The Racketeer

need a bottle of champagne, but at 2:00 on a Monday morning in a cheap motel in North Carolina, champagne does not exist. There is so much to take in here, at this moment, but one of the more glorious aspects of our project is that no one is looking for this treasure. Other than Nathan Cooley, no one knows it exists. We took it from a thief, one who left no trail.
    Seeing, touching, and counting our fortune has energized us. I yank off her bathrobe and we crawl under the covers of the other bed. Try as we may, it’s difficult to make love without keeping one eye on the gold. When we finish, we collapse with exhaustion and sleep like the dead.

CHAPTER 38
    A t 6:30 Monday morning, Agent Fox walked into the large office of Victor Westlake and said, “The Jamaicans are as slow as ever. Nothing much to add. Baldwin arrived late Friday night on a jet chartered from a company in Raleigh, a nice plane that is currently being seized by Jamaican Customs and can’t come home. No sign of Baldwin. His friend Nathaniel Coley tried to enter with a fake passport and is now locked up just like the airplane.”
    “He’s in jail?” Westlake asked, chewing on a thumbnail.
    “Yes sir. That’s all I can get as of now. Don’t know when he might be getting out. I’m trying to get the police to check hotel records to find Baldwin, but they’re hesitant to do so. He’s not a fugitive; they don’t like to piss off the hotels; it was the weekend; et cetera.”
    “Find Baldwin.”
    “Trying, sir.”
    “What’s he up to?”
    Fox shook his head. “It makes no sense. Why burn that much cash on a private jet? Why travel with someone using a fake passport? Who the hell is Nathaniel Coley? We’ve done a search in Virginia and West Virginia and found no possible hits. Maybe Coley is a good friend who can’t get a passport, and they were trying to beat Customs so they can play in the sun for a few days.”
    “Maybe maybe.”
    “You got it, sir.”
    “Keep digging and report back by e-mail.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “I’m assuming he left his car behind at the Roanoke airport.”
    “He did, in the parking lot of the general aviation terminal. Same Florida license plates. We found it Saturday morning and have it under surveillance.”
    “Good. Just find him, okay?”
    “And if we do?”
    “Just follow him and figure out what he’s doing.”

    Over coffee and gold, we plan our day, but we do not linger. At nine, Vanessa turns in the key at the front desk and checks out. We kiss good-bye and I follow her out of the parking lot, careful not to crowd the rear bumper of her Accord. On the other side of it, hidden deep in the trunk, is half the gold. The other half is in the trunk of my rented Impala. We separate at the interchange; she’s going north and I’m going south. She waves in the rearview mirror, and I wonder when I’ll see her again.
    As I settle into the long drive, tall coffee in hand, I remind myself that the time must be spent wisely. No foolish daydreaming; no mental loafing; no fantasies about what to do with all the money. So many issues vie for priority. When will the police find Nathan’s truck? When do I call Rashford Watley and instruct him to pass along the message to Nathan that things are proceeding as planned? How many of these cigar boxes will fit into the bank lockboxes I leased a month ago? How much of the gold should I try to sell at a discount to raise cash? How do I get the attention of Victor Westlake and Stanley Mumphrey, the U.S. Attorney in Roanoke? And, most important, how do we get the gold out of the country, and how long might it take?
    Instead, my mind drifts to thoughts of my father, old Henry, who hasn’t had contact with his younger son in over four months. I’m sure he’s disgusted with me for getting busted out of Frostburg and shipped off to Fort Wayne. I’m sure he’s puzzled by the absence of correspondence. He’s probably calling my brother, Marcus, in D.C. and my sister, Ruby, in California to see if they’ve heard anything. I wonder if Henry’s a great-grandfather yet, courtesy of Marcus’s delinquent son and his fourteen-year-old girlfriend, or did she get the abortion?
    On second thought, maybe I don’t miss my family as much as I sometimes think. It would be nice, though, to see my father, though I suspect he will not approve of my altered looks. Truth is, there’s a good chance I’ll never see any of them again. Depending on the whims and machinations of the