Truth. Justice. Minesweeper.

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

I have a higher opinion of Greyghost than I did a day ago. Last night my cellphone woke me up at three a.m. It was Greyghost, and he wanted me to show up at some warehouse down on Cumberland.

"Are they open at this hour?" I asked.

"Just come," he said. "I need you to do something for me. Bring a van."

It took me a while to get the van, but I eventually did, and arrived at the warehouse a little after four. Greyghost was around back. There were a couple of masked guys tied up in a nearby corner.

"Load these boxes," he said, gesturing at a tall cardboard stack. "We'll figure out what to do with them tomorrow."

We filled up the back of the van. One of the boxes had been ripped open; it looked like T-shirts inside. "What is this stuff?" I said.

"Bootlegs," Greyghost said. "I'd rather see a suitable charity get them than have them sit in some evidence locker for nine months and then be incinerated. Once you've departed I'll call the police for these two."

The big lug.

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