The Racketeer

The Racketeer Page 34

Victor Westlake was attempting to sleep late on Saturday morning, but after the second call he got out of bed, made the coffee, and was contemplating a possible nap on the sofa when the third call jolted him and swept away any lingering drowsiness. It was from an assistant named Fox, who was currently keeping the Bannister/Baldwin file and waiting for something to monitor. There had not been a peep in over two weeks.

"It came from Customs," Fox was saying. "Baldwin left Roanoke yesterday afternoon on a private jet and flew to Jamaica."

"A private jet?" Westlake repeated, thinking about the $150,000 in reward money and wondering how long it might last if Baldwin was burning through it.

"Yes sir, a Challenger 604, chartered from a company in Raleigh."

Westlake thought for a moment. "I wonder what he's doing in Roanoke. Odd."

"Yes sir."

"Didn't he go to Jamaica a few weeks back? His first trip out of the country?"

"Yes sir. He flew out of Miami to Montego Bay, spent a few days there, then went to Antigua."

"I suppose he likes the islands," Westlake said as he reached for fresh coffee. "Is he alone?"

"No sir. He's traveling with a man named Nathaniel Coley, at least that's what's on his passport. However, it appears as though Coley is traveling with a fake passport."

Westlake sat the untouched coffee back onto the counter and began to pace around the kitchen. "This guy got by Customs with a fake passport?"

"Yes sir. But keep in mind it was a private aircraft and the passport was not actually examined by Customs. All they had was the copy sent in by the charter service, and they checked it against the No Fly List. It's pretty routine."

"Remind me to fix that routine."

"Yes sir."

"So the question, Fox, is what's Baldwin up to, right? Why is he chartering a private jet and why is he traveling with a man who's using a fake passport? Can you answer these questions for me, and soon?"

"If those are my orders, yes sir. But I'm sure I don't have to remind you how prickly the Jamaicans are."

"No, you don't." In the war on drugs, not all battles were fought between cops and traffickers. The Jamaicans, like many police agencies in the Caribbean, had long resented the bullying from U.S. officials.

"I'll get to work," Fox said. "But it's Saturday, here and there."

"Be in my office early Monday morning, with something, okay?"

"Yes sir."

Nathan Cooley awoke in a small, windowless room, dark except for the red glow of a digital monitor on a table near him. He was lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed - narrow with railings. He looked up and saw a bag of fluids, then followed the tube all the way down to the back of his left hand, where it disappeared under the white gauze. Okay, I'm in a hospital.

His mouth was as dry as salt and his head began to pound as he tried to think. He looked down and noticed the white Nike running shoes, still attached to his feet. They, whoever in hell they might be, had not bothered to cover him or dress him in a patient's gown. He closed his eyes again, and slowly the fog began to lift. He remembered the shots of tequila, the endless mugs of beer, the craziness of Reed Baldwin as the two of them got smashed. He remembered having a few at his bar on Friday afternoon as he waited for his trip to the airport, then on to Miami. He must have had ten beers and ten shots. What an idiot! Blacked out again and now hooked to an IV. He wanted to get up and move about, but his head was screaming and his eyes were bleeding. Don't move, he said to himself.

There was a sound at the door and a light came on. A tall, very dark nurse in a pristine white outfit entered the room in mid-sentence. "All right, Mr. Coley, time to go. Some gentlemen are here to take you." It was English, but with an odd accent.

Nathan was about to ask "Where am I?" when three uniformed officers marched in behind the nurse and looked as though they were ready to beat him. All three were black with very dark skin.

"What the hell?" Nathan managed to say as he sat up. The nurse removed the IV and disappeared, closing the door hard behind her. The older officer stepped forward and whipped out a badge. "Captain Fremont, Jamaican police," he said, just as they do on television.

"Where am I?" Nathan asked.

Fremont smiled, as did the two officers immediately behind him. "You don't know where you are?"

"Where am I?"

"You're in Jamaica. Montego Bay. In the hospital for now, but soon to be in the city jail."

"How'd I get to Jamaica?" Nathan asked.

"By private jet, and a nice one."

"But I'm supposed to be in Miami, at South Beach. There's some mistake here, you see? Is this a joke or something?"

"Do we look like the joking type, Mr. Coley?"

Nathan thought it was odd the way these people pronounced his last name.

"Why did you try to enter Jamaica with a fake passport, Mr. Coley?"

Nathan reached for his rear pocket and realized his wallet was missing. "Where's my wallet?" he asked.

"In our custody, along with everything else."

Nathan massaged his temples and fought the urge to vomit. "Jamaica? What the hell am I doing in Jamaica?"

"We have some of the same questions, Mr. Coley."

"Passport? What passport? I've never had a passport."

"I'll show it to you later. It's a violation of Jamaican law to attempt to enter our country with a bogus passport, Mr. Coley. Under the circumstances, though, you have far more serious problems."

"Where's Reed?"

"I'm sorry."

"Reed Baldwin. The guy who brought me. Find Reed and he can explain everything."

"I haven't met this Reed Baldwin."

"Well, you gotta find him, okay? He's a black guy, like you all, and Reed can explain everything. I mean, we left Roanoke yesterday around seven. I guess we had too much to drink. We were headed for Miami, to South Beach, where we were supposed to work on his documentary. It's about my brother, Gene, you know? Anyway, there's some big mistake here. We're supposed to be in Miami."

Fremont slowly turned and looked at his two colleagues. The glances they exchanged left little doubt they were dealing with a confused and babbling moron.

"Jail? Did you say 'jail'?"

"Your next stop, my friend."

Nathan clutched his stomach and his jaws filled with vomit. Fremont quickly handed him a lined waste bin, then took a step back to stay clear. Nathan puked and heaved and gasped and cursed for five minutes as the three officers inspected their boots or admired the ceiling. When the episode was mercifully over, Nathan stood and placed the waste bin on the floor. He wiped his mouth with a tissue from the table and took a sip of water. "Please tell me what's going on," he said in a scratchy voice.

"You're under arrest, Mr. Coley," Fremont said. "Customs violations, the importation of controlled substances, and possession of a firearm. Why did you think you could enter Jamaica with four kilos of pure cocaine and a handgun?"

Nathan's jaw dropped. His mouth opened, but nothing escaped but warm air. He squinted, frowned, pleaded with his eyes, and tried again to speak. Nothing. Finally, he managed a feeble "What?"

"Don't play dumb, Mr. Coley. Where were you going? Off to one of our famous resorts for a week of drugs and sex? Was it all for personal consumption, or did you intend to sell some of it to other rich Americans?"

"This is a joke, right? Where's Reed? The fun's over. Ha-ha. Now get me outta here."

Fremont reached for his thick belt and removed a set of handcuffs. "Turn around, sir. Hands behind your back."

Nathan suddenly yelled, "Reed! I know you're out there! Stop laughing, asshole, and tell these clowns to knock it off!"

"Turn around, sir," Fremont said again, but Nathan did not comply. Instead, he yelled even louder, "Reed! I'll get you for this! Nice joke! I hear you laughing out there!"

The other two officers stepped forward and each took an arm. Nathan wisely realized that resisting would not work. When the handcuffs were in place, they led him from the room and into the hallway. Nathan spun around wildly, looking for Reed or anyone else who might step forward and put an end to this. They walked past rooms with open doors, small rooms with two and three beds practically touching each other. They walked past comatose patients on gurneys parked against the walls, and nurses writing in charts, and orderlies watching television. Everyone is black, Nathan noticed. I really am in Jamaica. They shuffled down a set of stairs and through an exit door. When he stepped into the thick air and brilliant sun, Nathan knew he was on foreign soil and unfriendly territory.

A cab takes Vanessa back to the airport where she'll catch a 9:40 flight to Atlanta. She is scheduled to arrive in Roanoke this evening at 6:50. She will drive to Radford and check into a motel. I will not be joining her for a few days.

I take another cab to the downtown area of Montego Bay. Unlike Kingston, the capital, which is three hundred years old, Montego Bay is a new city that developed as resorts, hotels, condos, and shopping villages sprawled inward, away from the ocean, and finally met up with the neighborhoods. There is no main avenue, or central plaza, or stately courthouse in the center of town. Government buildings are scattered over a wide area, as are most of the professional buildings. My driver finds the law office of Mr. Rashford Watley. I pay the fare and hustle up a flight of stairs to a landing where a bunch of lawyers keep small, separate offices. Mr. Watley explained on the phone that he rarely works on Saturdays, but he'll make an exception for me. His ad in the Yellow Pages boasts of thirty years' experience in all criminal courts. When we shake hands, I can tell he's pleasantly surprised to see that I, too, am black. He probably assumed that as an American tourist I was like all the rest.

We take our seats in his modest office, and after a few pleasantries I get to the point. Sort of. He suggests that we dispense with the formalities and use first names only. So it's Reed and Rashford. I quickly go through the narrative about my background as a filmmaker, my current project involving one Nathan Coley, and so on, but before long I'm veering off course. I tell Rashford that Nathan and I came to Jamaica for a few days of fun. He got drunk and blacked out on the airplane, causing a medical emergency upon our arrival. I'm not sure, but I think he tried to smuggle in some drugs and was packing a gun. I managed to get away last night in the confusion. So I wish to retain Rashford for two purposes: first, and most important, to represent me and protect me from whatever hot water I might be in; second, to make some calls and pull some strings to find out about Nathan and the charges against him. I want Rashford to visit Nathan in jail and assure him I'm doing all I can to secure his release.

No problem, Rashford assures me. We agree on a fee and I pay him in cash. He immediately gets on the phone and checks with contacts in Customs and the police. I can't tell if he's hamming it up for me, but the guy knows a lot of people. After an hour, I excuse myself and walk down the street for a soft drink. When I return to his office, Rashford is still on the phone, scribbling away on a notepad.

I'm reading a magazine in the lobby, under a noisy ceiling fan, when Rashford appears and sits on his secretary's desk. Things are grim and he's shaking his head. "Your friend is in big trouble," he says. "First, he tried to enter with a bogus passport."

No kidding, Rash. I listen intently.

"Did you know this?" he asks.

"Of course not," I reply. I assume Rashford has never chartered a private jet and therefore does not know the routine.

"But much worse," he continues, "he tried to smuggle in a handgun and four kilos of cocaine."

"Four kilos of cocaine," I repeat, acting as shocked as possible.

"Found the powder in two nylon first-aid kits in his gym bag, along with a small pistol. What a fool."

I'm shaking my head in disbelief. "He mentioned buying drugs once he got here but said nothing about smuggling the stuff in."

"How well do you know this gentleman?" Rashford asks.

"I just met him a week ago. We're not exactly close friends. I know he has a history of drug violations in the States, but I had no idea he was an idiot."

"Well, he is. And he'll probably be spending the next twenty years in one of our fine prisons."

"Twenty?!"

"Five for the coke, fifteen for the gun."

"That's outrageous. You gotta do something, Rashford!"

"The options are limited, but allow me to go about my business."

"What about me? Am I okay down here? I mean, they checked my bags at Customs and everything was cool. I'm not an accomplice or guilty by association, right?"

"As of now, nothing. But I suggest you leave as soon as possible."

"I can't leave until I see Nathan. I mean, I gotta help this guy, you know?"

"There's not much you can do, Reed. They found the coke and the gun in his bag."

I start pacing around the small room, deep in thought, worried sick. Rashford watches me for a moment, then says, "They'll probably allow me to see Mr. Coley. I know the boys at the jail, see them all the time. You've hired the right lawyer, Reed, but, again, I'm not sure what can be done."

"How often do you see this - American tourists busted for drugs down here?"

He thinks about this, then says, "Happens all the time, but not like this. The Americans get caught on the way out, not bringing the stuff in. It's rather unusual, but the drug charges are not that crucial. We're soft on drugs but hard on guns. We have very tough laws, especially with handguns. What was this boy thinking?"

"I don't know."

"Allow me to go see him and make contact."

"I need to see him too, Rashford. You gotta work this out. Lean on your friends at the jail and talk them into it."

"It might take some cash."

"How much?"

He shrugs and says, "Not much. Twenty bucks U.S."

"I got that."

"Allow me to see what I can do."