Saving an Innocent Man

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Saving an Innocent Man Page 3

by Robert E B Wright


  Once again, Malcolm's eyes moved under their lids. His brain was trying to recharge, synapses sparking erratically. Tiny electrical impulses and signals were trying to fire inside his head. The pictures were hazy. The sounds distant. But the distorted visions started taking shape. He heard a familiar sound. A phone ringing.

  "Hello."

  “Malcolm Farmer?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Are you Malcolm Farmer?” The voice was firm, businesslike.

  “Yes, I’m Malcolm Farmer.”

  “This is Dr. Benson’s office, in Naples, Florida. Doctor Benson asked me to call you to inform you about your mother.”

  “My mother? What’s hap . . .”

  “Your mother was admitted to Naples Regional three days ago with severe . . .”

  “Naples Regional?” Malcolm’s eyes widened as they searched the wall, the floor,

  anything in sight . . . but they saw nothing.

  “Yes, Naples Hospital, with severe abdominal pain. Unfortunately, exploratory surgery revealed advanced ovarian cancer.”

  “Oh, geez!” Malcolm’s face turned red. His eyes filled.

  “And Doctor Benson feels that it might be a good idea for you to be here, if you can.”

  Malcolm’s eyes closed tightly squeezing out a tear that ran down his cheek.

  There was silence as Malcolm’s face contorted to the sting of the words. He could not speak.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice was softer now, having done her duty, the nurse could now relax. The hard part was over, at least for her.

  “I’m very sorry to have to make this call, but it’s better that you know and you can make plans accordingly.”

  Malcolm made an attempt to speak.

  “Is she . . .” His voice was shaking. “Is she awake? Can I speak to her?”

  “I’m calling from Doctor Benson’s office, I’m not at the hospital right now. I know that your mother just came out of surgery and she’s sedated at this point.” The nurse tried to console him. She was looking for words to ease the pain.

  “I spoke with your mother before surgery and she said you’re a post grad student at NYU.” Malcolm sniffled. "And you're brilliant at computers and math."

  A mournful sound came from Malcolm. The pain did not subside. Another tear fell.

  “She’s very proud of you. So think about making a trip down if you can.”

  “I . . .” Malcolm was struggling to summon some courage, to dredge up enough strength to at least finish the conversation and hang up so he could be alone. There was something he had to say and, by God, he was going to say it. He took in a breath and pushed out the words.

  “Oh, I’ll be there. I’ll be there no matter what. Nothing could keep me from getting there. Nothing.”

  The blurry vision in his mind faded to black. The far-away reverberating voices were silenced now. Malcolm’s stunned brain refused to retrieve any other stored memories. At least for a few minutes. He just sat there. Unmoving. The only sound now was the calling of birds and the buzzing of insects. Shafts of sunlight filtered through fronds and branches.

  Malcolm’s eyes moved beneath his lids. A vision was returning, starting to glow in his mind.

  The NYU off-campus dorm room was bright. Sunlight streamed in through the open window on this gorgeous May morning. Malcolm, sniffling, eyes rimmed in red, grabbed underwear, a couple of shirts, shorts, and toiletries and stuffed them all into a backpack. He opened his wallet and counted out the bills. Suddenly, his roommate, Kyle, opened the door and came in laughing, almost giddy, cell phone up to his ear, books under his arm. Kyle did a double take of Malcolm.

  “I’ll call you back.” He threw his books and phone on his bed.

  “I need to borrow around fifty bucks,” Malcolm said, sounding like he had a head cold.

  “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “My . . . Mom, she . . . (sniffle) she’s in the hospital in Florida ‘n I gotta get there, like now.”

  Kyle was a decent kid. In fact, Malcolm was lucky to have him as a roommate and friend. Funny thing is, they couldn’t have been more different. Kyle, barely more than five-feet-four, didn’t weigh more than one-twenty-five after a big breakfast. He had a mop of dark curly hair. Malcolm, on the other hand, was a mountain of a young man. A towering six-feet-five, and a huge three hundred and sixty-five pounds. Malcolm’s sandy blond hair was cut close. Neat. Kyle exuded a sort of flim-flam, street savvy personality, while Malcolm was the naive, unassuming gentle giant. His black-framed eyeglasses had thick lenses that confirmed his geeky persona.

  “Here ‘ya go, buddy,” Kyle said, arm outstretched, hand full of cash.

  “Take seventy-five. Your lucky day. Just got some sympathy money from my old man. Take it. Is that enough?”

  “Yeah, with what I have, it’ll cover airfare to Miami and a connecting flight to Naples. I have to leave right now or I won’t make the flight out of LaGuardia. Thanks, K.”

  “Anything for you, good buddy. Let me know how your mom is doing.”

  Malcolm was almost out the door.

  “Oh . . .” Kyle added.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have a safe trip!”

  Then the dream-like images collapsed inside Malcolm’s brain. His eyes bulged and moved and searched under bloody lids, desperate to see more. To know more. The pictures wouldn't come back. Only flashes of light and color. But then they did. Out of the murk, the image got brighter.

  BIENVENIDOS a MIAMI said the large sign hanging over the doors for all flights at MIA. There were throngs of people moving every which way on the concourse, each one tense with the apprehension of missing their flight.

  It was easy to spot Malcolm among the masses. And it was easy for him to look over the heads of the stampede to spot the men’s room. Malcolm was in a hurry. He had to pee. And he had to catch his plane. He placed his backpack on the sink vanity and turned to one of the urinals against the opposite wall.

  Then, in Malcolm’s brain, the static again. No signal. No picture. Malcolm searched the inside of his bloody lids dying to know how he got to the spot where he sat. The images wouldn't come clear.

  He heard a woman's voice. It sounded far away.

  “Trans Florida Flight 689 to Naples now boarding at Gate 29. Trans Florida Flight 689 to Naples now boarding at Gate 29.”

  Malcolm was just going through security. His flight from La Guardia to Miami had been delayed.

  “Driver’s license and boarding pass please.”

  Malcolm reached into the deep outside pouch of the backpack.

  Nothing.

  He reached deeper, more fervently, his eyes toward the ceiling.

  Nothing. Shit! He thought to himself.

  His huge hand scoured the inside of the pouch.

  Still nothing.

  He went to the pouch on the other side.

  Empty. My God, where the fu…

  “Sir, please stand aside and when you find them get back in line.”

  “I . . . it . . . they must be here. I have them. I. . . .”

  “Sir, just stand right over there and take your time. Then come right back to me.”

  Malcolm slid over to the side but continued talking to the agent.

  “I had my ticket and wallet right in here. I’m positive.” Malcolm rummaged around inside the bag, hands frantic by now.

  Nothing.

  Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. His face was hot pink. His heavy glasses slid down his nose. His finger pushed them back. He slapped the pockets of his pants. He took out his keys, some loose change, a candy bar.

  No wallet. No boarding pass.

  He was back at the security podium in the face of the agent. He almost knocked a person out of the way.

  “I, I can’t find them. I can’t believe I lost them. I had them both right . . .”

  “Sir, do you have any other identification?”

  Malcolm looked stupefied for
a moment.

  “Well, no, I don’t. I don’t have . . .”

  “Sir, you can’t go beyond this point without ID and a boarding pass.”

  Another agent appeared behind the agent speaking and just stood there.

  “But you don’t understand. I have to get to Naples,” he insisted, “I have to get on that flight.”

  Another passenger standing at the podium, a middle-aged woman, seemed annoyed.

  “Why don’t you just get on the next flight and let the rest of us get on ours?”

  Malcolm ignored her.

  “When’s the next flight?” Malcolm asked.

  “Not until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! My mother . . . I have to get to Naples today!”

  The backup agent was now next to Malcolm. “Step aside, sir. Step out of the way.” The line of people was long. “Come with me over here.” The agent put his hand under Malcolm’s forearm.

  “But I, listen, I . . .” Malcolm resisted.

  The reverberating woman's voice again: "Last call for Trans Florida Flight 689. Flight 689 to Naples. Last call. Doors are closing now at Gate 29."

  “I understand, sir, just step over here and I’ll see if I can help you.” The agent gave a tug.

  When Malcolm went along, the people in line breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  “You see, my mother’s in the hospital. I got a phone call about the surgery, not good they said and . . .”

  “Sir, I hear you and I understand. A word of professional advice, never put your boarding pass and your wallet where somebody can get their hands on them. Like an open pocket of a backpack.”

  “You think somebody stole them?”

  “This is Miami, sir. Life in the big city.” Malcolm wasn’t about to say he was from Manhattan.

  “Now, there’s a flight tomorrow and. . . .”

  Malcolm exhaled deeply. His shoulders sank. He looked away. He looked like he was going to cry.

  “OK, OK,” the agent said, “you have no ID, no boarding pass, no money, and you need to get to Naples, right?” Malcolm tightened his lips until they almost disappeared, and he shook his head to say “yes”. Even the agent sighed now, groping for some way to help him.

  “You can’t rent a car because you have no license, no credit cards, right?” Malcolm, grimace unchanged, shook his head again. The agent closed his eyes, as if reading something on the inside of the lids.

  "You could hitchhike, but that might take a good while.” A pause. Thinking. “Well, this is a long shot, but . . .”

  Malcolm’s eyes flashed to the agent’s face. Expectant. Hoping.

  “It’s a long shot, but you might get yourself over to the GA side, the General Aviation side, of the airport and try to hitch a ride on a private plane headed that way. There’s a number of them that go over that way, I’m sure.” Malcolm just stared at him.

  “Of course, no guarantees. ‘Ya never know. But this might be your lucky day.”

  The voice trailed off and the picture inside Malcolm’s head faded. Malcolm's private screening was over for the moment. He lifted his head up from his chest. He made his body more erect, no longer leaning on the fuselage but still planted firmly to the ground as if paralyzed. His eye movements became more rapid. His mouth opened a bit in pain as the lids rubbed against tiny particles of glass still stuck in his eyes. The pain was worth it. He began to see more glimpses of why he was here. He began to remember.

  The sign over the counter read: AVNation Aircraft Rental Center

  “I have a reservation for the Super Skyvan.” The man speaking had a muscular build.

  “Yes, Mr. Galvo, I have the rental agreement right here. I just need ID, pilot’s license, current medical, sign off for type of aircraft and a credit card.”

  The room was large, but virtually empty. Malcolm did not draw attention to himself. He sat down, opened a magazine on the coffee table and listened intently. Sitting in the opposite corner was a small bald man who had a large, shiny aluminum case on his lap.

  Mr. Galvo produced what was requested and signed the plane rental papers.

  "I see you're headed to Naples today. Weather looks good."

  "Looks good from the ground, but I'll check radar before we leave."

  “Here you are. You’re all set. The plane is N zero 6429.”

  Mr. Galvo repeated the N number. "Zero 6429.”

  “Right outside the door to the left on the ramp. If you just wait a few minutes, I’ll have Frankie top it off. As soon as he fuels it up, you’ll be on your way.”

  Mr. Galvo turned away from the counter and bumped right into Malcolm.

  "Excuse me, sir, excuse me. I couldn't help but hear that you're flying to Naples and I, er, . . " Malcolm said, embarrassed and red-faced. "I have to get there as soon as I ca . . ."

  Mr. Galvo's efficient, businesslike demeanor was evident during the transaction with the rental agent. Now, looking directly into Mr. Galvo's eyes close-up, Malcolm felt a chilly wave sweep up his body. Galvo gave Malcolm the heebie jeebies.

  Mr. Galvo wasted no time. He cut Malcolm off mid-sentence.

  "Sorry kid, no can do." And he turned to walk away.

  "But sir, I . . . I. . ."

  Mr. Galvo stopped, turned his whole body back toward Malcolm and stood very close. He looked up at Malcolm, right in his eyes, unflinching, unblinking. He just stared. There was something about that stare, his eyes, something behind his eyes that told Malcolm to back-off then and there. Not another word was spoken between the two men.

  Malcolm stood there for a few minutes dumbfounded. Then he recalled something that had happened earlier that same day. The phone call from the nurse. He could hear his response all over again. Nothing will stop me from getting there. Nothing.

  Watching Mr. Galvo walk away, Malcolm thought, Fuck you, Mr. Galvo. You're my best chance and you're not going to stop me from seeing my mother. Not you or anything else.

  Mr. Galvo and the smaller, balding man with the shiny case went off to check weather and radar reports. The man behind the counter went to find Frankie. And Malcolm, desperate, went to look for N Zero 6429.

  Malcolm wasted no time. He quickly found the plane parked in the bright sunlight to the left of the building. It had N06429 in one-foot tall numbers on both sides of the tail section. The plane was a single-engine high-wing design with one long metal strut on each side from the wing down to a place on the belly of the fuselage near the main landing gear. The design was old but strong. It had a nose wheel which made it easy to taxi on the ground. And, being a Skyvan, it had a large baggage door on the port side, the left side, at the back of the plane making it easy to load and unload cargo.

  Malcolm was unseen on this slow business day as he quickly unlatched the baggage door and crawled inside. As he did, the plane took on a definite droop in the rear, but not enough to draw attention.

  Malcolm stowed away on the floor behind the third row of double seats and covered himself with an old army-surplus blanket he found there. Within seven hot minutes under the blanket, Galvo and Salvatore Giacommo, alias Sal Steel, got in and the plane went level again.

  As the engine of the little plane started up in Malcolm's mind, Malcolm's recollection faded out. His head tilted to the left against the crashed fuselage again.

  For the moment, the show was over.

  Malcolm's brain was stuttering. Visions, memories, recollections came in glimpses, snatches of scenes. He was trying to look deep and see clearly into a confused, fuzzy, distorted field of visions in his mind.

  Finally, some definition emerged.

  Again, he saw himself sitting, hiding behind the third row of seats, he had found an old wool army-blanket in an area where things like luggage, duffle bags, golf clubs, and an emergency first-aid kit were stored during flights.

  He was hiding as best as he could. An undetected stowaway.

  Galvo sat at the controls of the plane. The smaller man was in the co-pilot's seat, the shiny case in his lap. T
hey spoke into headphones as the plane droned on in flight. Malcolm could barely make out a few words here and there, but enough to get the drift.

  Galvo said, "Imagine, keepin' four and a half million bucks locked up with a tiny little key from big bad ass drug smugglers like us. Funny, isn't it?"

  "No, it isn't funny,” Steel said. “‘Cause even if it wasn't locked up with a tiny little key they know we, or at least I, wouldn't steal a buck of it. Why should I, I'm makin' more than I ever dreamed of. All I have to do is do what I'm told and be loyal. Protect the interests of...the company. Besides, I got a wife and three kids at home. I wanna make sure they keep living.”

  "Yeah, and I want to keep my red Ferrari Testarossa, my condo overlooking Biscayne Bay and two blondes, a redhead and a black girl who make my life heaven."

  "All that on just a hundred a year, huh?"

  "I'm pullin' about two hundred now, with a little a this and a little a that. So I'm not anxious to have it all end either," Galvo answered.

  "That’s good. I was afraid you were thinking you could have a good life in Switzerland or Rio or Tahiti on some of the company’s money. I'd hate to see that happen, Mike, know what I mean?"

  "Hey man, I'm cool. I'm real cool. Hey," Galvo said, "Vinnie said you're takin' flying lessons."

  "Vinnie has a big mouth." Sal was annoyed.

  "Well?"

  "Well, what?" Sal asked.

  "How far are you? Did you solo yet?"

  "Yeah, I did, two weeks ago."

  "Why the fuck didn't you tell me? Ask for advice? Have me give you some pointers? We've been doin' these gigs for a year or so and you never even mentioned it. What's up with that?” Galvo asked, a bit irritated.

  "I was gonna surprise ya'," Sal retorted.

  "Surprise me?"

  "Yeah, you know,” Sal said, “grab the wheel and show you what I could do."

 

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