Although it was not a pleasant job, considering what he’d been doing for the past months, it was almost joyful.
Junior wasn’t out in the cold. He wasn’t at risk from police, gangs, or robbers. He wasn’t under virtual slavery.
Considering the quantity of ganja in the apartment, whoever was there was going to prison.
Those, like him, who had no identity were going to be deported.
Junior assumed that no one who could go up to the U.S. legally would be among those ganja slaves. No one would take a ganja flight if they knew the kind of slavery that awaited them.
He assumed that somehow his family in Jamaica would learn he was still alive.
He could call them.
He was wanted for murder and since his people were likely to chat too much, he’d have to do it differently.
Meanwhile, he’d wash dishes, eat his meals, and sleep at the crappy motel.