Adena’s watching me from beside the truck, the question in her eyes clear.
“We’re going to dinner tonight.Black tie.Marquez wants us at eight.”
She snorts a humorless laugh.“Fun.”
“Food?”I ask.
She nods.“And coffee.Lots of coffee.”
With the heat rising at our backs, we wait until Marquez’s return driver—a kid who can’t be more than twenty-two—arrives to take the truck.Then I hail a cab and give the driver an address on South Main.
The Arcade is all chrome and red vinyl—too bright, too exposed.I take the corner booth, back to the wall, a clear view of both entrances.Every time the door opens, my spine tightens, a reflex I don’t bother fighting, like I’m waiting for the wrong face to walk in—or the right one.
Adena orders pancakes with fruit.I get bacon, eggs, toast, hash browns.One day I’ll start treating my body better.
If I make it out.
In case she wants to talk about anything too real, I start a conversation.
“This place has been here since 1919,” I say.“Musicians used to hit it after shows on Beale Street.”
She glances at the black-and-white photos.“You come here a lot?”
“If I have to drive, yeah.”
I track two construction guys entering—no threat.Still, every noise pulls my attention like a magnet I can’t switch off.
I keep the conversation light, telling her about the time Paco and I got stuck near Graceland with a truckload of prescription inventory because a tour bus jackknifed trying to turn around.Forty-five minutes of heat, Elvis music blasting out of open windows, and a guy in a rhinestone jumpsuit directing traffic like it was perfectly normal.
She laughs in all the right places, but there’s a trace of disapproval that tells me she’s humoring me.
When she’s finished her pancakes and has used the restroom, I drop cash for the meal, plus a tip for our server, and we exit with plenty of time to spare.
Outside, Beale Street is waking up—shop owners sweeping sidewalks, a few tourists with cameras.
I keep us on main streets.Public.Visible.Faces blur past, but I catalog them anyway.Old habits wrap around me like armor I can’t remove.
Adena slows in front of a record store… then shifts toward the narrow shop next door.
