by Inmon, Shawn
“Not until we reach our cruising altitude sir,” the stewardess answered.
Moondog nodded past the curtained area, where he could see another stewardess tipping a Champagne bottle and filling a passenger’s glass. “Looks like they’re serving in first class.”
“Yes sir, you’re right. They are serving in first class.” She hurried away before Moondog could ask her anything else.
Charles took in Moondog’s pasty complexion, the sweat beading on his forehead and asked, “Do you have a drinking problem?”
“I have an anxiety problem. Drinking helps with that. Or at least I’m hoping it does. Weed helps more, but they frown on that while you are flying.”
Moondog managed to down another three drinks on the flight and seemed much more relaxed—if somewhat unsure on his feet—when they touched down at JFK.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHARLES’ IDEA OF HUSTLE and bustle was trying to leave the Graystone Insurance parking lot five minutes after quitting time. He had never experienced anything like John F. Kennedy Airport.
They got off the plane and were swallowed by a sea of people.
“Maybe we should stop somewhere and get a drink. Let this crowd of people calm down a little,” Moondog suggested.
“Logic tells me that we might be waiting a long time for that to happen. What I’d like to do is get to baggage pick up, find our bags, and get a taxi to take us to our hotel. What’s getting me through this experience is picturing myself shutting the door behind me in a quiet hotel room, knowing I won’t have to deal with people for at least ten or twelve hours.” Charles didn’t feel the need to mention the clean sheets he had packed to put over the bedding and furniture in the hotel room. He was learning that some of his habits were better kept to himself.
They picked out an overhead sign pointing them toward baggage claim and joined the current of people moving in that direction.
“Sorry,” Moondog said, nodding to the right, “I’ve got to use the little boy’s room.”
They fought their way to the side and Charles parked himself outside the restroom and waited. If he had been interested in people watching, he would have been in heaven. Instead, he counted how many people passed in one direction every sixty seconds. After he did that three times, he added the number together, averaged it, then multiplied it by sixty.
Eventually, he came up with a formula that took into account peak flying periods and overnights, which were bound to be slower. Before Moondog came back, he had worked out a reasonable guess as to how many people passed that spot on any given year. He felt much calmer knowing that number, even though it turned out not to be a prime number.
Charles looked at Moondog carefully when he came out of the restroom. His eyes were red and watery, and his uncertain gait had become more pronounced.
“Are you all right?”
“Better now,” Moondog said.
Charles thought he didn’t look any better, but only wanted one thing—to get his luggage and get to their hotel.
“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” Charles said.
“This is not the ideal time to realize that. The optimal time would have been when we were sitting in my condo, eating steaks and talking about this whole thing.”
It took them twenty minutes, but they eventually made it to baggage claim. They took so long getting there that most everyone had already claimed their luggage and left. There were just a few lonely bags circling around and around, and a solitary woman impatiently tapping her foot, waiting.
Charles and Moondog saw their luggage immediately and pulled it off the rotating conveyor.
“Got your claim ticket?” Charles asked.
With a flourish, Moondog pulled it out of his jacket pocket.
As he did, a fat joint flew out of the pocket and landed on the conveyor belt, which carried it away.
“What was that?”
“What do you think it was, man? It’s a doobie, a spliff, a fatty. Hang on, I’ve gotta get it.”
Moondog chased after it, but just when it almost caught up to it, it disappeared around the back where he couldn’t reach it.
Charles looked around nervously. The woman who had been waiting for her luggage had disappeared.
Moondog ran back to Charles then past him, determined to pluck the joint up off the belt. He finally caught up to it, plucked it up and turned toward Charles, holding it aloft, a victorious expression on his face.
Charles was no longer standing alone. Next to him was a tall black man dressed in the Port Authority uniform.
Charles stood beside him, a sick expression on his face.
“Excuse me, sir, can I see what you’re holding?”
Moondog had frozen in place. The same stupid smile was plastered to his face and his arm remained high above his head, holding the joint. He slowly turned his head upward as though he was as surprised as everyone else to see what his hand was holding.
“What? This?” Moondog said, nodding at the joint.
“Yes, sir. Please step toward me and hand me what you are holding.”
Moondog looked at Charles, who had a perfectly blank expression on his face. He stood in the same position for one beat, then two. Finally, he shrugged and walked toward the Port Authority officer, holding the joint in front of him.
The officer accepted the joint and said, “Can I ask what this is?”
Moondog wasn’t as cavalier with the officer as he had been with Charles.
“It’s a joint.”
“A marijuana cigarette?”
“Yes.”
The cop, whose name badge identified him as Officer Bunting, took a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Listen. If you had just dropped a joint inconspicuously and then picked it up and put it in your pocket, you would be on your way. We are here to secure the airport, not look for people with a single joint. However, it seems you made quite a production about it and you were seen doing so by a woman who found me and made a complaint. That means I’ve got to take action.”
Bunting glanced around, as if the woman who had made the complaint might be eavesdropping, though she was nowhere in sight.
“But here’s the truth. This is my last shift of the week. I get off in thirty minutes. The last thing I want to do is write up a report and file it. That will take me at least an hour and make me late getting home to dinner with my wife, which will make her unhappy. So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re all going to my office, and we’re going to give a cursory look through all of your bags, if you consent to having them searched. If they’re clean, I’ll write you a ticket, which you can pay at your leisure.”
Bunting looked from Moondog to Charles. “Do I have permission to search your bags?”
“Of course,” Charles said. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Thank you. And you?”
Moondog looked like he wanted to find a hole, step into it, and pull it in after him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MOONDOG LOOKED DRUNK, slightly high, and embarrassed. He stood in front of the Port Authority officer for several silent seconds, then finally shrugged and said, “Whatever, man. If I say ‘No,’ you’re going to hold me until someone gets here with a warrant or something. Go ahead.”
Officer Bunting’s shoulders sagged a little. He’d been on the job fifteen years and could tell by this response what he was going to find. He said, “Follow me, my office is over in the corner here.”
Charles and Moondog followed Bunting across the baggage claim area until they arrived at a closed and locked door. Above the frame was a sign that read, “Port Authority Office.”
Bunting took out a key, opened the door and pointed to two chairs opposite a steel-gray desk. The desktop was nearly empty—there was just a crookneck lamp and an empty In/Out basket.
The tall man plopped back into a rolling desk chair with a sigh. “All right, let’s start with you,” he said, pointing to Charles. “Let’s start with your suitcase.”
/> Charles lifted his suitcase up and set it on the desk. It was a gray Samsonite that had been well-reviewed in Consumer Reports for its roominess and extra interior zippered pockets.
Bunting opened the suitcase and laid it flat on the desk. He actually let a small giggle escape his lips before he caught himself.
Inside, Charles suitcase was so immaculately packed, it looked as though it had been prepared by an artificial intelligence. Every pair of socks, underwear, shirt, pants, and pajamas had been meticulously rolled into the tiniest possible shape, then packed against each other like a perfect game of Tetris. Packed neatly into one section of the suitcase were three sets of flat sheets, still in their packaging. Officer Bunting touched the sheets, but didn’t ask.
Bunting took a pen out of the desk drawer and poked here and there at the contents of the suitcase.
“I feel like I’d be spray painting over the Mona Lisa to take everything out of this case.”
Instead, he took a few items out and scooted things this way and that. It immediately became apparent that there were no drugs in Charles’ suitcase. The inside of Charles’ carry on was equally well organized, with snacks, books, and notebooks.
“You are highly organized,” Bunting noted.
“Thank you,” Charles said in agreement.
“Okay, you’re good. Let’s take a look at your suitcase, Mister...?”
“Masterson. Mark Masterson.”
Charles looked askance at Moondog. ‘Mark Masterson’ sounded a universe away from ‘Moondog.’
“Mister Masterson. Good. Hand me your suitcase.”
Resignedly, Moondog lifted his suitcase onto the desk. It was the polar opposite of what Bunting had seen inside Charles’ suitcase. Clothes were thrown haphazardly in, boxers mixed in with tie-dyed t-shirts, a tube of Crest toothpaste stuffed inside a Converse tennis shoe. Inside the other shoe were four gray film canisters with plastic black tops.
Bunting didn’t waste any time looking through the rest of the suitcase. He plucked the four canisters out and stood them on the desk. He thumbed the lid of the first and looked inside, nodding as he did. He popped the tops of the remaining three canisters.
“How much is here?”
“Less than an ounce.”
Bunting nodded. “Personal use, then. No intent to distribute?”
Moondog shook his head miserably. He finally risked a look at Charles, whose jaw had fallen open and was resting on his chest. He had been completely unaware he was traveling with such a dangerous criminal.
“I’m going to make two calls, now. The first will be to the NYPD to ask them to send an officer over to actually arrest and book you. I can’t do that. The second will be to my wife, blaming you for making me late for dinner again tonight.”
“What’s going to happen to him now?” Charles asked.
“Depends. It’s out of my hands now. NYPD will take him to the station and they’ll decide what to do with him from there. If they charge him with possession, he might be able to bail out of jail, if he’s got money.”
Moondog brightened. “I’ve got money!”
Bunting looked at Moondog, who, after a long day of alcohol-infused travel, looked like he’d been drug through a knothole backwards. “Good for you,” Bunting said, picking up the phone.
While Bunting was on the phone, Charles leaned toward Moondog and said, “I’m not sure what to do now. Should I get a cab and follow you to the station, in case you make bail?”
Moondog shook his head. “No. Even if they set bail, it’s too late today. It doesn’t work like Harry Anderson and Night Court. I won’t even find out what my bail is until tomorrow. I might need to borrow some money from you until I can get to the bank.”
Charles had never loaned anyone so much as a dollar in his life. Now, faced with an unknown amount, he agreed instantly.
“I feel terrible about all this. It’s my fault you’re in this mess.”
“Is it? I’m forty-seven years old. Well old enough to make my own messes and get out of them. I brought the weed along to help settle my anxiety. I wanted to be able to toke up in my room at night.”
“And in airport restrooms,” Charles guessed.
“Yeah, in airport restrooms. How’d you know?”
“Your eyes were very red when you came out. And, I could tell by the number of people coming out of the restroom that it wasn’t so busy that you had to stand in line. You were in there for eleven minutes, which, unless you were suffering from diarrhea, was a very long time.”
“You’re a smart guy, Charles.”
“In some ways. So, what should I do?”
“You made the reservation with the hotel. Get a cab out in front. If you can take my luggage with you, that would help. Maybe you could check us both in at the hotel and put my luggage in my room? I hope I’ll be able to get out tomorrow.”
When Bunting hung up the phone after the second call to his wife, he looked at Charles. “There’s no reason for you to be here, Mr. Waters. If you need a cab, there will be a line just outside the luggage area.”
Charles glanced at Moondog. He didn’t want to leave him, both because he felt responsible for him being there and because he didn’t want to be alone in New York. Or Queens, or wherever he was at the moment.
Still, he slung his own carry-on bag over one shoulder, Moondog’s over the other and took a suitcase in each hand. He tottered a bit under the weight and looked slightly like an underfed immigrant fleeing an uncertain future.
He made his way to the sliding glass doors along the front of the baggage area and stepped out into the uncertainty of a cold New York night.
Chapter Thirty
THE GOUDREAU MATHEMATICS Museum was located in Queens, so Charles had booked them into a hotel in the same borough. Once he got into a cab, the cabbie said, “Sure, that’s not far.”
As with the airline ticket, Charles had not booked them into one of the most expensive hotels in town, but it wasn’t a fleabag, either. It had had a decent lobby, with a tall, polished check-in desk and dim lighting.
Charles lugged all four bags to that desk and said, “Checking in.”
He explained that his traveling companion had been unavoidably detained, but both rooms were reserved in Charles’ name, so he would check him in and give him the key when he arrived. The desk clerk offered to have a bellboy take Moondog’s bags up to his room and hit a bell on the desk with some authority.
Bellboy was a misnomer, as the man who appeared was at least twenty years older than Charles. His shoulders were hunched slightly and he had the pallor of someone who might be allergic to the sun. His eyebrows might have been bushy enough to be eligible for Locks of Love. The expression on the man’s face said that he had seen the worst the world had to offer and that he no longer expected anything else. He picked up the two bags and lingered for a moment, waiting for a tip.
Charles, who knew nothing about such social niceties, confirmed the man’s world view by turning his back on him and finishing the check-in process. When he finally received his key, he picked up his own bags and wearily made his way to the elevator and the seventh floor.
The key made a satisfying thunk when he turned it in the lock. The sound was so reassuring and nice; he locked and unlocked it again, then swung the door open. The room was dark, but the light switch by the door turned on a bedside lamp. The room was small, but appeared to be clean. A cursory inspection of the bathroom revealed no obvious issues.
With a sigh, Charles set his suitcase on the small desk, opened it and removed one of his sheets. He removed the multi-colored nylon comforter and dropped it between the bed and the wall. He unfolded the sheet and smoothed it over the top of the blanket.
He hung his jacket in the closet and removed his shoes, but immediately retrieved his slippers from the suitcase and put them on.
He unpacked a brand new pillowcase, opened a drawer, and stretched it out, then repeated the process in a second drawer and unpacked his clothes.
OFTEN, WHEN YOU HAVE a horrible day, a good night’s sleep sets everything right. You go to sleep exhausted and worried, but wake up refreshed and with a fresh perspective. Such was not the case for Charles on this day.
He woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping in an uncomfortable position. He sat up and regretted it immediately, as his head throbbed as well.
He still had his slippers on, so he felt safe walking across the room and opening the curtains to see what kind of day it promised to be.
It promised to be a brick wall sort of day, as that was the only view from his window.
Charles picked a change of clothes from the drawers, although the world might not notice. He had elected to pack five sets of identical pants, shirts, underwear and socks so he wouldn’t spend too much brainpower deciding what was appropriate for each day.
He showered, making sure he stepped from the shower onto a towel, then back into his slippers.
He had once read a report of the amount of bacteria that survived from guest to guest in hotel rooms and his excellent memory assured that this report stayed front and center in his mind. He wouldn’t be truly comfortable until he was safely back in his condo in Middle Falls.
He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, dressed, and realized that he suffered from an uncomfortable feeling—he had no idea what to do next.
He retrieved his notebook from his carry on and made two notes.
Eat breakfast. And, Get Moondog out of jail.
He let his pencil hover over the paper for a long moment as he searched his mind for a third item to add. Three is a prime number. He was finally forced to admit that he couldn’t think of a third item, so he tore the sheet of paper out of the notebook and slipped it into his pocket.
Charles opened the door, stepped into the hall and went through his normal door-locking procedure. He made a note of the type of lock the hotel used, as he very much liked the satisfying noise it made when he locked and unlocked it.