“Shit, Walsh, that sounded bad. Can the things you’re transporting break?”
“Nah. Is all good. Right as rain, Tally. You wait here.”
“I’ll come help, then we can get going quicker.”
He grunts as he gets out but doesn’t tell me no. The temperature has dropped even further since we left.
“Ack, it’s freezing,” I say, filling in the gap, acting a bit awkward and stressed.
“We’ll be right.” Walsh passes over his unlocked phone. “Hold the torch.”
Which I do… while I open up his call history, seeing what numbers he’s dealing the most. There’s no way I can risk screenshotting, so I focus on the top two and memorize them as best I can while Walsh keeps fumbling with the padlock.
“Want me to try?” I ask when he starts getting more irritated after each failed attempt.
He holds the keys out, and we swap positions. After a couple of tries of me wiggling the key, it snaps open when I crash it against the lock. It’s old and shitty, and clearly the rental people haven’t done any maintenance.
Together, we shove the roller door up. The inside of the flatbed is mostly empty, except for the kegs Walsh said we weretaking. They’re all secured by straps to the side wall of the truck. The ones that crashed over happened because the strap holding them broke.
Hopping inside to help him right them, now that I’m standing in front of them, there’s an obvious size difference to the ones stacked and tied on the opposite wall of the truck.
“Stay there,” Walsh barks over his shoulder, moving to where the kegs are on their side.
I watch as he struggles to lift them up. And even full of lager, he should be able to push them back up, but he can’t, because it’s pretty clear they’re not full of beer or lager. I’d put money on them being full of missing children.
Normally, I’d say drugs or even pound notes that need to be laundered, but considering the obvious absence of chatter around any hard drugs, besides a bit of coke, and no weird notes passing my till, it’s easy to take them out of the equation.
“Let me help you,” I insist, moving quickly when he’s in the middle of trying to pick up the keg.
He can’t very well shoo me away, although he gives me a glare that would send others racing away.
As soon as my hand touches the metallic-looking barrel, I get confirmation it’s in looks only. The surface is warmer than any stainless steel or aluminum I’ve touched.
“Out of that, Tally. Get in the front of the truck and shut your fucking trap,” he snaps in his panic, as soon as we right the first one.
“Bit late to be doing that, Walsh,” I hiss, folding my arms over my chest. But I still act like a smart waitress and not a seasoned detective. “I want more money now. Obviously, you’re transporting something illegal.”
“You’re not really in a place to be demanding shit from me.”
I walk off but stop before I hop out of the truck.
A growl of frustration and agreement has me smiling before I walk back to help him with the other fallen keg. “Walsh, you remember I’m here to help. We’ll work things out. Together. I might actually be a good alibi. I’m sure we could come up with some story.”
His shaking hand gives him away.
“What’s going on?” I soften my approach because poor Walsh looks like he’s going to shit himself or go into cardiac arrest. “You can trust me.”
And he falls for my act completely.
“Honestly, Tally, I ain’t fucking sure! But someone’s thinking I’m a brainless langer.”
I pop my mouth, hamming up my shock like an actress on a sitcom would. “No. How?”
He’s literally shaking all over. The longer we spend in the truck, the more distressed he’s becoming.
“It’s just been a side hustle to move some extra liquor. A couple of boxes of imported ciggies every now and then too.”
“Those kegs are too heavy for that.” I step away from him and use the torch on his phone to look at the kegs closer.
