The Racketeer

Cadillacpark, get out, and shuffle into a Chinese buffet. As soon as they’re inside, I exit the coffee shop and walk through the lot as if I’m headed to my car. Behind the Cadillac, I quickly bend over and slap the tracking device onto the bottom of the fuel tank. Ontario license plates—perfect.
    Denny is washing windows, sweating profusely, lost in his work. I tap him on the shoulder, startle him, and say, “Look, Denny, nice work and all, but something’s come up. I need to hit the road.” I’m peeling off cash and hand him three $100 bills. He’s confused, but I don’t care.
    “Whatever you say, man,” he mumbles, staring at the money.
    “Gotta run.”
    He pulls a towel off the top of the car. “Good luck with the divorce, man.”
    “Thanks.”
    West of Orlando, I take Interstate 75 north, through Ocala, then Gainesville, then into Georgia, where I stop in Valdosta for the night.

    Over the next five days, my wanderings take me as far south as New Orleans, as far west as Wichita Falls, Texas, and as far north as Kansas City. I use interstate highways, state routes, country roads, and national parkways. All expenses are paid in cash, so, to my knowledge, there is no trail. I double back a dozen times and become convinced there is no one behind me. My journey ends in Lynchburg, Virginia, where I roll in just after midnight and once again pay cash for a motel room. So far, only one place has refused to do business because I claim to have no ID. Then again, I’m not lodging at Marriotts or Hiltons. I’m tired of the road and eager to get down to business.
    I sleep late into the next morning, then drive an hour to Roanoke, the last place anyone who knows Max Baldwin wouldexpect to find him. Fortified with that knowledge, and a new face, I am confident I can move around with anonymity in a metro area of 200,000 people. The only troublesome part of my package is the Florida license plates on my car, and I contemplate renting another one. I decide against this because of the paperwork. Plus, the Florida angle will pay off later.
    I drive around the city for a while, checking out the landscape, downtown, the old sections, and the inevitable sprawl. Malcolm Bannister visited Roanoke on several occasions, including once as a seventeen-year-old high school football player. Winchester is just three hours north, on Interstate 81. As a young lawyer there, Malcolm drove down twice to take depositions. The town of Salem adjoins Roanoke, and Malcolm spent a weekend there once at a friend’s wedding.
    That marriage ended in divorce, same as Malcolm’s. The friend was never heard from again after Malcolm went to prison.
    So I sort of know the area. The first motel I try belongs to a national chain and has rather strict rules about registration. The old lost-wallet ruse fails me, and I am denied a room when I cannot produce an ID. No problem—there is an abundance of inexpensive motels in the area. I drift to the southern edge of Roanoke and find myself in a less than affluent part of Salem where I spot a motel that probably offers rooms by the hour. Cash will be welcomed. I opt for the daily rate of $40 and tell the old woman at the front desk I will be around for a few days. She’s not too friendly, and it dawns on me that she might have owned the place back in the good ole days when blacks were turned away. It’s ninety degrees, and I ask if the air-conditioning is working. Brand-new units, she says proudly. I park around back, directly in front of my room and far away from the street. The bed linens and floors are clean. The bathroom is spotless. The new window unit hums along nicely, and by the time I unload my car, the temperature is below seventy. I stretch out on the bed and wonder how many illicit hookups have occurred here. I think of Evafrom Puerto Rico and how nice it would be to hold her again. And I think of Vanessa Young and what it will be like to finally touch her.
    At dark, I walk down the street and eat a salad at a fast-food place. I’m down twenty pounds since I left Frostburg, and I’m determined to keep losing, for now anyway. As I leave the restaurant, I see stadium lights and decide to take in a game. I drive to Memorial Stadium, home of the Salem Red Sox, Boston’s Class High-A affiliate. They’re playing the Lynchburg Hillcats before a nice crowd. For $6, I get a seat in the bleachers. I buy a beer from a vendor and soak in the sights and sounds of the game.
    Nearby is a young