The Racketeer

Coley, not Cooley. Whatever, the geek says. He could not care less. He is soon lost in a flurry of high-speed imaging. It takes him an hour to produce an American passport and a Virginia driver’s license that would fool anyone. The passport’s blue vinyl binding is sufficiently worn, and our boy Nathan, who’s never traveled far, has now seen all of Europe and most of Asia.

Vanessa hustles into D.C., where she picks up two first-aid kits, a pistol, and some pills. At 8:30, she turns around and heads south for Roanoke.





CHAPTER 33




The airplane is a Challenger 604, one of the finer private jets available for charter. Its cabin seats eight comfortably and allows those under six feet two to move around without scraping the ceiling. A new one costs something like $30 million, according to the data and specs online, but I’m not in the market. I only need a quick rental, at $5,000 an hour. The charter service is out of Raleigh, and it has been paid in full with a Skelter Films check drawn on the bank in Miami. We’re set for a 5:00 p.m. Friday departure out of Roanoke, just two passengers-Nathan and me. I spend most of Friday morning trying to convince the charter service that I will e-mail copies of our passports as soon as I can locate mine. My story is that I have temporarily misplaced it and I’m turning my apartment upside down.

For trips outside the country, a private charter service must submit its passengers’ names and copies of their passports several hours before departure. The U.S. Customs Service checks this information against its No Fly List. I know that neither Malcolm Bannister nor Max Reed Baldwin is on the list, but I don’t know what might happen when Customs receives a copy of Nathaniel Coley’s fake passport. So I stall, hoping and believing that the less time Customs has with both passports, the luckier I might get. Finally, I inform the charter service that I’ve found mine, and I kill another hour before e-mailing it and Nathaniel’s to the office in Raleigh. I have no idea what Customs will do when it receives the copy of my passport. Quite possibly, my name will trigger an alert and the FBI will be notified. If this happens, it will be, to my knowledge, the first trace of me since I left Florida sixteen days ago. I tell myself this is no big deal because I’m neither a suspect nor a fugitive. I’m a free man who can travel anywhere without restrictions, right?

But why does this scenario bother me? Because I don’t trust the FBI.

I drive Vanessa to the Roanoke Regional Airport, where she catches a flight to Miami, through Atlanta. After I drop her off, I drive around until I find the small terminal for private aircraft. I have hours to kill, so I find a parking place and hide my little Audi between two pickup trucks. I call Nathan at his bar and deliver the bad news that our flight has been delayed. According to “our pilots,” there is a bug in a warning light. No big deal, but “our technicians” are hard at work and we should take off around 7:00 p.m.

The charter service e-mailed me a copy of our itinerary, and the Challenger is scheduled to be “repositioned” in Roanoke at 3:00 p.m. On the dot, it lands and taxis to the terminal. The adventure at hand makes me both nervous and excited. I wait half an hour before calling the charter service in Raleigh to explain that I will be delayed, until approximately 7:00 p.m.

The hours pass and I fight boredom. At 6:00 p.m., I stroll into the terminal, ask around, and meet one of the pilots, Devin. I turn on the charm and chat up Devin as if we’re old pals. I explain that my co-passenger, Nathan, is the subject of one of my films and we’re headed off for a few days of beach fun. I don’t know the kid that well. Devin asks for my passport, and I hand it over. Without being obvious, he checks my face with my photo, and all is well. I ask to take a look at the airplane.

Will, the other pilot, is in the cockpit reading a newspaper as I step onto a private jet for the first time in my life. I shake his hand like a politician and comment on the stunning display of screens, switches, instruments, dials, meters, and so on. Devin shows me around. Behind the cockpit is the small kitchen, or galley, complete with microwave, a sink with hot and cold water, full bar, drawers filled with china and flatware, and a large ice bin where the beer is just waiting. I specifically asked for two brands, one with alcohol and one without. Behind one door is a collection of snacks in case we get hungry. Dinner will not be served, because I do not want a flight attendant on board. The people at the charter service insisted that the aircraft’s owner required the use of a flight attendant, at which time I threatened to cancel. They backed down, so it will be just Nathan and me on the trip south.

The cabin is furnished with six large leather chairs and a small sofa. The decor is soft earth tones and very tasteful. The carpet is plush and spotless. There are at least three screens for movies and, as Devin goes on proudly, a surround sound system. We move from the cabin to the restroom, then the cargo hold. I’m traveling light and Devin takes my carry-on bag. I hesitate as if I’ve forgotten something. “I have a couple of DVDs in my bag and I might need them,” I explain. “Can I get to it during the flight?”

“Sure. No problem. The cargo hold is pressurized too, so you have access,” Devin says.

“Great.”

I spend half an hour examining the airplane, then begin looking at my watch as if I’m irritated at Nathan and his tardiness. “This kid’s from the mountains,” I explain to Devin as we sit in the cabin. “Doubt if he’s ever been on a plane before. He’s kinda rough around the edges.”

“What kind of movie ya’ll doing?” Devin asks.

“Documentary. The meth business in Appalachia.”

Devin and I return to the terminal and continue waiting. I’ve forgotten something in my car, and I leave the building. Minutes later, I see Nathan’s new pickup truck roll into the lot. He parks quickly, then hops out, eager. He’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, a pair of white Nike running shoes, no socks, a flat-billed trucker’s cap, and, best of all, a pink-and-orange floral-print Hawaiian shirt with at least the top two buttons unfastened. He grabs a stuffed Adidas gym bag from the back of his truck and bounds toward the terminal. I intercept him and we shake hands. I’m holding some papers.

“Sorry about the delay,” I say, “but the airplane is here and ready to go.”

“No problem.” His eyes are watery and I catch a whiff of stale beer. Wonderful!

I lead him inside and to the front desk where Devin is flirting with the receptionist. I walk Nathan to the windows and point to the Challenger. “That’s ours,” I say proudly. “At least for this weekend.” He gawks at the aircraft as Devin walks over. I quickly slip him Nathan’s fake passport. He glances at the photo, then at Nathan, who at that moment turns from the window. I introduce him to Devin, who hands me the passport and says, “Welcome aboard.”

“Are we ready to go?” I ask.

“Follow me,” Devin says, and as we leave the terminal, I say, “Off to the beach.”

On board, Devin takes the Adidas gym bag and stores it in cargo while Nathan falls into one of the leather chairs and admires his surroundings. I’m in the galley, preparing the first round of beers-the real thing for Nathan, one with no alcohol for me. When they’re poured into ice-cold mugs, you can’t tell the difference. I banter with Devin as he goes through the emergency procedures, nervous that he might mention our destination. He does not, and when he retires to the cockpit and straps himself in, I take a deep breath. He and Will give me the thumbs-up and start the engines.

“Cheers,” I say to Nathan, and we tap glasses and take a gulp. I unfold a mahogany table between us.

As the jet begins to taxi, I say, “You like tequila?”

“Hell yeah,” he replies, already the party animal.

I jump up, walk into the galley, fetch a fifth of Cuervo Gold and two shot glasses, and place them hard on the table. I pour two shots and we kill them, following them up with more beer. I have a buzz by the time we take off. When the seat belt sign is turned off, I pour another round of beer and we do more shots. Shots and beer, shots and beer. I fill in the conversation gaps with drivel about the film and how excited our financial partners are at the moment. This soon bores Nathan, so I tell him we have a late dinner lined up, and one of the young ladies there is a friend of a friend who could be the hottest chick on South Beach. She’s seen a portion of our footage and wants to meet Nathan. “Did you bring any long pants?” I ask.

I assume the Adidas bag is filled with clothing about as tasteful as what I’m looking at.

“Oh yeah, got all kinds of stuff,” he says, his tongue getting thicker by the moment.

When the Cuervo Gold is half gone, I look at the navigational map on display and say, “Only an hour to Miami. Drink up.” We knock back another shot each, then I drain my glass of unleaded. I weigh at least thirty pounds more than Nathan, half my drinks have no alcohol, and my vision is blurred as we pass over Savannah at thirty-eight thousand feet. He’s getting bombed.

I keep pouring, and he shows no signs of slacking off. As we pass high over my old stomping ground at Neptune Beach, I fix the final round. Into Nathan’s beer mug, I drop two tablets of chloral hydrate, five hundred milligrams each.

“Let’s kill these dead soldiers,” I say, slamming them onto the table, and we turn bottoms up. I take it easy and Nathan wins the contest. Thirty minutes later, he’s dead to the world.

I watch our progress on the screen next to the galley. We’re now at forty thousand. Miami is in sight, but we are not descending. I pull Nathan out of his chair and drag him to the sofa, where I stretch him out and check his pulse. I pour a cup of coffee and watch Miami fade below us.

Before long, Cuba is behind us too, and Jamaica emerges at the bottom of the screen. The engines throttle back a notch, and we begin our long descent. I gulp coffee in a desperate effort to clear my head. The next twenty minutes will be crucial and chaotic. I have a plan, but so much of it is beyond my control.

Nathan is breathing heavily and slowly. I shake him, but he’s unconscious. From the right pocket of his too-tight denim cutoffs, I remove his key ring. In addition to the one for his pickup, the collection includes six others of varying shapes and designs. I’m sure a couple fit the doors and dead bolts of his house. Perhaps a couple lock and unlock Bombay’s. In the left pocket, I find a neat fold of cash-about $500-and a pack of gum. From the left rear pocket I remove his wallet, a cheap vinyl Velcro tri-fold that’s sort of bulky. As I inventory it, I realize why. Our party boy had loaded up with eight Trojan condoms, stored at the ready on his left buttock. There are also ten crisp $100 bills, a valid Virginia driver’s license, two membership cards to Bombay’s, a business card for his parole officer, and one for a beer distributor. Nathan has no credit cards, probably because of his recent five-year stint in prison and his lack of a real job. I leave the cash in place, don’t touch the Trojans, and remove everything else. I substitute the fake driver’s license for the valid one and give Nathaniel Coley his wallet back. Then I gently place the fake passport in his right rear pocket. He doesn’t move or twitch, doesn’t feel a thing.

I go to the restroom and close and lock the door. I open the cargo hold, unzip my carry-on, and remove two nylon pouches with the words “First Aid” stamped in bold letters. I stuff these into the bottom of Nathan’s gym bag, then re-zip everything. I walk to the cockpit, pull back the black curtain, and lean forward to catch Devin’s attention. He quickly removes his headset and I say, “Look, this guy drank nonstop until he passed out. I can’t seem to wake him up and there’s not much of a pulse. We might need some medical attention as soon as we land.” Will hears this even with his headset, and for a split second he and Devin stare at each other. If they were not descending, one of the two would probably step into the cabin and take a look at Nathan.

“Okay,” Devin finally says, and I return to the cabin, where Nathan lies in near rigor mortis, but with a pulse. Five minutes later, I return to the cockpit and report that he is indeed breathing but I can’t rouse him. “Idiot drank a fifth of tequila in less than two hours,” I say, and they both shake their heads.

We land in Montego Bay and taxi past a row of commercial airliners at the gates of the main concourse. To the south, I see three other jets parked at the private terminal. There are emergency vehicles with red lights flashing, all waiting for Nathan. I’ll need the chaos to aid in my disappearance. I’m far from sober, but the adrenaline has kicked in and I’m thinking clearly.

When the engines are turned off, Devin jumps up and opens the door. I have my briefcase and carry-on in my chair, ready for the opportunity, but I’m also hovering over Nathan. “Wait for Immigration,” Devin says.

“Sure,” I reply.

Two grim-faced Jamaican Immigration officers appear in the cabin and glare at me. “Passport please,” one says, and I give him my passport. He looks it over and says, “Please leave the aircraft.” I hustle down the stairs, where another officer tells me to wait. Two medics board the plane and I presume they’re tending to Nathan. An ambulance backs up to the stairs, and a police car arrives with lights but no sirens. I take a step back, then another. There is a dispute about how to remove the patient from the airplane, and everyone-medics, Immigration officers, police-seems to have an opinion. They finally decide against using a stretcher, so Nathan is basically dragged out and handed down the stairs. He’s limp and lifeless, and if he weighed more than 140 pounds, the entire rescue would have been botched. As he’s loaded into the ambulance, his gym bag appears in the door and an Immigration officer quizzes Devin about it. Devin makes sure the authorities know that the Adidas bag belongs to the unconscious one, and it is finally placed in the ambulance with him.

“I need to go now,” I say to the nearest officer, and he points to a door of the private terminal. I enter just as Nathan is being hauled away. My passport is stamped and my carry-on and briefcase are scanned. A Customs official tells me to wait in the front lobby, and as I do I see Devin and Will in a tense discussion with the Jamaican authorities. They probably have some tough questions for me, and I’d rather avoid them. A taxi swings through the gate and stops under the terrace outside the front door. A rear window comes down and I see my dear Vanessa, waving frantically for me to get in. When no one is near, I leave the terminal, jump into the cab, and we speed away.

She has a room in a cheap hotel five minutes away. From the third-floor balcony, we can see the airport and the jets come and go. Lying in bed, we can hear them. We are exhausted and running on fumes, but sleep is out of the question.





CHAPTER 34




Victor Westlake was attempting to sleep late on Saturday morning, but after the second call he got out of bed, made the coffee, and was contemplating a possible nap on the sofa when the third call jolted him and swept away any lingering drowsiness. It was from an assistant named Fox, who was currently keeping the Bannister/Baldwin file and waiting for something to monitor. There had not been a peep in over two weeks.

“It came from Customs,” Fox was saying. “Baldwin left Roanoke yesterday afternoon on a private jet and flew to Jamaica.”

“A private jet?” Westlake repeated, thinking about the $150,000 in reward money and wondering how long it might last if Baldwin was burning through it.

“Yes sir, a Challenger 604, chartered from a company in Raleigh.”

Westlake thought for a moment. “I wonder what he’s doing in Roanoke. Odd.”

“Yes sir.”

“Didn’t he go to Jamaica a few weeks back? His first trip out of the country?”

“Yes sir. He flew out of Miami to Montego Bay, spent a few days there, then went to Antigua.”

“I suppose he likes the islands,” Westlake said as he reached for fresh coffee. “Is he alone?”

“No sir. He’s traveling with a man named Nathaniel Coley, at least that’s what’s on his passport. However, it appears as though Coley is traveling with a fake passport.”

Westlake sat the untouched coffee back onto the counter and began to pace around the kitchen. “This guy got by Customs with a fake passport?”

“Yes sir. But keep in mind it was a private aircraft and the passport was not actually examined by Customs. All they had was the copy sent in by the charter service, and they checked it against the No Fly List. It’s pretty routine.”

“Remind me to fix that routine.”

“Yes sir.”

“So the question, Fox, is what’s Baldwin up to, right? Why is he chartering a private jet and why is he traveling with a man who’s using a fake passport? Can you answer these questions for me, and soon?”

“If those are my orders, yes sir. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how prickly the Jamaicans are.”

“No, you don’t.” In the war on drugs, not all battles were fought between cops and traffickers. The Jamaicans, like many police agencies in the Caribbean, had long resented the bullying from U.S. officials.

“I’ll get to work,” Fox said. “But it’s Saturday, here and there.”

“Be in my office early Monday morning, with something, okay?”

“Yes sir.”



Nathan Cooley awoke in a small, windowless room, dark except for the red glow of a digital monitor on a table near him. He was lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed-narrow with railings. He looked up and saw a bag of fluids, then followed the tube all the way down to the back of his left hand, where it disappeared under the white gauze. Okay, I’m in a hospital.

His mouth was as dry as salt and his head began to pound as he tried to think. He looked down and noticed the white Nike running shoes, still attached to his feet. They, whoever in hell they might be, had not bothered to cover him or dress him in a patient’s gown. He closed his eyes again, and slowly the fog began to lift. He remembered the shots of tequila, the endless mugs of beer, the craziness of Reed Baldwin as the two of them got smashed. He 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. The glances 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 suddenly yelled, “Reed! I know you’re out there! Stop laughing, asshole, and tell these clowns to knock it off!”