Empty Pockets (24 page)

“Mr. Fredericks?” someone said.

Chris turned and saw a very short, dark-skinned Colombian in a blue business suit, tie, white shirt, and polished black shoes leading two policemen walking toward him.

“Mr. Fredericks?” the short man said again, looking right at Chris as he stood up. “Did you just miss your flight?”

“I did,” Chris said.

“Would you come with us, please?”

“Come where?”

“Just come with us, please.”

The two policemen, machine guns strapped over their shoulders, moved forward and each took one of Chris's arms.

“What is this?” Chris said, completely panicked now. Had they scanned the paintings before putting them on the plane?

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Your luggage was checked on the plane, wasn't it,” the short man said, “and you didn't get on the plane?”

There were beads of sweat on the dark skin of the man's upper lip. He had a white handkerchief and was dabbing them off.

“Obviously,” Chris said. “I fell asleep before they boarded. I'm not used to the time change.”

Then they were walking him fast down the concourse and they came to a steel door and the short man swiped a plastic card through the security lock and the door opened and they entered and hustled him down the steel stairs, their footsteps clanging loudly in the concrete shaft as they descended to ground level. Chris asked again what were they doing as the little man opened an outside door, didn't answer him, and led the way to another exterior door which he again opened and the four of them went in this door and down a corridor and into an office and through it into a concrete-walled room with a single bed and a sink and toilet and told Chris to sit down on the bed.

“What is this?” Chris said.

“We need to keep you here until we know the plane has safely landed.”

“Why?”

“We don't know what you put aboard the plane. We do know you didn't get on it.”

“You can't do this,” Chris said.

“Please,” the little man said. “If there is no problem, there will be no problem. We'll get you on the next flight and reimburse you for your trouble. Please bear with us. This is a matter of the utmost gravity. We have received a phone call that an explosive device has been placed aboard your flight, an anonymous phone call. It is our responsibility to treat this matter with the utmost seriousness.”

“You think I put a bomb aboard?” Chris said. “Who would do such a thing?”

“We don't know yet. Perhaps
FARC,
perhaps no one.”

“That's crazy,” Chris said.

“Please,” the short man said again. “If you would like something to eat or drink just let us know.”

The two policemen went out first, then the man.

Jesus Christ, Chris thought. What if someone
did
put a bomb aboard? I'll be so fucked! As if you already aren't. What the hell was
FARC
? A revolutionary group?

He looked at the dull red door with the small eye-level window, not even thinking to try it. Where would he go? Where
could
he go? The
U.S.
embassy? Explain that he was here to buy emeralds and found out he didn't have enough money? That he had put on an airliner six paintings filled with cocaine that were to be taken off by a different American in Bonaire, and then flown on into Puerto Rico, and next to be taken on to Miami in the morning?

There's got to be a way out of this, Chris thought.

He couldn't think of one.

He lay down on the bed, put the pillow under the side of his face, and immediately fell asleep.

An hour later the short, dark-skinned man and the taller of the two policemen came back and looked in through the thickly glassed circular window at the sleeping American.

They opened the door and went in.

“Look at that,” the policeman said in Spanish. “Like a baby. Not a care in the world.”

The short man laughed.

“No,” he said in Spanish, “in my experience when someone goes to sleep right after they've been arrested, it means they are guilty. The innocent ones stay awake. They are nervous, agitated, and angry. Not this man. This man is guilty of something, but of what?”

“Perhaps of the stupidity of missing his flight.”

“Certainly that,” the short man said.

“At least if there is a bomb it will explode out over the sea and not over the city,” the policeman said.

“Yes, that is true,” the short man said, who gently shook Chris's shoulder now, and watched his face as he opened his eyes.

“What is it?” Chris said.

“Your flight has landed safely in Bonaire. You are free to go.”

“I am?” Chris said. Then quickly said, “Thank God! Great! What about my luggage?”

“It will be held for you.”

“Great,” Chris said again. “That's just great.”

“Thank you very much,” Chris found himself saying, offering his hand. Why are you doing that? he thought. You should be indignant, not relieved.

The dark-skinned man took the hand and squeezed it with his own.

“We've got you on tomorrow's early flight,” he said, “and we've booked you a room in the Intercontinental Hotel. This courtesy is ours. We apologize for the inconvenience. Let me give you my card, should you have any questions.”

He handed Chris a card that read: Hector Gomez Signorelli, Lt., Policía Nacional, Bogotá, with two phone numbers, one his personal cell phone number.

Upstairs, Chris shook Gomez's hand again and said he understood perfectly, “You are only doing your job,” and that as a traveler he appreciated the concern for the safety of others that the police, by necessity, were forced to undertake.

They shook hands one more time, Chris looking down at the little man, seeing something in those eyes he particularly didn't like. Then Gomez turned and walked off, swiped his card again, and vanished into another unmarked door.

Outside, Chris took a taxi, and after leaving the airport had it stop at the first mercado he saw with a payphone box. Calling Zack, Chris immediately heard Zack cheerfully say, “Everything all right?”

“That's what I want to know.”

“Everything's fine, my man,” Zack said. “Just get on a wee-hop to Miami and we'll see you there. Listen, we're changing hotels. We'll either be at the Raleigh or the Delano. I don't know yet. You'll catch us at either one. And we're gonna party, dude, you know that.”

Back at the airport Chris used his Visa card and took the 6:00 p.m. American Airlines flight to Miami. It was a direct flight, and going through customs back into the u.s. was a pleasure, not a hassle.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Chris found Zack and Kevin and Ronald at the rooftop spa and bar of the Delano, drinking
shooters of tequila and snorting thin lines of the uncut cocaine off the glass tabletop.

“Well,” Zack said, “no shit, here comes the gunslinger, looking for his pay. Sit down, big boy. Have a line. You won't believe this quality. It's unbelievable. Lifts your skullcap right off . . .”

“No, thanks,” Chris said. “Just my money.”

“As promised.” Zack laughed. He looked very happy. “Plus what I owe you for fronting us the airline tickets, right? Here . . .”

He bent down and pulled a student's backpack from under the table.

“You pay the hitters back yet?” Chris said.

“One hundred and twenty gs—every bill of it,” Zack said. “You just missed them.”

“No. I think I saw them coming out of the elevator in the lobby. A tall one and a short one, both with short hair.”

“Yeah, a tall one and a short one, both with greaseball mustaches and short hair.”

“Yeah, I saw them. That's who you sold the load to?”

“No.”

“Can I ask who?”

“No,” Zack said, unzipping the backpack now next to the coke.

“I'm cool with that.”

“You can have it either in cash or in powder. Up to you. If you take powder, you'll make double.”

“But I'll have to sell it.”

“That's right,” Ronald said.

“I don't sell drugs.”

“Give him the money,” Ronald said.

Zack slid the pack over to Kevin and said, “Count out twenty-five, plus twenty-five hundred small for the tickets.”

“Twenty-seven five then,” Kevin said.

“Twenty-seven five,” Zack said.

“Plus another two hundred for the extra night in Bogotá,” Chris said.

“Sure,” Zack said, bending down to snort another tiny line. Rising back up, a finger to a nostril, he said, “Boy, is this stuff
righteous or is it righteous? How was Bogotá?”

“Scary,” Chris said.

Zack laughed. “I'll bet. You get any emeralds?”

“No,” Chris said. “That whole crap about emeralds is bogus. You have to have money to buy emeralds—real money.”

“Well, you got it now. You ready to do this again?”

“You know what?” Chris said, reaching out and taking the stacks of hundreds that Kevin was sliding across to him, putting them inside his jacket pocket, “I am. When?”

“I'll call you,” Zack said. “Have a drink.”

“No, that's all right,” Chris said, standing up. “Give me a week. Then call whenever.”

He bumped fists with Zack, then walked off along the bar, not looking at anyone, heading toward the elevators.

“Cool dude,” Kevin said, he and Ronald watching him go.

“He is,” Zack said.

Not looking back, Chris reached the elevators. He could still hear them talking, but not what they were saying.

He didn't care what they were saying.

He stepped inside, pushing the down button. As the doors closed, he took Lieutenant Gomez's card out of his wallet, looked at it as the elevator started its descent, then tore the card in half, letting it drop on the floor, thinking, Fuck him. He's got nothing on you. You've got enough money now to get some real emeralds, money you can legally make just like you planned. And now you'll make even more money, your deal with Tori can be finessed; it'll be a lot easier with all that cash sitting out on the table in front of her, no way will she leave, but if she does, the hell with that, too. Worse things can happen. There are a lot of other women out there. Besides, she's not going to leave. Not now, she won't.

The elevator slowed and stopped.

The doors opened.

Chris looked down at the torn card on the floor.

The doors started to close.

He shoved his hand between them, popping them open again.

He stepped out into the lobby and started across the floor, the warm Miami air blowing in from off the sea, thinking, Or maybe I'll stay in Miami a few more days, see what's what. Maybe that's what I'll do. Why the hell not?

Christopher Fredericks felt pretty damn good.

Lorraine at Ninety-Two

“H
e was really handsome and had an
IQ
of about two. He was five years older, and we were on our way to get married and he started talking about what he wanted and he wanted a toy bulldog and fresh vegetables on the table every night and I said, ‘Turn the car around. I'm not going to be cooking every night, and I don't like bulldogs. I don't want a bulldog!' I was a junior in high school then.

“Then when I was forty and out at the Elks Club, Evan walked over and said, ‘I'm going to marry you.'

“I was sitting with Warren and he had just proposed. He said, ‘You got that wrong, fella. She's marrying me.'

“‘No, she's not,' Evan said.

“I said, ‘Listen, I'm not marrying anyone, all right?'

“Then Evan got my address at work from my girlfriend and sent me flowers every day for two weeks. And I had never seen him before.

“We had forty-five years together. He still visits me. Sometimes he comes in the night and sits on the edge of the bed and asks how I'm doing. The other night there was a big storm and terns were circling in the wind and Evan came in and said, ‘Look, there are birds everywhere,' and I sat up and looked out the window and there was a big moon and I saw them and I said, ‘I see them,' and he was standing up, getting ready to go, and I said, ‘Why can't I go with you?' And he said, ‘Not yet, dear girl, it isn't time yet, but I'll be here to take you when it is, and we'll be together, just like always.'

“I wish it was now.

“I'm awfully tired now.”

You Promise Me

FIRST MONTH:

“D
arling, Darling,” she said, “I have never, ever come like that, I promise you!” “You promise me?” He laughed. “God, I love you,” he said. Then, “Man, that just slipped out. Jesus Christ!” And she laughed, saying, “Yes, I love you, too,” and they were off the bed now and standing up and dressing and quickly happy and he said, not thinking what he was saying, “We should get married,” and she laughed, her cheeks flushed, completely beautiful in her French leather coat, looking at him, eyes brightly blue with those tiny flecks of yellow and green in them, saying, “Yes,” the real person she was completely there then, and, going out into the hall, he said, “Was that a yes? It was, wasn't it?” and not waiting for an answer, said, “Listen, I want to do this correctly, formally,” and said, “Will you marry me?” and she said, “Yes, yes, I will.”