Rude Awakening

Sunday morning, 5-something a.m.

The Cartel boss calls me on my cell phone, waking me before sunrise. He says in a booming voice, "Boy, ya betta get those fucking trucks outa Florida and back to New Orleans." His message is brief and I am rattled.

Hamsini is sleeping soundly by my side. I stumble into the kitchen naked. The house is cold. I turn on the computer and make some tea. I check Ike's track. The bastard Ike is ducking below Florida's foreskin. Ike is going into the Gulf. Nobody knows where Ike is going to hit land. Some are betting on Corpus Christi. The fundamentalists say Ike is going back to New Orleans to finish off the sinners.

I call Christopher in Boston. It is nearly 9 o'clock on the East Coast and he was sleeping, too. He is pissed. He hates guys like me giving him the third degree.

"Where are the trucks?" I ask.
"We finished unloading last night. The crackers are in a warehouse out by Homestead."
"Well, call the Teamsters again and get those snack foods loaded. We need that convey moving towards Baton Rouge."