Courier

by Terry Irving

  Rick laughed, and they headed back. Chess would occupy his mind; keep the monsters at bay for a while.

  They were just starting a fifth-game tie, when the phone rang.

  "Courier desk."

  "Anyone else there?" It was Casey Ross up on the Assignment Desk.

  "Nope."

  "Well, then you’ll have to do both runs. Come on up."

  Rick hung up the phone. "Sorry, we’ll have to resume your inevitable defeat later."

  Larry laughed. "Bullshit. It’s been weeks and we’re still dead even."

  "I’m just taking it easy on you. Make you feel like you’re all safe and secure and then… blam. You’ll have more holes in you than the point man in a snuffie jungle stroll."

  "Yeah, like the Marines didn’t have to save your sorry GI butts about once a week." Larry was the only other Vietnam veteran in the building, and even though they didn’t talk about their war, they quickly dropped into the familiar joshing banter.

  They walked together to the center hall, and when Larry turned left to his post at the back door, Rick headed right. He opened the rear door, crossed a narrow alley that lead to the courtyard where the courier bikes were kept for the night, and continued into the next building. The ABN bureau took up the bottom floors of two buildings back-to-back and stretched all the way across the block between 18th Street and Connecticut Avenue.

  This side was the old news bureau, built when ABN had just begun, running a distant third to the other two networks. Rick walked through a dusty studio with outmoded equipment and an equally antique control room with a picture window that looked out onto Connecticut Avenue.

  More to the point, people on Connecticut Avenue could look in. Rick supposed that it might be entertaining to watch the news being produced, but he knew that the sunlight made it difficult to see the monitors, so the directors usually closed the curtains. That and they didn’t like anyone looking over their shoulders while they worked.

  So much for public relations.

  To the left was the main entrance where the hyperkinetic receptionist spun endlessly from checking out everyone who came in to answering calls on an old-fashioned PBX, complete with cloth-covered cables and brass sockets. Rick had learned how to run it so he could give the operators a quick break from time to time, but it was all he could do keep from doing an atrocious Lily Tomlin impression to every caller.

  A quick turn to the right and up two flights of worn green linoleum stairs, and he was at the Assignment Desk. A small room, it was filled with the usual jammed-together collection of scratched beige desks covered with stacks of paper, newspapers, and punch-button phones, several of which were ringing. Typewriters sat on small right-angle extensions at each desk.

  Along the far wall, another full set of wire machines hammered steadily. They were inside custom-built cabinets that were supposed to be soundproof but fell far short. A desk assistant was hanging wire copy on one of a row of clipboards marked AP Domestic, AP International, UPI, and Reuters. Most of the reporters would stop by and leaf through the news at least once a day.

  Right above the wires was a row of clocks with neat signs underneath – London, New York, Tokyo, and Beirut. Rick assumed that they were meant to show the different time zones, but ever since he’d worked at ABN they had been set to random times, all of them incorrect, and the one for Beirut didn’t run at all.

  Another young kid just out of college was in the back, laboriously fitting a sheet of paper onto the drum inside a fax machine about the size of a big city telephone book while cradling a phone on his shoulder and cracking jokes – Rick assumed with his counterpart in New York. Suddenly, he shut the lid on the fax, said, "OK, three, two, one," into the phone and then jammed the handset into the rubber cups at the side of the machine. He watched nervously until the cylinder inside started to spin, and then sat back with a grin. It would take about two minutes to feed this page, so he could relax before he had to start again.

  Dave Ross was leaning back in his chair on the other side of the room, facing the door where Rick had come in. He glanced up, nodded to Rick, and went back to scrolling through a roll of wire copy, bending what he’d already read in a slight curve so that it rose toward the ceiling at about a forty-five-degree angle. Two other editors had phones to their ears – one was apparently taking dictation, typing furiously as she listened, and shouting "Go" whenever she caught up.

  Rick edged between the typewriters, wire machines, and desk assistants and sat on the edge of Ross’s desk. "What’s up?"

  "Just a second." The column of paper folded over and collapsed. "Damn, I almost made it to the ceiling." Ross tore the end of the wire off on the edge of his desk and jammed it into an overflowing trash can at his side. "I need you to do a pickup at the airport. It’s a pigeon coming in from Boston on Eastern in… thirty minutes. Can you make it?"

  Rick knew that a "pigeon" was a random passenger who had been given fifty bucks to carry a can of film onto the plane, and if he or she wasn’t met right as they came out of the gate, it was just as likely that the film would end up in a trash can as be handed off.

  "Yeah, I’ll have to go a bit fast, but you’ll cover my ticket, right?"

  Ross smiled. "I’ll ask Smithson if he has any of his bonus money left. Better yet, just don’t get caught. And, on your way, make a stop at the Palace."

  "No sweat, boss." The Seoul Palace was the only Korean takeout place downtown. As far as Rick knew, it was the only Korean restaurant in the city, and a favorite of journalists who wanted to be reminded of their glory days in the overseas bureaus. It wasn’t strictly part of the job, but the traditional payment for a Seoul Palace pickup was dinner for the lucky courier.

  "Won’t it get cold?" Rick asked.

  "Yeah, but they’re going to close, and cold food is better than no food." Ross stood up and pulled some bills from his pocket. "This should be enough. Hey, you brought in Hadley’s film, right?"

  Rick took the bills and nodded. "I put it right in George’s hands."

  "Well, no one can find it, and neither Hadley nor his crew has shown up. New York went apeshit when he missed the show. If he’s out doing another of his ‘top-secret’ stories, his ass is going to be in a serious sling. Did he say anything to you about another shoot?"

  "Nope. Didn’t say he was and didn’t say he wasn’t. We’re not close."

  "Who is?" Ross pushed down on the switch at the base of the large microphone attached to a two-way radio on the left side of the desk and said, "Hadley, Farr. This is the desk. Please respond."

  There was no answer, and he picked up the microphone and slammed it back down on the desk. "Damn, I wish these worthless radios worked."

  Rick grinned. "Hey, I can’t hear anything but static on mine anywhere but up on the Hill, but if he is off on another story, I’m sure they turned all the radios off anyway. You know how reporters hate being bothered by ‘those morons on the desk’." He turned toward the door. "I’ll bid you morons adieu. I need to get going if I’m going to be there before that guy lands."

  As he walked away, the second editor looked up from her phone and, without taking the phone from her ear or pausing in her own typing, said, "After you meet that pigeon, there’s a shipment at REA."

  Rick waved his hand in the air to indicate he’d heard and kept on walking.

  CHAPTER 7

  There were no parking spaces on F Street, but parking on sidewalks was one of the unofficial perquisites of being a courier. Rick pulled the BMW up on the sidewalk in front of a row house that had a small illuminated sign with a large Pepsi logo and – in much smaller type – the words "Seoul Palace". He pulled the bike up on the center stand so it was parallel to the street.

  Don’t block pedestrians, he said to himself, they might be paying customers. It was a rant he’d heard so many times from the people at Seoul Palace, he knew it word for word.

  He didn’t take off his helmet as he went up the steps two at a time. The door opened just before he reach
ed it and a man in a gray suit came out and roughly brushed past Rick without a word. Rick stood there for a second, watching him walk away, and idly wondered what had ticked him off. When he gave the BMW a sharp look, Rick thought: maybe he doesn’t like motorcycles messing up the sidewalk.

  After a second, Rick shrugged and went inside.

  "I’m here for Mr Ross’s order." Rick handed over the money Ross had given him. "Hey, where is Anastasia?"

  The girl who usually worked the counter was cute, and he liked to chat whenever he did a pickup. Tonight, however, it was a severe older woman with a bouffant stiff with hairspray and an old pink scar along her left jaw. She looked at him intently, briefly distracted from making change.

  "You mean So Yun? She has to work hard, no time for talking. She’s going to law school now."

  "Law school at night?"

  "Yes, night school. George Washington."

  Rick knew that GW Law’s night school was tough. Half of the people who actually did the work in DC’s political world were graduates. "Well, wish her luck for me."

  The woman looked doubtful. "Maybe. What’s your name?"

  "Just tell her it was the motorcycle guy from ABN. She’ll know."

  The woman took two steps back into the entrance to the smaller dining room and looked towards the back.

  "So Yun, motorcycle boy from…" She paused and turned back to Rick. "Where do you work?"

  "ABN"

  "… from ABN wishes you good luck in law school."

  A voice from inside the dining room said, "Thank you, Mrs Jin. Tell him I appreciate it."

  Mrs Jin turned back to Rick. "OK?"

  "That’s great, thanks."

  A thought crossed the woman’s face, and she asked, "ABN? The television?"

  Rick nodded, but as he picked up the bag of food and turned to go, he thought the woman looked startled.

  With the Korean food zipped inside the leather jacket warming his chest, the ride to National Airport was pleasant, despite the steadily dropping temperature. After pulling into the airport, he turned left and then swung down the hidden road beneath the arrivals area, where the buses ran. After parking at the loading dock under the Eastern shuttle, he pushed open the swinging doors and walked up two flights of stairs to the regular Eastern arrival area.

  A quick check of one of the monitors told him he was right on time, so he took off his helmet, turned it so the ABN sticker was in front, and held it up on his chest the way limo drivers did when they were meeting a client. An overweight man in a business suit and a tan raincoat came out of the door marked "Arrivals", looked around until he spotted Rick, and walked up with one of the ABN mesh shipping bags in his hand. Inside, Rick could see a couple of small film cans – both with the red tape that meant they were undeveloped.

  "Here’s your film. Now where’s the rest of my money?"

  Rick knew he was being scammed. Ross would have told him if he had to make another payment to the pigeon. He looked at the man innocently. "Sorry, but I’m flat broke. You can call the bureau in the morning if you want."

  "Ah, forget it." The businessman thrust the bag at him. "Here, I’ve got to get home."

  Rick smiled and headed back to his bike, tucked the film into his bag, and then drove to the left, onto the small road that led to the Railway Express Agency depot at the far end of the main runway.

  The depot was a strange place, a leftover from the days when trains were the only way to ship anything. Now REA put urgent shipments in the baggage compartments of virtually every major airline, but it still had the timeworn and faded feel of a rural whistle-stop.

  Tonight, the rollers that stretched the length of the main room were filled with white cardboard crates, about the size of pizza boxes, stacked eight high. They were marked "Live Animals - Handle With Care", and when Rick peered through the twine mesh over the air hole in the side of one, he saw it was filled with dozens of white mice. There had to be a couple of thousand mice stacked up on the roller belt. Rick guessed they were destined for short lives in a research lab somewhere.

  He turned toward the beat-up wooden counter on the left and heard barking. Behind the counter was a motley stack of metal crates with an assortment of dogs and a couple of cats, all very excited by the two young women in front of the crates who were kneeling down and opening cans of food.

  He asked the beefy man in the REA uniform shirt with "Ace" embroidered on the pocket, "What’s with all the dogs?"

  "Lost in transit." The man turned and looked disinterestedly at the animals. "Lucky for them, those SPCA volunteers come down to feed them because I sure ain’t about to. I can’t tell you how sick I am of their damn barking." He turned back. "What can I do you for?"

  "Pickup for ABN."

  "Yeah? I’ll go look."

  Rick leaned on the counter. Watching the animals, he wondered where they had come from and how a family could lose a supposedly beloved pet on an airplane flight. Ace returned with the inevitable blue-stenciled ABN mesh bag.

  "Here you go. Sign for it right here."

  Rick signed and left. He stuck the bag in his canvas sack, reset the bungee cords, started the engine, and headed back toward the terminal. He’d only gone a hundred feet when he heard a rising roar behind him – a car engine accelerating hard. In his side mirrors, he saw headlights flaring as the car bounced on the rough asphalt. He moved to the right to let it go by; he didn’t feel like racing with all the junk he was carrying. What if I dropped the Korean food,? he thought.. Now, that would be a real tragedy.

  He saw in his mirrors that the oncoming car was also moving to the right – still heading for him – so he pulled up and over the high concrete curb, across the sidewalk and stopped next to the chain link fence that encircled the runways. The car kept coming, but when it hit the curb, the angle between car and the curb was too shallow and the entire front end was thrown to the left with a shriek of tires.

  Rick recognized the black Impala as the same car that had gone through the light at 18th and L. He could see the driver wrestling with the steering wheel but couldn’t get a good look at his face.

  Rick remembered an incident in college when – as he was just cruising around behind campus enjoying the warm spring weather – this jerk had cut him off on a turn. Rick wasn’t angry, but had flipped him the bird just to make the point. The idiot had then tried to run him off the road three times in total fury.

  When Rick had finally parked his bike with some dumb movie-born expectation of a fistfight, the driver – a stocky guy with a black shirt and patterned black tie – had gotten out of the big Lincoln with the Jersey plates, stomped over, pulled a nasty little pistol from a belt clip, and stuck it in Rick’s stomach.

  As it happened, Rick only had to endure fifteen minutes of inebriated but relatively innovative cursing, but it left him convinced that stopping to take on a crazed driver in a fair fight was a lousy idea. After all, a motorcycle could lose just about any car on anything but a long straight – it seemed wrong not to take full advantage.

  He kicked the shifter all the way down into first gear, twisted the handlebars sharply left, and gunned it, shooting up a rooster-tail of grass and dirt until he caught traction on the sidewalk and shot off the curb and into the road. The black car stopped and slammed into reverse, but Rick was already past his rear bumper and swerving back onto the road – now in front again. The Impala screeched to a halt and spun its rear wheels for a second before it gained traction and leapt forward.

  The Impala had better acceleration in the low end than the dignified – if not downright stodgy – BMW and quickly caught up, passed, and once again cut viciously in front of the courier. Rick slammed on the brakes – feeling as though he were tipping up on his front wheel like a trials rider – and swerved right, passing behind the Impala again.

  Rick had left the bike in first gear and both cylinders were screaming. When he popped the clutch, the rear wheel spun and smoked, but now he had the torque he needed as he kicked i
t up through the gears. He looked back and saw that the black car was still fishtailing on the road behind him with no chance of catching up.

  Blue and red flashing lights exploded from a side road hidden between two airplane hangars. Ah, my old friends, the airport police, Rick thought.

  Given a choice between a ticket and whatever this maniac behind him had in mind, Rick would take the ticket. He braked hard, pulled well over to the right, and waited for the police cruiser to pull up – shielding him from another assault.

  The Impala slid past as slowly as any other law-abiding citizen, and Rick watched the car’s taillights dwindle and then turn left onto the highway back to the city. When the car and its still-unknown driver had disappeared, he turned and put an apologetic look on his face for the benefit of the airport cop still struggling out of his cruiser.

  Rick thought that there were probably fifty police forces in the capital area, and, clearly, the airport police were scraping the bottom of the applicant pool. This policeman was so fat that his shirt was bulging open between the buttons, and by the time he got out of his car and straightened his gun, his nightstick, his hat, and his flashlight, his face was bright red with the effort.

  Things should go pretty well according to the usual script – a demand for his license followed by ten minutes of stern warnings, vague threats, and a hefty fine – so he reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the slim wallet he only used for traffic stops. When the cop had finished chewing him out, Rick drove off with a fifty-dollar ticket that he crumpled and tossed into a Dumpster as soon as he was out of sight. After all, what was another fifty bucks compared to the several thousand dollars he already owed?

  Once again, he thanked the incompetent staff at Columbia Women’s Hospital. When he was born, his birth certificate had read "James Richard Putnam". His mother, who certainly didn’t intend to have her husband’s father’s name ahead of her own father’s name, sent his dad back two days later, and he’d returned with another birth certificate – this time correctly emblazoned with the name "Richard James Putnam".