The Racketeer

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