“Whew. That was a close one, dude. Wasn’t it, Tommy?” Preacher started to pull out another Marlboro light, ready to spark the lighter.

“Don’t even think about it. Do that again and I will make a point of dropping you on I-55. Late or not. I won’t even mind being ten or fifteen minutes late to get you out of my truck.” The red and blue lights of the Missouri State Trooper were out of sight, but Tommy’s nerves were shot. Between the second-hand smoke and the marijuana in Preacher’s backpack, he’d had more than enough scares for one night.

Preacher threw up his hands. “Hey, no need to get all hostile on me, man. I’m a peaceful guy. Really.” Brian, also known as Preacher, was a peace-loving man, not afraid to fight with other people. He preferred solving disagreements, something he did frequently in various homeless encampments, part of the reason he was given the nickname Preacher. Those who lived there with Brian, people whose minds weren’t too far gone to speak to him, felt he tried to be like Billy Graham or some other evangelical preacher. “We can get along just fine. I’ll put it away,” he held up the Marlboro’s, stuffing them back inside his jean jacket. “It’s cool.”

Tommy’s face, still hot and red, was damp with sweat. “How did I let you talk me into driving you to Saint Louis?”

“I asked for a ride, not attitude. Dude.” Preacher stopped talking, staring out his window into the dark. Headlights from a car shone in the passenger side mirror of the truck, right in Preacher’s eyes. “You gotta deal with these idiots and their halogen beams, eh, Tommy?”

Tommy saw the lights a few miles back. The speeding car caught up to the truck fast, Tommy gauging its speed at well over 90 miles per hour. The lights didn’t look right for a car, but they did fit a . . .

“Oh, man! Dude! Is that another trooper?” The bright red and blue lights from the rearview mirrors made it look like daylight in the cab. “I’m getting outta here.” Preacher’s voice got quiet, fast.

“No! You aren’t getting out. Stay right there.” Tommy shouted, the truck tires thumping over the rumble strip as he slowed down. Preacher reached for the door handle until he heard a click. “I said,” Tommy shifted into the lowest gear before shutting the truck down, “Stay. Right. There.” Tommy’s right hand held a Beretta. “No way am I going down for your pot. So. You will stay put until I figure out what this trooper wants, right?”

Preacher’s hands were raised over his head. It wasn’t the first time he had a gun pointed at him, but he was puzzled. Where in the heck did the gun come from? Must’ve been hiding under the fat man’s oversized shirt, Brian thought, sweating.

Tommy put the gun away, watching the rearview mirrors, knowing if the Officer spotted the weapon, he’d be in more trouble than the pot. Holding a pistol inside a vehicle without a conceal and carry permit was a grave charge in Missouri. One that he wasn’t willing to go to jail for. But Tommy had been robbed twice and wouldn’t let it happen a third time. Tommy did his best to convince himself that the gun was a good self-defense weapon and not illegal or immoral. He did carry pepper spray and a 10,000-watt taser as backup to the pistol but never had to use any of them until now.

Having been stopped multiple times, he prepared his documentation, driver’s license, and current manifest. Not wasting any time, he also rolled the window down, knowing the Officer would knock on the window if he didn’t. Preacher sat silently in the passenger seat. Tommy adjusted his shirt, keeping the pistol hidden.

“Evening, Officer,” Tommy offered before the Officer said one word.

Hanging on the pullup bar outside the truck, the Missouri State Trooper peaked inside. Brian sat back, doing his best to stay calm. “Where you headed,” Officer Whitforth asked.

“Dropping off in Saint Louis,” Tommy answered. “Officer Whitforth,” he asked, reading his name badge, “why did you stop me?”

“Let me see your documents first. Then we’ll get to why I stopped you, alright?” Tommy nodded. Brian didn’t take his eyes off the road in front of him. “Sir? Do you have a problem?” Whitforth was speaking to Brian.

“No, sir,” Brian replied.

“I’ve met you before, haven’t I?” Brian had multiple run-ins with law enforcement, often leaving an area or park without incident. Twice, however, Brian had a run-in with Officer Whitforth. The last time, he was cited for urinating on the side of the highway. “Preacher, right?” Brian held up his hands in surrender.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”

“Where are you headed?” Brian put the backpack in the sleeper before Officer Whitforth approached the semi, not so much as looking back at it.

“Saint Louis, sir. I’m going to detox and then, hopefully, rehab.” He pointed at Tommy, “But I needed a ride, and he offered to take me.”

Tommy shrugged, smiling at Officer Whitforth.

Officer Whitforth looked at both men, first Brian, then Tommy, and then smiled. “ ‘Kay, Preacher.” He glanced at Tommy’s license. “Thomas, I’ll be right back.” Tommy nodded.

Preacher started to get antsy. “Something’s wrong. It’s wrong. He’s gonna arrest me. Tommy, you can’t let that happen. I got at least two thousand dollars worth of pot. Half can be all yours, straight profit, if you can be cool and keep me out of prison. Ain’t that fair?”

Tommy watched the rearview mirror, waiting for Officer Whitforth to return. Tommy could only see his silhouette, just the shadow of a man typing or staring at the computer screen. Preacher, getting more antsy by the second, kept looking back in Tommy’s mirror.

The Missouri State Trooper came back, holding all of Tommy’s documents. “Well, everything checks out, Mr. Granier. We’ve got reports of a large shipment of illegal narcotics coming up from the south. Not sure when or where it will up this far, but there is a statewide alert.”

“Should you be telling me all this?” Tommy asked, shifting a little in Volvo’s seat.

“A law-abiding citizen like you wouldn’t be caught up in cartel business, would you?” He laughed, Tommy, laughing with him. Brian gave a courtesy chuckle. “Stay safe out there, Thomas. And Preacher?” He pointed at Brian. “You best keep your nose clean.”

“Yes, sir,” Brian shouted. It was reminiscent of Officer Whitforth’s time in the Marine Corps.

“Gentlemen, have a good night.” Hopping off the truck, the Missouri State Trooper returned to the patrol car, flipped off the blue and red flashing lights, and pulled away, creeping down the highway and past Tommy’s Volvo before turning his headlights on.

“Whew!” Preacher let out a deep sigh. “That was a close one.”

“Get out,” Tommy said. “Now. Walk the rest of the way. Hitchhike. I don’t care. But get the hell out of my truck.” He started to reach for the gun.

“Dude! After that? Come on. We can work this out,” Preacher said, his hands up, palms facing Tommy. He asked softly, “What will it take to make this right?”

“Two thousand dollars,” Tommy said. “Right now.”

Preacher looked at Tommy. “Okay. Can I get my backpack?”

“Sure.”
Preacher reached into the back, opened it up, and threw two grand right at Tommy. “Now, drive.” He gestured forward. “We’re square, yeah, man? Then, let’s get going. I wanna get away from you. You are waaay too violent for me, man.”

Tommy tucked the gun in his waistband. “No smoking.”

“Cool.”

“Good.”

The rest of the ride to Saint Louis was quiet and uneventful, with no cars until they reached Arnold, per Tommy’s guess. Pulling near the bus station, Preacher jumped out, never saying another word to Tommy. He slammed the door, screaming something at Tommy. Choosing to ignore it, Granier drove away, two thousand dollars richer, Volvo smelling like patchouli, cigarette smoke, and Cheetos.