Small ride

"Cigars," Miguel says, keeping his eyes on the road. "We pick up cigars from a boat tonight."

"Cigars?" I can't hide my disappointment. After playing stupid games with a psychopath, I expected something more dramatic. "That's it?"

Miguel shoots me a sideways glance. "Not just any cigars, hermano. Cuban cigars. Finest tobacco, hand-rolled in Havana, embargoed since '62. Rich white men pay big money to smoke what they can't legally have." Miguel's voice takes on an almost reverent tone, like he's describing some religious artifact instead of rolled tobacco leaves. "These aren't just smokes, they're status symbols. Senators, judges, business executives, they all want that forbidden taste. One box can fetch hundreds. Pure profit."

I lean back in my seat, letting the information sink in. The vinyl creaks under my weight as I shift, trying to decide if I should be impressed or disappointed. "So nothing serious? Just some fancy smokes for rich guys trying to feel rebellious?" After facing down psychotic games, I expected something more substantial, something worth the danger we're putting ourselves in.

"Not today." Miguel taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "Good old business. Cigars, rum, sometimes people. Drugs come later when he trusts you more." He turns onto a highway heading north. "Besides, you think judges give lighter sentences for cigars than cocaine? Yes, of course, but this is still a crime."

The Miami skyline recedes in the side mirror as we drive. Buildings give way to marshland and scattered homes. The road narrows, trees crowding closer to the asphalt.

"Where exactly are we going?" I ask.

"Small dock. Private. About forty minutes north." Miguel rolls down his window, letting humid air rush in. "Boat comes in after sunset. We load boxes, take them to warehouse, get paid. Simple."

Simple. Nothing's been simple since I woke up in 1978.

We turn onto a gravel road that winds through dense vegetation before opening to a small clearing with a wooden dock extending into dark water. Miguel parks behind some bushes, partially concealing the car.

"Now we wait," he says, killing the engine.

The sun dips below the tree line, painting the sky in oranges and purples. Mosquitoes buzz around us, drawn to our body heat in the cooling evening air. Miguel leans against the hood, smoking one of his cheap cigarettes.

"How long?" I ask, swatting at my neck.

"When it's dark enough." Miguel checks his watch. "Maybe thirty minutes."

I pace the small clearing, scanning the water every few seconds. The waiting is worse than the action. Gives me too much time to think about what could go wrong.

"You nervous?" Miguel asks.

"No." I lie, then reconsider. "Maybe a little."

"First job jitters. It passes."

A light appears in the distance, bobbing on the water. Miguel straightens up, flicks his cigarette into the gravel.

"That's them."

I squint at the approaching boat. It's small, maybe twenty feet, with a single light at the bow. As it gets closer, I can make out two figures. Something doesn't feel right.

"How do we know it's our contact?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Could be cops."

Miguel looks at me like I've grown a second head. "That's Ruiz. Known him for years."

"Still, shouldn't we have some kind of... I don't know, signal or password?"

He laughs. "This is Miami, hermano, not some spy movie. Relax."

The boat cuts its engine, drifting the last few feet to the dock. An older man with leathery skin and a salt-and-pepper beard tosses a rope to Miguel, who secures it to a piling.

"Miguel," the captain nods. "Finally get promotion?"

"Kinda," Miguel shrugs. "This is Carlos. He's with me."

Ruiz gives me a once-over, then turns to his companion. "Let's unload."

They pass us wooden crates, six in total. Each one is about the size of a small suitcase, sealed with metal clasps. I examine the first box carefully, running my fingers along the edges, checking for anything suspicious.

"What are you doing?" Miguel asks.

"Just making sure." I turn the box over. "What if there are tracking devices inside? Or what if someone's watching us right now?"

Miguel stares at me, then bursts out laughing. Captain Ruiz joins in.

"Tracking devices? For cigars?" Miguel shakes his head. "Nobody has that kind of technology for tracking cigar boxes, amigo. Even the FBI ain't that crazy."

I feel my face grow hot. "Better safe than sorry."

"You watch too much television," Miguel says, still chuckling. "Come on, let's load up and go."

The boxes fit easily in the trunk and back seat of Miguel's car. Ruiz and his partner push off, disappearing into the darkness without another word. The entire exchange took less than ten minutes.

"That's it?" I ask as we pull away.

"That's it."

We drive in silence for a while, heading back toward the city. The warehouse turns out to be a nondescript building in an industrial area, sandwiched between an auto parts supplier and what looks like a furniture manufacturer.

Unloading goes just as smoothly. We carry the boxes inside, stack them in a corner where other similar crates are already arranged. A man I don't recognize counts them, makes a note on a clipboard, and hands Miguel an envelope.

No alarms. No police. No complications.

Back in the car, Miguel hands me three crisp $100 bills.

"Your cut."

I stare at the money. Three hundred dollars for less than two hours of work. More than I'd make in two weeks at the convenience store.

"That's... generous."

Miguel shrugs. "Anything illegal usually pay better, otherwise nobody would do it. And I pay you better, because of our circumstances, we are partners after all."

We pull up outside Manny's store just before ten. My shift starts in five minutes.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, pocketing the cash.

He grins. "See? Sometimes things just work."

I watch him drive away, then head inside to clock in. Manny nods at me from behind the counter, finishing up his shift.

"Good evening," he says. "Quiet night so far."

I take my position, still processing how easy everything was. No shoot-outs. No police chases. No rewind needed. Just pick up boxes, drop off boxes, get paid.

Maybe 1978 is simpler than I expected. No GPS tracking. No cameras on every corner. No facial recognition.

But something still doesn't sit right. It was too easy.

I wonder if I should keep working for Miguel and Vargas. The money's good, really good. And apparently, the risk is minimal.

For now, at least.