The Rude Dispatcher

This is a brief scene from my work in progress. I haven't dealt with a FM or DM such as this one, not in recent years anyway, but maybe some of you have. In books and movies, as we all know, situations are exaggerated for effect, and my goal was to make him just snarky enough to get the readers attention and maintain a degree of realism.

This novel, which remains untitled, isn't exactly a trucker story, other than the fact that our hapless trucker gets himself killed due to his own greed and poor judgment. The consequences extend beyond his own life and into other, innocent peoples' lives.



After listening to the myriad of phone menu selections offered by Intercon Express, of Tulsa, Oklahoma, Gary decided the general operator would be the place to start.

“My name is Gary Sands. I’m a detective with the Hatchet County Sheriff’s Department in Kentucky. I’m calling in reference to one of your drivers, a Mr. Robert Shales from Kent, Michigan.”

After a brief pause, “Ah, here he is. And what is the nature of your inquiry?” said the friendly enough lady on the other end of the line.

“I suppose I need to speak with his immediate supervisor, if that can be arranged?”

“Certainly, sir. Let me see,” another pause, “ that would be his fleet manager, Robbie Tuck. I’ll transfer you now. Have a good day, sir.”

After a fourteen minute wait, Robbie Tuck finally came on the line. Gary wondered if the drivers routinely waited this long to speak with their supervisor. Looking at the company’s online recruitment advertisement he noted that they offered “A family atmosphere and personalized dispatch. Our drivers are our biggest asset and we treat them accordingly!”

“Robbie here,” said the hurried sounding voice.

“Good morning, I’m Gary Sands from the Hatchet County, Kentucky Sheriff’s Department and I need to speak to you about your driver, Robert Shales. It’s rather urgent.”

“Look, mister, if you’re a bill collector I have to refer you to HR. I’m awfully busy here. I’ve got sixty drivers to manage.”

“I’m not a bill collector, sir. I’m a homicide detective.”

“Oh, sorry, just a sec… Robert Shales, oh, Bobby. Where the hell is he anyway? Late as hell, I know that. The customer in Atlanta has been having a #### fit over their load of whiskey and his Qualcomm is down and we can’t figure out where the hell he is ‘cause he won’t answer his #### phone,” talking a mile a minute.

“Sir,” Gary interjected, forcefully. “Did you miss the part about me being a homicide detective?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Your driver isn’t answering his phone because he is dead.” Gary said flatly.

“Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I wish you had told me that sooner. What do you need from me?”

“I need for you to shut up and listen. Now I need to find out who he has listed as next of kin to notify in the event of an emergency.”

“Uh, I guess HR would have that.”

“Thank-you. And by the way, you can have your truck back when we no longer need it for the investigation and you can call your customer in Atlanta and tell them to kiss that load of whiskey good-bye. If we locate it, you will be the first to know. Now could you connect me to the nice lady I was talking to earlier?”

 

Thanks for the confirmation. Maybe I'm a little out of touch lately

 

This is a sneak preview from Chapter 1. If this was a movie our poor trucker wouldn't be in it very long.


Pulling to a stop beside Bobby's truck, the Preacher said, "Here you go, young man. It has been a blessing to do business with you. Perhaps you will hear from me again. And then again, perhaps not."

It was with enormous relief that Bobby climbed up into the cab, additionally pleased that he did remember to lock the door. Or did he?

Before checking on Joshua, he sat down in the driver's seat, turning on the overhead map light to better count his money. He could barely contain his excitement as he fanned through the $25,000 he withdrew from the fat envelope.

He detected just the slightest bit of movement a mere second before his head felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise. It took only a few seconds to understand that the imagined vise was actually a large human hand.

"Don't struggle or I will only squeeze harder. It's not a pleasant way to die, from what I've seen."

Zeke turned his victim's head slightly to the left for better placement of the little .25 caliber pistol that looked like a child's toy in his oversized hand.

He placed the barrel snugly against the base of Bobby's skull, pulling the trigger twice. The small caliber, soft nosed rounds spread upon impact with bone, plowing their way through brain matter and coming to rest somewhere inside the cranium, having done their job without any messy exit holes.

 

Actually planning to be stingy with this one as it will be a full length novel going on Amazon Kindle, but will share a chapter or two as I go along to pique some interest.

I hauled a load of whiskey awhile back with three pickups in KY. One stop was way back in the hills, so much so that I didn't see how tractor trailers went back there on a regular basis without having a mishap, with the extremely narrow and hilly roads.

I got to thinking how this could be the site of the original still and it grew from there after prohibition. I also thought how it would be a convenient place to hijack a truck, and so a story was born.