Moonlight Breaks Bad, page 6
13.
By the time we hit International Gate 14 at JFK, it’s already going on 10:15 PM. I don’t have a whole lot of time to get through security and to the gate where Adriana will already be straightening out her hair and applying a fresh coat of red lipstick in anticipation of boarding her plane to Rome.
The two goons follow me inside.
“You got your boarding pass?” Vincent asks, pointing his beefy index finger at me. I notice his eyes have gone from red to a kind of red, black, and blue. “You don’t need to stop at no counters and you sure as shit don’t need to be chatting it up with no security shitheads. Capisce?”
“You gotta keep saying that, for the love of Jesus?” Anthony breaks in.
“Oh, for the love of Jesus!” Vincent mocks in a girly-girl voice like he’s taunting a school kid on the playground. “For the love of Jesus. Whaddaya, you some kind of Christian now? Like the fucking Osmond Brothers?”
Can’t we all just get along, I whisper to myself.
The place is packed. People coming and going and walking in every conceivable direction, their bags on their backs, or being wheeled on the floor, or being carted in one of those big shopping cart type things. On occasion, someone will lock eyes on Anthony’s wounded and blood-stained cheek, but then quickly turn away, disgusted.
“Shut up,” Vincent says to Spike Hair Anthony. “That new scar face of yours looks like shit.”
“Whaddaya want me to do about it?” Anthony says. “Call my plastic surgeon?”
Vincent shifts his focus back to me.
“Here’s your instructions, Moonlight. Don’t veer from them or you die. Understand?”
“Capisce,” I say with a smile.
Vincent rolls sore eyes as my quip falls flatter than a fart in a crowded elevator. I’m wondering if he’s aware that if I don’t follow instructions, it’s not only me who dies but also Lola. Maybe he does, or maybe he doesn’t.
“Go through the line like the harmless tourist you are. When you get through security, go straight to the gate. If I know Adriana, she will be nervous and very aware that it’s possible she’s being followed. Try not to let her see you from a distance. Try instead to sneak up on her, and then grab hold of her and deliver her to us right here.”
“What do I use for a persuader?”
“Guns aren’t an option. Neither are knives.”
“Great. I’ll just use my good looks.”
“Yeah,” Spike Hair Anthony snorts. “Like that’s gonna work.”
“And what if she screams?”
Vincent rolls his eyes for a second time in as many minutes, digs into the pocket of his baggy track pants, pulls something out. It’s a tube of ChapStick lip balm. He sticks it into his jacket pocket and proceeds to demonstrate his intention by pressing the tube hard against the black acrylic fabric. When the fabric tents outwards it takes on the deceptive look of a hidden pistol barrel.
“Shove this into your coat pocket. When you sneak up behind her, press this into her back. Not the smooth cap part, but the opposite end. The end that you twist. She’ll think you’re packing one of those 3D printable plastic guns that don’t get picked up by security and she won’t scream. Believe me.”
I take hold of the ChapStick, stick it into my coat pocket. But why do I feel that by substituting this little tube of ChapStick for a real gun, I will qualify as a Fox News stupid crime of the week?
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Go. You’re running out of time.”
I turn, start making my way toward the security queue.
“Oh, and Moonlight,” Spike Hair Anthony calls out.
I glance at him over my shoulder while I keep on walking.
“Remember,” he says, issuing me another painful, pale-faced grin. “When this is over ...” He runs his index finger over his throat.
I turn back to the line.
“Go fuck yourself,” I say. But I’m pretty sure he can’t hear me.
14.
Taking my place in the security queue, I begin to mull over my options, none of which are any good. I can go ahead with the goon’s plan for kidnapping Adriana by using a tube of ChapStick as a convincer, though there’s one glaring problem with that approach. Once I deliver her to the goons, I’m as good as dead, and if I’m dead, it’s very likely, Lola will follow. They’ve already produced proof that she’s being tortured, perhaps by the man who showed up on the security video. The same man with the nasty sneer who, as a convincer, made sure to stare directly into the camera as if he were peering into my eyes. If the photo of the severed finger is real ... if the screams I heard coming over the cell phone are real ... then no way will they allow Lola to simply walk away from all this.
Maybe I should kidnap Adriana and sneak her out another exit, then personally deliver her to Denis, along with her personal promise of providing the TSA clowns with a plane load of Bolivian marching powder. I manage to pull that off, I conceivably save Lola’s life. But then, who knows if Denis and company can be trusted. As it is, I can only imagine there’s a mole among them who alerted the goons about me and Adriana in the first place. How else would the mob be aware of my name or my mission?
Maybe I should simply get on the plane as planned, snatch that job as an English speaking hotel detective, and spend the rest of my days in Rome. But then, where the hell does that leave Lola, but six feet under?
Like a wise man once said, when you’re fucked, you’re fucked, and this time you’re really fucked.
I’ll have to go with the least evil of the choices, which means I’m going to steal Adriana and sneak her out another exit and, in the meantime, find some means of transportation back to Albany, even if I have to steal a car. Naturally, the goons will come after me but, like I said, they were going to kill me anyway. Spike Hair Anthony’s index finger run across his neck is all the evidence I need.
When I come to the tiny, bespectacled, blue-uniformed man who occupies the security podium, he asks me for my boarding pass and passport. He takes the passport in hand, checks my face with the photo, then examines the boarding pass and once more looks at my face.
“You look familiar to me,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. In the back and front of my mind, I know my photograph must have been broadcast across the entire TSA wire. It’s amazing I’ve gotten this far without having been arrested.
“I get that a lot,” I say, grinning, “Bruce Willis.”
He shakes his head.
“That must be it,” he says, handing me the documents back. Then, “You can go there,” he says, cocking his head in the direction of the inspection station to my right.
I go to the station and begin the usual process of removing my boots, emptying out my pockets, and placing it all into a deep plastic tray. As the tray goes under the X-ray scanner, I’m instructed to step into the metal detector. Once more a uniformed agent asks me to raise up my hands, which I do. And once again the buzzer goes off.
“I’ve got this problem with my head,” I say.
“Step on out of the device,” the balding man orders. “Plant your feet inside the box.”
I look down. There’s a small red box on the floor that’s been created with red electrical tape. When I step into its center, I can see it’s large enough to fit my stocking feet. Bald Agent runs a hand-held metal detector up and down my body. When he runs the paddle-like device past my head, the buzzer goes off.
“What’s going on with your head?” he says.
“I’ve got a bullet inside it,” I say. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile. Instead, he looks over one shoulder, then the other. When he shifts his focus back to me, he does so with wide eyes and a tightly clamped jaw. His face is so tight and tense, it’s like he’s about to pull his service side arm and scream, “Down on the floor!” My heart decides to resume its emergency position back inside my neck, and dizziness fills my head. How perfect would it be if I were to pass out right now, on this very spot? The entire operation would nosedive and crash, I’d end up in prison, and Lola might very well end up deceased.
But just when I become convinced the flight is about to be shot right out of the air, something wonderful happens. The agent blinks. He blinks and, slowly opening his mouth, exhales, while his eyes now shift to the ever growing line of airline passengers behind me.
“You can go,” he says, cocking his head over his shoulder.
“Excuse me?” I say, not quite hearing, or not quite believing what he’s just said.
“Go,” he repeats. “You’re holding up the line. Go.”
I don’t waste any more time. I head back to the conveyor belt to collect my shoes and personal items which I shove into various pockets. A quick check on my watch reveals 11:30 PM. I balance myself on my left foot while putting my boot on the suspended right foot. Then I repeat the process for the left boot. Bending down, I lace the boots up, tie them in double knots. I don’t want to be tripping on shoe laces should push come to shove, and I find myself making an all-out sprint in order to save my life.
Pulling the boarding pass from my passport, I see my gate is 25C. To my right-hand side are the C gates. I don’t walk. I jog. When I come to the electronic departures/arrivals board, I can see that Flight 12 to Rome is “Now Boarding.” Jogging is no longer an option.
I run.
I ignore the people who stare me down as I sprint the length of a long, glass-walled, tubular corridor. The floor-mounted conveyor belts that are meant to transport people at a speed faster than your average walk are too slow for me. Coming to the end of the corridor, I look up at the yellow arrow which indicates I am to continue moving to my left, down another lengthy area that houses boarding gates on one side, and any number of eateries and shops on the other.
The first gate I see is 20.
I break out into another sprint, passing by 21, 22, 23, and 24.
I stop, catch my breath. Slipping my hand into the right-hand pocket on my leather coat, I feel the hard plastic tube of ChapStick. In the near distance, I can make out the many travelers who are lining up for Flight 12. There’s all manner of people. Young, old, male, female, kids, and grandparents. Every one of them with passports in one hand and carry-on luggage in the other. I scan the people, trying to gain a positive ID on Adriana.
But what if she’s already boarded?
I get closer to the gate.
Closer.
I make out a woman with long, lush black hair, a red dress, and a leather bag slung over her shoulder. She’s in the process of showing the Flight Attendant her boarding pass for the final security check before being given the go-ahead to enter into the boarding tube. As if sensing my presence, she turns and locks eyes on me. Not like she’s surprised I’ve somehow evaded the police. More like she expected to see me standing on this very spot just before she was to board the plane.
She peels her eyes away from me while the flight attendant scans her boarding pass and issues her the go-ahead to proceed. The last I see of Adriana, she is entering into the enclosed gangway on her way to boarding Flight 12. The flight that will take her home to her boy.
15.
I examine my boarding pass.
I’m in seat 21A, Boarding Section 3.
I look up at the High Definition monitor mounted to the wall behind the Flight Attendant’s desk. They’re boarding Section 3 now. I push and shove my way to the front of the line, ignoring the grunts and exhales of the annoyed travelers. I hand my passport and boarding pass to the woman at the scanner. She gives me a look like she senses something’s not right. She does something that Bald Agent did not do at security. She scans my boarding pass. Immediately upon scanning, a red light is issued instead of the usual green. When an alarm sounds and my face is suddenly broadcast on the monitor, she knows for certain something’s not right.
Times stops for just an instant.
Flight Attendant stares at me with her deep brown eyes. Attractive eyes that belong to an attractive face. Her lips quiver for just a fleeting moment as if she wants to say something, but her brain can’t quite make the connection with her voice box. The entire gate seems to go eerily silent. It’s like one of those episodes on The Twilight Zone when the world as you know it is placed on pause. Each and every man, woman, and child is frozen in place, and I am the only human being on earth who is still moving, still conforming to the laws of time and gravity.
But then, from out of nowhere, comes a scream. Not loud at first. But a scream that begins as the gentlest of exhaled breaths and that rapidly builds in momentum from exhaled breath to slight cry to scream to lung-tearing shriek.
The shriek is followed by the words, “He’s got a bomb!”
Talk about false rumors spreading faster than a speeding jet. First off, I’m not a terrorist and, second, I’m not carrying a bomb. In fact, I’m just a poor son of a bitch with a piece of .22 caliber hollow-point jammed in his brain who’s trying to save his ex-girlfriend’s life while also trying to save his own ass.
The pause button is turned off. The gate explodes with screams. Some people even drop to the floor like they’re trying to evade gunfire.
Flight Attendant takes a step back. She grabs hold of the phone on the desk, picks it up, brings it to her mouth.
I don’t wait to hear what she has to say.
I do the only thing I can do.
I run into the tube.
16.
Entering the gangway, I stop, turn, grab the handles on the steel double doors, and slam them closed. There’s no way for me to lock the doors, but just closing them makes me feel good. I turn and face an empty, rectangular tube, knowing it won’t be empty for long. This is one of those fucked if I do and even more fucked if I just don’t do anything situations. Either way, I’m about to get busted.
I run the length of the tube as it curves to the left before coming in contact with the open door on the jumbo jetliner. I don’t find a smiling pilot and his pleasant looking chief flight attendant standing inside the opening. Instead, I find a man. He is dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt that has The Doobie Brothers printed across the front in colorful letters. He’s wearing sunglasses and work boots. There’s something slung across his neck. It’s a badge of some kind.
“Stand down!” he shouts, pulling his sidearm from the holster buckled to his belt. “Federal Air Marshal!”
Air Marshal ...That explains his non-descript clothing.
“Down on your knees!” he shouts again, the barrel his automatic staring me in the face.
That’s when I see her. Adriana.
She’s standing a half dozen feet behind the air marshal, her long black hair veiling her face. She’s smiling at me and in the midst of the smile, trying to say something. At first, I can’t read her lips. But then after a few tries, I finally make out what she’s attempting to communicate.
“I’m sorry,” she’s telling me. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
I’m not sure why I do it. But acting on instinct, I slowly reach into my right-hand pocket, feel for the small photograph of the little boy.
“Down,” screams the air marshal, no doubt convinced I’m digging for a weapon. “Down now!”
I pull the photo out and, crouching, set it onto the floor, face up.
While I raise my body back up, my hands lifted up over my head in surrender, I watch Adriana as she catches sight of the photo. I see her eyes well up, and tears begin to fall from them. She’s moving slowly forward, past the air marshal who sees her out the corner of his eyes.
“Get back, miss,” he insists. “Back away now.”
But she ignores his demands and moves towards the photo.
“Why bother setting me up?” I say aloud. “Why not just throw the junk away?”
But she just shakes her head.
“My son,” she says. “My little ragazzo is so sick. He is dying. He needs his mama.”
A bullet from the air marshal’s gun would not have felt as bad as her words. The child in the photo is dying and now she’s going home to help him get better. Or perhaps she’s returning to Italy to bury him. But it still doesn’t excuse her planting the cocaine on me. Doesn’t excuse Lola being tortured, her finger amputated. Doesn’t excuse my missing out on a job in Rome that would have taken me far away from Albany, New York. I need her to come clean now. Need her to say aloud why she set me up. Do it with the air marshal as a witness.
“You need to arrest this woman,” I say. “She’s the one you want. Not me. I was set up.”
The last thing I remember before the Taser connects with the back of my neck is a teary eyed Adriana taking a few steps forward, bending down to retrieve the photo of her dying child.
17.
When I come to, I’m being transported across the tarmac on a cart. The same kind of utility cart they use to transport injured professional football players off the field after they’ve sustained a traumatic injury, like having their spine snapped in two or their knee crushed.
It’s dark out. But it’s warm, and the lights from the many sodium lamps illuminate the tarmac like it’s mid-morning on a cloudy day. My immediate gut instinct is to pretend I’m still passed out. That is until I can get a better idea of my bearings. Sneaking a peek at the driver, I can see it’s a man. A uniformed TSA man. Curiously, the small, bespectacled man who first examined my passport and boarding pass upon entering into security earlier.
The person sitting beside him is so grossly overweight, he makes Chalisa look anorexic. He’s so fat his gut hangs off his belt buckle like dough spilling out the side of a baking pan. He’s got thick greasy black hair that sticks out from under his TSA cap, and he’s stuffing his face with something. A donut. A chocolate frosted donut.
“You gotta eat that thing now?” says Four Eyes.
“I didn’t get no coffee break,” says Donut Face. “They made me help you with this asshole. What’d he do anyway?”
“They caught him trying to smuggle cocaine onto a bird up in Albany. He flew the coop and somehow made it down here. He was trying to board the plane to Italy. Kept blaming this cute little Italian woman for setting him up. Stupid bastard got nabbed by the air marshal.”
