The Racketeer

a fool.”
    I’m shaking my head in disbelief. “He mentioned buying drugs once he got here but said nothing about smuggling the stuff in.”
    “How well do you know this gentleman?” Rashford asks.
    “I just met him a week ago. We’re not exactly close friends. I know he has a history of drug violations in the States, but I had no idea he was an idiot.”
    “Well, he is. And he’ll probably be spending the next twenty years in one of our fine prisons.”
    “Twenty?!”
    “Five for the coke, fifteen for the gun.”
    “That’s outrageous. You gotta do something, Rashford!”
    “The options are limited, but allow me to go about my business.”
    “What about me? Am I okay down here? I mean, they checked my bags at Customs and everything was cool. I’m not an accomplice or guilty by association, right?”
    “As of now, nothing. But I suggest you leave as soon as possible.”
    “I can’t leave until I see Nathan. I mean, I gotta help this guy, you know?”
    “There’s not much you can do, Reed. They found the coke and the gun in his bag.”
    I start pacing around the small room, deep in thought, worried sick. Rashford watches me for a moment, then says, “They’ll probably allow me to see Mr. Coley. I know the boys at the jail, see them all the time. You’ve hired the right lawyer, Reed, but, again, I’m not sure what can be done.”
    “How often do you see this—American tourists busted for drugs down here?”
    He thinks about this, then says, “Happens all the time, but not like this. The Americans get caught on the way out, not bringing the stuff in. It’s rather unusual, but the drug charges are not that crucial. We’re soft on drugs but hard on guns. We have very tough laws, especially with handguns. What was this boy thinking?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Allow me to go see him and make contact.”
    “I need to see him too, Rashford. You gotta work this out. Lean on your friends at the jail and talk them into it.”
    “It might take some cash.”
    “How much?”
    He shrugs and says, “Not much. Twenty bucks U.S.”
    “I got that.”
    “Allow me to see what I can do.”

CHAPTER 35
    T he pilots are calling my cell phone, but I refuse to answer. Devin leaves four frantic voice mails, all pretty much the same: the police have seized the airplane and the pilots have been told they cannot leave the island. They are staying at the Hilton, but not having any fun. Their office in Raleigh is screaming and everybody wants answers. The pilots are taking the heat for submitting a fake passport and will probably lose their jobs. The airplane’s owner is threatening, and so on.
    I don’t have the time to worry about these people. I’m sure a man who owns a $30 million jet can figure out a way to get it back.

    At 2:00 p.m., Rashford and I leave his office and he drives us ten minutes to the police department. The city jail is attached to it. He parks in a crowded lot and nods at a low-slung, flat-roofed building with narrow slits for windows and razor wire for decoration. We walk down a sidewalk and Rashford says a pleasant hello to the guards and orderlies.
    He goes to a door and whispers with a guard he obviously knows. I watch without being obvious and no cash changes hands. At a desk, we sign a sheet on a clipboard. “I told them you’re alawyer working with me,” he whispers as I scribble one of my names. “Just act like a lawyer.”
    If he only knew.

    Rashford waits in a long narrow room the lawyers use for meetings if the police are not using it for anything else. There is no air-conditioning and the room feels like a sauna. After a few minutes, the door opens and Nathan Coley is shoved inside. He looks wild-eyed at Rashford, then turns to his guard, who leaves and closes the door. Nathan slowly sits down on a metal stool and gawks at Rashford. The lawyer thrusts a business card at him and says, “I’m Rashford Watley, attorney. Your friend Reed Baldwin has hired me to look into this situation.”
    Nathan takes the card and inches the stool closer. His left eye is partially closed and his left jaw is swollen. There is dried blood at the corner of his lips. “Where’s Reed?” he asks.
    “He’s here. He is very concerned and wants to see you. Are you okay, Mr. Coley? Your jaw is swollen.”
    Nathan looks at the large, round black face and tries to absorb the words. It’s English all right, but with a strange accent. He wants to correct this guy and explain that it’s