The Racketeer

Reed, get me outta here.”
    “I’ll try, Nathan, but there’s a good chance these guys might try to nail me too.”
    “Just do something. Please.”
    “Look, Nathan, this is all my fault, okay? That means nothing at this point, but I had no way of knowing we were flying into a storm. The stupid pilots should’ve told us about the weather before we took off, or they should’ve landed somewhere on U.S. soil, or they should’ve had more fuel on the airplane. We’ll sue the bastards when we get home, okay?”
    “Whatever.”
    “Nathan, I’ll do anything I can to get you out of here, but my ass is still on the line too. It’s gonna come down to money. This is nothing but a shakedown, a grab for money by a bunch of cops who know how to play the game. Hell, they wrote the rules. Rashford says they’ll squeeze the owner of the jet and pocket a handsome bribe. They’ll throw a bone our way and see how much cash we can scrape together. Now that they know we have a lawyer, he thinks they’ll contact him pretty soon. They prefer to work their little bribery schemes before the case gets into court. After that, you got formal charges and judges watching everything. You understand all this, Nathan?”
    “I guess. I just can’t believe this, Reed. This time yesterday I was at my bar, having a beer with a cute girl, bragging aboutflying to Miami for the weekend. Now look at me—thrown into a filthy jail cell with a bunch of Jamaicans, and they’re all lined up waiting to kick my ass. You’re right, Reed, this is all your fault. You and your ridiculous movie. I should’ve never listened to you.”
    “I’m sorry, Nathan. Believe me, I’m so sorry.”
    “You should be. Just do something, Reed, and hurry. I can’t last much longer back there.”

CHAPTER 36
    R ashford gives me a ride to my hotel and, at the last minute, graciously extends an invitation to dinner. He says his wife is an excellent cook and they would be delighted to have such an accomplished filmmaker in their home. Though I am tempted, primarily because I have nothing to do for the next eighteen hours, I beg off with the lame excuse of feeling bad and needing sleep. I’m living a lie, and the last thing I need is a long dinner conversation about my life, my work, and my past. I suspect there will be serious people following my trail, sniffing for clues, and a stray word here or there could come back to haunt me.
    It’s July, the tourist season is over, and the hotel is not busy. There’s a small pool with a bar in the shade, and I spend the afternoon under an umbrella, reading a Walter Mosley and sipping Red Stripe beer.

    Vanessa lands in Roanoke at 7:00 Saturday evening. She is exhausted but rest is not an option. In the past forty-eight hours, she has driven from Radford to D.C. to Roanoke, and flown from Roanoke to Jamaica and back by way of Charlotte, Atlanta, and Miami. Other than a fitful three-hour rest in bed in Montego Bay, and several catnaps on airplanes, she has had no sleep.
    She leaves the terminal with her small carry-on bag and takes her time finding her car. As always, she notices everything and everyone around her. We doubt if she’s being followed, but at this point in our project we take nothing for granted. She drives across the highway from the airport and gets a room at a Holiday Inn. She orders room service and eats dinner at the window as the sun goes down. At 10:00 p.m. she calls me and we speak briefly and in code. We’re on our third or fourth prepaid cell phone and it’s highly unlikely anyone is listening, but, again, we’re taking no chances. I conclude with a simple “Proceed as planned.”
    She drives back to the airport, to the general aviation terminal, and parks next to Nathan’s pickup truck. It’s late on a Saturday night and there is no private air traffic, no movements in the empty parking lot. She puts on a pair of thin leather gloves and, using Nathan’s keys, unlocks his door and drives away. It’s Vanessa’s first drive in such a vehicle and she takes it easy. Not far down the road, she pulls in to a fast-food parking lot and adjusts the seat and mirrors. For the past five years she’s been driving a small Japanese model, and the upgrade is astounding and uncomfortable. The last thing we can afford is a fender bender or a set of flashing blue lights. Eventually, she makes it onto Interstate 81 and heads south, toward Radford, Virginia.
    It’s almost midnight when she leaves the state