Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  The ride to the airport was memorable for Jack's subdued piloting of the motorcycle, mimicking the speed, signals and turns of our official guides. I quickly learned there was no removing the unwanted bangle from my wrist and was forced, with a great deal of skepticism and doubt, to believe the Federales would follow through on their promise of Franklins-for-freedom. Entering the concourse area, the siren of the squad car parted traffic and dispersed all hesitant or slow-moving gawkers staring at the spectacle of our approach.

  "Where to, Jack?"

  "Security," he hollered, narrowly avoiding an overzealous cabbie trying to squeeze behind the police car. "At the end, down around underneath."

  A quick stop in traffic caused us to nudge the backend of the ersatz-cruiser. Jack cursed and pulled the heavy machine backwards. "You sure you want to go here, Skeet?"

  "Indeed, I have a friend who's meeting me," I checked my watch, "in less than an hour."

  "Can you meet somewhere else? I take you."

  "No can do. He's my ride home."

  "Vergüenza."

  It was shameful. I was mortified at how it all might conclude, the flooding of my nasal cavity with a room temperature carbonated beverage notwithstanding. The Federales were notoriously inconsistent and unpredictable, particularly on the subject of bribes. There existed no established etiquette or protocol -- one either swayed them with the requested payoff or suffered the misfortune of a flawed transaction. Either way, the cash enticement would disappear into the law's pocket, whether or not the promised return was realized. I could reasonably expect to be relieved of all my cash and valuables, and possibly humiliated in the local lockup, before being handed over to the bellicose crew of the Gangrene. Regardless of the attitude they exercised, I vowed not to depart the airport with the Federales.

  As we inched past a long line of Jersey barriers, fifty yards before our turn, my luck dropped from dreadful to truly dreadful. On the edge of the curb near the final crosswalk stood Oz Moeziz, Rico, Staple and two other impeccably suited Holsteins, all posturing as though a local sheriff had deputized them members of the town posse. I crouched low in the sidecar, figuratively weaving myself into the fabric of the flimsy seat cushion.

  The moment of recognition was, thankfully, swift. As much as I fought to look away from the search party, I forced myself to keep a watch on their movements and, despite my best effort to shade my face, I locked eyes with Moeziz.

  I know he knows. He knows I know he knows.

  It was that sudden. Like a child speechless upon spying the last Easter egg of the hunt in plain sight, Moeziz stammered before emitting a war cry in a shaky and disturbing voice. "There's the son of a bitch!"

  I ducked down as Jack gunned the engine, jetting us into the back of the squad car once again. Moeziz stepped into the crosswalk, losing his balance when taking a roundhouse swing at my head, knocking my porkpie into Rico's face.

  "Dammit! That was my favorite!"

  My distress was short-lived as Staple showed commendable dexterity pushing Rico aside, hurdling the fallen Moeziz and sprinting to within arm's reach of the sidecar as we pulled away. Feeling like a wayward kabloona attacked by walruses while stuck in his sealskin kayak, I awkwardly twisted around and batted at Staple's outstretched hands. Again, with surprising nimbleness, Staple burst forward and clutched the straps of my overalls.

  "Jack!"

  The bike instantly braked and pivoted counterclockwise, grounding the onrushing Staple on his bottom to my right. To his credit, the big man retained his grip on my denim. With my spine calling painful attention to my problematic stature, Jack accelerated again rapidly, steering the bike back toward the final segments of the concrete partitions.

  "Sorry about this, Staple," I said to my pursuer, nearly face-to-face with me, as he bounced along the asphalt on his ample behind. "It's nothing personal. Really, it isn't." Any conversation we may have held was cut short by his shoulder coming into contact with an immovable concrete barrier. He cursed and let go of me, ending his run in a graceful tumble that left him upright on his knees. I offered a halfhearted wave and held on tight as we made the sharp right into the underground world of the airline terminal.

  The poorly lit catacomb resembled nothing more than an overcrowded, disorganized parking garage. Workers, fuel trucks, luggage trains and concession wagons sped about aimlessly, whirling in haphazard directions to a symphony of honking horns, loud cursing and flashing lights. We abruptly stopped next to a small cinderblock office, a poor man's oasis centered in the midst of the unruly commotion.

  "This is not good for you, Skeet." Jack peered into the grubby den, lit only by a pair of flickering fluorescent bulbs. "What do I do to help?"

  "Go upstairs. Inside to the courtesy desk," I said, extricating myself from the death grip the sidecar had clamped on my hips. "Page 'Baron von dek Horn' to gate number one. Wait a few minutes and page him again to gate number five. And again to gate ten. Got it?"

  "Si. Page your friend to different gates after waiting."

  "I'll be in touch again. Someday." The burliest of the two officers grabbed my arm as I gained my balance on wobbly legs. "Many thanks for all your help."

  "¡Usted! ¡Salga de aquí!" The other officer barked as he circled the front of his car. Without hesitating, Jack roared forward on the Indian, cutting off a ground service septic truck. "You no habla español?"

  "Un poco. A bit." I gripped my rucksack tighter, weighing my immediate options for escape. As if reading my thoughts, the burly officer clipped the dangling handcuff to my free wrist, further limiting my alternatives. "I had a few years of your wonderful verbiage at Trotters on Funk, don't you know? You probably haven't heard of Trotters, but I --"

  "Funk that!" The skinnier officer had clearly assumed the bad-cop role and I feared he was not acting. "¡Movimiento! ¡A la puerta!"

  I was both pulled and pushed into the cramped quarters, where an older man in uniform sat at a narrow desk filled with stacks of carbonless forms, crumpled papers and yellowed envelopes. A black-and-white television monitor broadcasting a blurry picture sat on a flimsy shelf above him, its speaker blaring a mixture of Muzak and unintelligible voices. Burly forced me into a greasy tan plastic chair opposite the doorway and started immediately on the older man, who never once lifted his head to look in my direction. Soon the three engaged in a bickering war which, as far as I could grasp, centered on why I should not be in the office and where they would be taking me.

  They continued discussing their disagreement while I studied the charts on the wall, keenly interested in the layout of the airport as depicted in a battered map stapled next to the door. Having some experience traveling by private charter, I was familiar enough with the process to know the celebrated well-to-do were commonly afforded a separate gate and waiting area nearest the airport exit. This was done to accommodate limo services and private party boarding, while limiting public exposure.

  Certainly Acapulco played by these rules and, should that be the case, then the VIP area would be right over there.

  I noted the area to the right of the garage entrance where two extended limousines sat idling as a third pulled into line behind them. Given the opportunity, that was where I would seek Joe Kose and my freedom flight north.

  Without warning, Skinny grabbed my arm and forced me up from the chair. Still arguing with the older man, he pushed me to the doorway and allowed Burly to take over handling duties. Whatever our destination, we would be on foot. With yet another shove, Burly retained a grip on my bicep and throttled me in the opposite direction of the waiting limos. To my dismay, we headed deeper into the middle of airport itself. Almost hit by a luggage service vehicle, Skinny emitted a string of epithets which sounded quite flattering when delivered in the Spanish language.

  "Would you mind if we walked near the wall?" I asked, skittering sideways as a speeding food service van bore down on us.

  "¡Silencio!"

  "Hardly! I demand to know w
here we're going! Destinación, my good man." With that, Burly walloped me karate chop style in the middle of the back causing a momentary loss of breath. "This is going to remove you from consideration as employee-of-the-month, you know."

  "Shut up with your mouth!"

  We passed a half-dozen luggage conveyers, dumping solid streams of checked suitcases and bags from the ticketing counters located on the floor above. At the seventh such belt Skinny stopped, confused and uncertain as to his location, irritated by the squeal of brakes, slamming of metal and overwhelming smell of exhaust. From above I heard the stentorian announcement "Baron von dek Horn, please report to gate five. Baron von dek Horn to gate five, please", first in Spanish then repeated in English. Given the probability these two lawmen were not going to release me intact, I decided to start a footrace the instant Burly eased his grip. However, before I could initiate my plan, the partners rejoined their heated discussion.

  What little I understood involved Skinny's difficulty in finding the correct door leading to a lower level, a basement beneath the cargo area. Burly insisted the entrance was up ahead and their predicament illustrated yet again Skinny's stupidity. Skinny commented on Burly's laziness and the fact he was a cheapskate for never buying lunch. Skinny claimed he was forever picking up both the food tab and their luncheon trays. This struck a nerve with Burly who, in a highly agitated state, nearly pushed me down while criticizing Skinny for not marrying a woman who knew how to cook. I covertly pivoted my feet and shifted my weight so when the moment came I would be first out of the gate and, with legs flying, hold the lead.

  Then, as if my troubles were not great enough, one of the oddest events witnessed in the annals of airline luggage processing occurred. Without fanfare, Oz Moeziz barreled down the metal shoot on his back, an LAX tag wrapped around his bicep. We watched without comment as he slid by our location before fighting mightily to disengage himself from the belt-driven device. The baggage handlers were perplexed, not certain if they should scan and load him or call security. My escorts were indifferent to his appearance, as though checked and tagged human cargo was an everyday happening.

  "I believe the page was for gate five," I said as Moeziz worked to straighten his ponytail. "This would be gate seven, if I'm not mistaken."

  "You should have seen the line at five, full of whiny kids and sunburned mothers. No thank you." He dusted off his clothing while sizing up the two officers and my cuffed hands. "It appears my mission will go faster than planned."

  "You have second dibs, I'm afraid."

  "Push back, mongrel." Skinny asserted himself into the equation, unsure of Moeziz's intentions. "Our prisoner! We search first."

  "I will buy your prisoner from you, sir," Moeziz offered, digging into his pocket and displaying a thick roll of US currency. "Name the price."

  "Not here!" Skinny admonished him, casting a broad grin at Burly. "Downstairs. We do business there."

  I felt a jolt of happiness shoot forth from Burly. "I'm surprised at your presence here, Moeziz. The abandoned lifeboat wasn't enough to send you home? Or did you even find it?"

  Moeziz ignored my taunt and spoke into the cuff of his shirt. "Rico. Target has been acquired. Repeat, target has been acquired. Report to service level immediately."

  "Come!" Skinny pulled Burly's arm, triggering Burly to shove me forward. "Enough talk. Follow me." Miraculously, Skinny exuded full confidence in himself to find the previously hidden door.

  "We must wait for my associates," Moeziz protested, adjusting the wristband beneath his sleeve. "Just a few minutes!"

  "No wait! Now!"

  With Moeziz checking over his shoulder and growling instructions up his sleeve, we double-timed our procession to an alcove set back inside the foundation next to the tenth luggage conveyer. As Burly jostled me through the door, I managed to keep my orientation toward the garage entrance -- and, hopefully, the area for private aircraft -- about one hundred yards from the rusty grated stairwell we now descended. Behind and above, Moeziz could be heard giving Rico, Staple and company directions to our location. The stairs double-backed and ended in a grayish-colored tunnel, lit only in weak yellow light by the occasional bare bulb dangling on a single cord from the ceiling. The tunnel was a plumber's dream: Dank and smelly, filled with utility pipes, musty crates and boxes, air compressors, electrical boxes and shut-off valves. Overhead, the muffled sound of tires rumbling on the concrete added to the surreal sense of mortal isolation.

  Here I am, surrounded by thousands of people nearby, in danger of losing my life.

  Moeziz appeared on the metal landing and descended the stairwell, using his well-honed survival skills to sniff out any potential ambush. Satisfied he was dealing with genuinely corrupt Policía Federals, he tugged at the lapels of his sportscoat and entered the forum.

  "But for a deck of cards, we could partner up a Bridge tourney," I suggested cheerfully, beginning the stall for time. At this point, I determined a run in either direction would be a marathon of blind proportions, akin to sprinting through a utility room obstacle course enshrouded in a fog bank.

  "Always with the wit, aren't you?" Moeziz appeared more haggard than I previously recalled. His beak nose and thinning hairline, respectively, more pointier and sparser. "Mr. Bridgework discovered something very important to him has been tampered with. He'd like to take you out sailing to discuss the matter."

  "As you can see, I'm a bit inconvenienced at the moment. Perhaps next cruise, right? There's a good fellow."

  "No next time, you talkative ham."

  "Ouch." The ham reference stung deeply.

  "Do you know how torturous it is being forced to listen to you?"

  "Let's not get personal here --"

  "Oh, we're about to become very personal, Baron old boy. Very personal, no mistake about it." Moeziz produced the wad of bills again. "How much for the bitch?"

  "He no woman!" Skinny scanned me once more in order to be certain of his conviction. Burly, at the sight of the money, relaxed the squeeze on my arm. "You trying to drive down price!"

  "Not at all. It's just an expression," Moeziz explained, fanning out the hundreds to form an impressive display. "Now, how much?"

  "All you got."

  "All?" Uncharacteristically, the professional thug hesitated in closing the deal. The discussion of price, being the least of his concerns, caused me to feel cheapened by his sudden penurious mindset. "Isn't that asking a bit much?"

  Skinny further spun open the jar of chaos by drawing his sidearm, providing me the opportunity to make a split-second decision. I planted my feet firmly and swung the rucksack upwards, making sure the weight of my battered laptop led the way. The bag struck Skinny's pistol full force -- causing a round to be discharged -- then glanced at an angle into the bottom of the Moeziz money wad. Unfortunately for Burly on my follow-through, the gritty bag deflected square into his face with a resounding whack. The distraction caused by the report of the pistol, coupled with the confetti-like dispersal of hundreds of dollars into the air, proved worthy of Skeet Burnisher's best effort. I decided, however, not to dally in admiring my handiwork.

  Launching Burly at Moeziz, I brought the bag around in perfect forehand fashion and drove the revolver from Skinny's hand, sending it clattering onto the floor. Skinny appeared just as happy to be relieved of his weapon, as his attention and outstretched left hand were focused on the torrent of greenbacks raining down.

  Advantage, Baron.

  I wasted no time disappearing into the recesses of the hallway, racing in the direction that -- should there be an exit -- would lead me up and out near the edge of the terminal. A chorus of yells mixed with cursing followed after me as I gripped anew the rucksack and maximized my ground speed. Skinny and Burly would most likely occupy themselves cleaning up their newfound wealth before arguing over it. Oz Moeziz, in contrast, would hunt me down to the exclusion of everything else in his sorry life.

  The crack of pistol fire coincided with my shin striking a large me
tal handle, dropping me to one knee as the bullet screamed past my head, and destroying the center section of a drainpipe. Immediately a foul smelling liquid gushed forth, spraying over me. I jumped up in spite of the throbbing pain and, in a moment of brilliance, held the rucksack aloft over my head Moses-like as if the laptop was a tablet of wisdom and morality. Approaching the next bare bulb, I properly timed my leap and shattered it with a powerful strike. Using all available items, such as a splintered wooden skid, I filled the trail behind me, creating a pathway of treacherous difficulty Moeziz would negotiate in the dark. Another round exploded from the barrel of the gun, pinging off the cinderblock wall to my left. I launched into the air and smashed the next light, and afterward threw down three metal folding chairs into the middle of the tunnel. The concept of devising a video game based on this predicament flashed through my mind, gaining credibility as I lined up my approach for the next target.

  Smash!

  In my wake, the satisfying sound of Oz Moeziz tripping over the weak planks of the fallen skid added bonus points, an additional amount scored if the international thug lost the weapon somewhere in the shadows. Increasing the distance between us, I took out another light and raced toward the next when the clang of a folding chair being kneed reached my ears. I pushed on faster, dumping a row of shovels and brooms askew on the floor in a wide swath. Just as I zeroed the next light, I spotted a stairwell on the left.

  Don't look now, Baron old sod, but freedom awaits you.

  I extinguished the final light with a flourish, as though dunking a basketball in a street game of hoop, before anxiously scrambling up the stairwell two steps at a time toward a dim glow at the top step.

  A broad gray door at the landing bore the label "Emergencia solamente - La alarma activará." Indeed, given my situation was an emergency and I was quite alarmed, I wrestled a fire extinguisher from a wall harness and struggled to dislodge its pin. This prop, at the very least, would give my presence the air of credibility and serve to spread confusion in the process. Slamming myself against the retaining bar and flinging wide the door, I burst into the flurry of the service garage accompanied by the loud squawk of a blaring warning signal. There was, to my astonishment, no reaction. From anyone. I took the moment to collect myself, rearranging my rucksack so it adequately covered the handcuffs while adjusting my grip on the extinguisher handle.

  Comporting myself as though taking a regular daily walk with my fire extinguisher, I strolled through the airport service area toward the bay door where a half-dozen corporate jets were convened. The bright sunshine outside prompted me to break into tune, whistling a riff of Elvis Costello numbers that helped remove the sting from my negotiating the erratic traffic patterns of the service vehicles. The activity was so calamitous that, foolishly, I neglected to react upon hearing a terrific commotion from behind, believing it to be a routine part of airport milieu.

  "Gotcha!" Like a forklift using its tongs to raise a pallet, I was effortlessly lifted off my feet by a massive pair of arms. "You go nowhere this time, you Skeet Burnisher Walter Raleigh Baron von dek Horn jerk!" It was Rico, behind me and beside himself with anger.

  "Put me down, you lummox!" I demanded as carts of freshly prepared meals tooled past. "I was on my way to find you."

  "Thank me for saving you the trouble."

  "Why, certainly!" I swung the extinguisher between my legs and struck, if not the direct center of my objective, certainly close enough to prompt my release. Tumbling forward as my feet hit the floor, I nearly fell into the path of a veering lavatory service vehicle. "Here! Let me douse your fire!" I spun around and aimed the nozzle at my doubled-over opponent.

  Pulling the extinguisher's trigger, I anticipated a wide blast of sodium bicarbonate to stream forth. My triumphant sneer lost its sheen when, akin to loosening the cap off a week-old bottle of soda, the faint hissing fizzle of the container's lifeless contents could be heard. I fabricated a most apologetic smile as the searing look in Rico's eye signaled his knew the table had turned in his favor.

  "Be green and recycle this, would you?" I lofted the spent extinguisher high in the air over his head, banking the brute possessed a paternalistic streak buried within that would prompt him to catch the ersatz baby. Unfortunately Rico proved no Willie Mays and the red canister, abiding the law of gravity, gained the better of him. I had barely a moment's notice to appreciate the big man's dilemma when a crushing blindside tackle leveled me onto a fully-packed cart of outbound luggage.

  "For Shiva's sake, Staple!" My cheek was nearly impaled by a zipper tab sticking straight out of an unrelenting American Tourister expandable upright. "Was that really necessary?"

  "You are like an eel, Mr. Burnisher. Slippery, scaly and always getting away."

  "Which would be the eel's job, right?"

  "Now it's time for you to visit Mr. Bridgework on the Gangrene. Far out at sea."

  "It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, Staple old chum. Since I'm already at the airport, how about I fly back to the States and have our people arrange a meeting in a few weeks, say a nice luncheon at Lake Tahotukmikash --"

  "You are going for a visit," he grunted, flipping me over so we faced one another on the uneven pile of suitcases, "then for a swim in the ocean." He knelt while pressing his hands into my shoulder blades, shading me from the intense overhead sun as we bobbed side-to-side with the unsteady ride. "What's this?"

  "Hey! That's my magic kit." The burlap bag, by this time shredded and frayed, proved no trouble for Staple freeing it from the chain holding my wrists together.

  "Your magic belongs to me now."

  "Just don't look inside, whatever you do." Naturally, the prohibitive warning proved too much temptation for the poor fellow. I casually stretched my arms back over my head and groped for the nearest handle. As Staple peeled back the lip of the bag, I brought a pricy Louis Vitton handbag squarely down upon his crown not once, but twice. Taking the blows like a gallant housefly going up against a resilient plastic swatter, Staple relinquished the bag to me without opposition. I scrambled up and over the wobbly pile of luggage to the forward rail, considering my options along the way.

  "You did it again," Stapled puled from below, digging a heel into a tan Samsonite and starting a halfhearted ascent toward me, "you're nothing but a slippery eel!"

  "I accept and am honored by your praise of frustration, friend," I replied, eyeing an approaching inbound luggage carrier -- empty of its cargo -- tracking uncomfortably close toward us. "But even your average eel must possess his redeeming qualities, yes?" With that, I leapt as such to land both feet on the last luggage unit as it passed, speeding away from Staple at a rate which made it impossible to hear his response. I waved goodbye to him, my stature assuming that of a relaxed subway patron taking the Number Four uptown after a hard day's work, heading home to the safety and comfort of his Lear jet.

  Through a thicket of wings, ailerons and fuselages I spied the trademarked Joe Kose leer, boldly displayed beneath the nose of his private ride. It seemed a simple trick to hop off the transport once it stopped and race to the immobile aircraft, minding the coils of service hoses and tie-downs along the way. Surely, Joe and his crew were expecting my arrival and would allow me swift access to the jet. As we motored near the open bays, my vision of an uncomplicated exit expired with the appearance of Oz Moeziz, Rico [now carrying the fire extinguisher as though it were a can of soda] and two oversized reddened Holsteins emerging from the shadows of the concrete garage.

  Hindrances immediately arose: First, Oz Moeziz and crew were positioned between me and the Kose Lear. Second, my physique was a far cry from even remotely resembling a traveling garment bag. This combustible combination ignited quickly when I passed within twenty yards of the idled mass, spurring it to stampede my way. At the same moment the conveyance slowed upon entering the dark service area. Ducking to my knees and holding tight to the aluminum rail in front of me, I inserted two fingers to the corners of my lips and issued a shrill whistle
prompting the already distracted driver to peer over his shoulder. Whatever personal guilt the poor fellow was harboring -- be it an illicit love, unpaid gambling debt or the consistent skipping of church services -- uncorked with the sight of four angry men bearing down on his cart. He hooked a sharp left and tromped on the accelerator, causing the final cart which I clung to dearly to snap like the tail of a playful housecat. I breathed a sigh of relief as it was immediately apparent our pursuers would not outrun the daredevil behind the wheel.

  New trouble began as we headed away from the Kose jet. The two Federales, pockets stuffed with Moeziz's allowance money, were entering their modest squad car as we shot past at a rocketing speed. Skinny and I made hostile eye contact, while Burly shouted an intelligible curse. With emergency lights flashing, siren blaring and tires squealing, the two law enforcement officials picked up where the thugs left off. The cart driver, much to his credit, seemed apathetic to having the official vehicle pursue him. Indeed, he made yet another ninety-degree, spine-cracking turn and pointed his rig toward the open bays and tarmac beyond. I was grateful for this maneuver until realizing, probably at the same moment as Oz Moeziz, the pack of scoundrels on foot would easily intercept us should we stay our course. I might have possessed more faith in the highly-skilled cart operator. As we neared the foursome, the wheelman let up on the gas, permitting a small food service truck to form an effective block between us and the angry mob. Indeed, the food truck was now inline to make direct contact with Rico and one of the muscle-bound Holsteins if they chose not to move. As horns blasted and fists shook, I dipped my head and gritted my teeth.

  The resulting explosion of sandwiches was impressive and perhaps set a world record of its kind. A broadside of cucumber on rye, with dill mayonnaise, plastered me to the left while a strong aroma of egg salad quickly filled the air. I cautiously lifted my head to see that the police vehicle had precipitated events by ramming the sandwich truck into a spin and, in the process, causing its side doors to spring open. The truck's bumper caught the first luggage cart, momentarily stalling our progress, and sending Moeziz and friends scattering to parts unseen. Just as I completed processing the scene, the driver gained forward motion once more, this time aiming directly at the gaggle of corporate jets outside. I would have been elated with the developments had Rico not attached himself to the rear grate of my cart. Worse still, approaching from the right side on the sunlit tarmac appeared the very irate Staple.

  "I never give up!" Rico decreed, his hefty legs pumping faster and faster as the luggage shuttle's engine picked up the pace.

  I opted against engaging Rico in small talk and instead focused on climbing from cart three to cart two and, along the way, locating the cotter pin on the hitch connecting the units. Once kneeling securely in the middle cart, I used the flat portion of the handcuffs to hammer the tines back into the hole, easing the pin out effortlessly on the other end. Upon disconnection, the expression of surprise on Rico's face defied description as, on a mad run, he involuntarily veered to the right with the now out-of-control cart, the soles of his fine leather shoes slapping loudly on the blazing hot tarmac like a carpenter's hammer pounding on a sturdy two-by-six.

  From the other direction Staple's swift pace equaled that of his associate and, for reasons known only to the likeable ruffian, he maintained a steady course headlong into the careening cart. The impact was reminiscent of the preseason drills I spent working with the Oakland Raiders defensive line while touring the country on my Mind Over What Does It Matter? lecture series. The main tenet of this discourse, lost upon Rico and Staple in their moment of confusion and collision, was the belief that pain was vitreous -- one could manage his or her way through the ache of any predicament, be it physical or emotional, as long as one prepared spiritually and psychologically.

  I was painfully reminded of this lack of provision when the service vehicle, speeding faster than ever, made an abrupt right turn and tossed me chin-over-teakettle onto the hard pavement. I rolled countless times before planting both feet flat on the ground and popping up like an over-cranked jack-in-the-box head-butting its way through a rusty lid. Bloodied, sore and battered, I stood directly at the base of the steps leading up to the Kose Production Lear itself.

  "That was spec fucking tacular, Baron!"

  The diminutive Joe Kose occupied the doorway, wrapped in his customary white silk shirt, raspberry ascot and black jodhpurs. Gazing down through the thick round lenses of his black-framed glasses -- which magnified his already large, narrow-set circular eyes -- he took the form of a humanized Venn diagram. "Lefty Joe caught the entire sequence on video, my friend. You are nothing short of stardom, babe!"

  "Will you require a boarding pass?" I asked, flouting his accolades and dropping to my knees so I might better drag myself up the metal stairwell.

  "I'll waive it as long as your agent is willing to negotiate percentage points." Kose reached down, hoisting me by the handcuffs up the last few steps. "What's this all about?"

  "They were attempting to steal my treatment, Joe," I said, suddenly feeling very weary in the midst of the strangers lounging in the stylish aircraft. Lefty Joe kept his videocam running, outwardly giddy over capturing the mise en scène which so enthralled his boss. The plane lurched, causing my nose to press flat against the camera lens. "I wanted to receive proper credit for it."

  "Wark couldn't be prouder," Kose replied, a tear evident in his pie-pan eye as he escorted me to a vacant seat, "and neither will I."

  I collapsed next to the window and blankly looked out over the wire mesh fence to the causeway exiting the terminal, relieved to be returning to the States at last. In the distance I spotted the small visage of a red Indian motorcycle -- sidecar attached -- dodging its way through congested traffic headed back toward the city, its driver throwing his head back with a burst of laughter.