The Racketeer

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. Theglances 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