[b][center][h1]Lee Stephens[/h1][/center][/b]

By the time he had finished his shift at Port Delta, Lee had personally driven a forktruck, a crane, a frontend loader and at least two yard trucks. It was a normal day and the good thing about Wednesday was, as the regular expression went throughout the shift: [i]tomorrow’s Friday[/i]. As his crew worked four, ten-hour days, Thursday was the last day of the week with Friday being always optional to work overtime with the weekend crew. The union didn’t always care for his willingness to do all the jobs of the shift, or work over the set hours, but generally they didn't bother him. He paid his dues, the men were loyal to him and his shift regularly put up the best unload numbers. Lee played the system to his advantage: If he needed to work he worked. If the port was swamped and he only had time to give them forty hours, then that’s all they got. No one dared question him and he knew it was primarily because of his physical stature that he was left alone. Today they got ten and when the afternoon whistle rang out over the container yard, he was walking through the gate with the rest of the men.

Normally his work week was consistent nearly down to the minute. He followed the same schedule religiously. Today was a little different. He twisted the throttle on his [url=https://thumbor-production-auction.hemmings.com/283367/24.jpg]bike[/url], picked up another gear and headed across the bay towards Mandarin Park. 

Right after the lease on his boat and food, supplements for training were the largest expenditure of Lee’s earnings and not that long ago were not difficult to get in hand. However, mostly because of the public spectacle of the Olympics, everyone in the fitness industry and particularly bodybuilding knew the writing was on the wall and it would only be a matter of time before politics came after the drugs. If you wanted to be ahead of the game, you had to have a reliable source. Being intimately in the know for several years, Lee was one such person and he kept several avenues open for his needs. The one he was on his way to meet was one his preferred sources. Sure, the drugs weren’t illegal, [i]yet[/i], but this individual had already made the right moves in Lee’s mind, by moving his operation into as low key and undetectable methods as possible. He was positive the guy was dealing in a plethora of other substances, but that was neither here nor there as long as he got what he needed, the other customers could do whatever they had to do. 

Friday would have been a preferable appointment, but that was the nature of the beast. He had always kept his stuff out of the hands of the US Postal Service, so when it came available, he picked it up. Today would be a leg day when he headed back over the bridge to the Steel Mill and that was always the shortest training day. The shift ended mid afternoon before the traffic so he could make up some of the time if he kept the throttle open. 

As usual, the contact person was not the actual procurement agent. Lee knew some of these individuals liked to consider themselves “dealers” which he found amusing. However, they were more like runners to him. Someone else made the big deals, but there was still a needed separation to keep the supply chain secure and these people had to make a living as well. The agent himself often changed up the runner, which Lee thought was probably a smart move, it just happened that this one was supposed to be a young girl which was new. The exhaust popped and cracked as he nonchalantly eased into a parking space near a couple of vans, dropping the kickstand. He shut the engine down and glanced around, finding the girl sitting alone on a bench, just like the phone call had said. 

“Discreet” was never a term used to describe Lee. His presence alone attracted attention, though the park wasn’t exactly crowded and he didn’t really care who was looking. Fresh out of the port, he was still wearing his navy blue union t-shirt [i]Local 510[/i] which looked absolutely painted on his upper body- the chapter’s heat-pressed image of a dock crane stretched from a multitude of uses, equally worn jeans, workboots and sunglasses. The aroma of gasoline, sweat, machinery and ocean water accompanied him as he sauntered up to the bench giving the dejected looking girl a once over before speaking: “Oi! My God it can’t be that bad,” He said with a chuckle. His accent wasn’t the least bit hampered by his move to the United States. “It’s a nice day, you’re at the park, try smilin' a little bit, you’ll feel better.”

[@Eviledd1984]