Three ropes should have steadied the plane, why was it still twitching like a three-year-old getting a beating? Because two ropes were secured. The rope I assigned to Richard still flapped in the breeze. My co-conspirator left me in the lurch again.
Typical Richard, I thought as I retrieved a stake and hammer from my tool box, he disappears when most needed. I had a sinking feeling about the bag of money but had no time to do anything about it.
I walked the loose rope to the curb just as a bolt of lightning and a roll of thunder heralded the start of the rain. It quickly became a downpour. I knelt in the wet grass and pounded the stake into the ground using more force than necessary. In my mind, the head of the stake morphed into Richard’s smiling face. Take that. Pow! And that! Pow!
By the third blow, I could tell that someone was watching me but didn’t look up assuming it was Richard.
“What happened?” I asked, “Why didn’t you secure the wing like I asked you to?” There was no response. That just made me madder, and I hit the stake yet again.
I secured the rope to the stake and got up brushing the mud off my soaking pants. That’s when I realized the person standing next to me was neither Richard nor Henry, but a large man holding a gun. And the gun was pointed at my chest.
“Get down on your knees!”
His face was hidden in the shadows. His voice carried the long vowels of a New Jersey native.
I stepped forward intending to comply with his command. That’s when my right ankle caught the rope. I tripped, and as I fell, I instinctively extended my hand to break my fall. Halfway to the ground, my hammer hit his forearm. He screamed and dropped the gun. My knees hit the pavement, and my pants ripped.
“Son of a bitch!” The man joined me on the ground, scrambling for his weapon. I slipped on the wet surface. My right foot connected with his gun sending it skidding away into the darkness. That’s when the heavens really opened up.
The rain was so thick, we two combatants could hardly see each other. I started shivering from the sudden cold. Then, as if to accompany the deep bass of the thunder, came the higher pitched sound of a gunshot.
The storm created only a brief intermission to our macabre ballet. The man tried to kick me and missed. I swung out blindly with my hammer. It connected with the man’s right knee. He fell on his back.
“Son of a bitch!” He tried to get up, but hit his head on the wing, and fell a second time.
I smiled, certain my plane had joined the fight on my behalf. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t run away. I had to fight for the first time in my life. I had to protect my plane, just as my plane had protected me.
I tightened my grip on the hammer and hit him again, this time aiming at his left knee. His kneecap shattered with a satisfying crack. He screamed again, but his scream was overshadowed by a louder scream from the other side of the car. The screamer had a Jamaican accent. Then I heard a second gunshot.
“Tony,” my assailant yelled, “Tony, come help!” Thunder crashed over our confrontation, drowning out his appeal.
He crawled towards the car trying to get away from me. I knew I had to stop him. A dark and scary part of my brain took over. I used my hammer to hit him in the back of his head. If I was going to die, I thought, it’s not going to be in a half-finished housing development in rural New Jersey.
He continued to crawl away from me. Then I hit him again in almost the same spot, this time using all my strength. The head of the hammer dented his skull. Blood came out in a modest flow. He stopped moving.
“Stay down,” I commanded. There was no response.
He lay face-down in the gutter. Blood added a crimson hue to the water on its way to the storm grate. I dropped the hammer and knelt by him. Did I kill him?
Getting as close as I dared, I was able to hear his breathing. It came in shallow, ragged bursts. He was still alive. A shudder ran down my spine, and if I weren’t soaking wet, I would have felt the sweat break out of every pore.
Until that night, I had never been in a physical fight in my life. I never played football, never wrestled. That night some primordial part of my DNA took over. The DNA, not I, smashed the hammer into the man’s skull. A moment later remorse replaced rage. I have to find Richard and get this guy to a hospital.
I used plastic ties to secure the man’s hands and ankles. Then, with the help of my flashlight, I found the gun right on the edge of a storm drain. Before doing anything else, I checked the inside of my plane. As I suspected, the money was gone.
“Follow the money” is always good advice. With the gun in my hand, I came around the car and found the bag next to Richard. My friend was on his knees facing a large man, presumably Tony. Tony held a pistol to Richard’s forehead.
I took a step forward. Tony sensed my presence and said, “Did the pilot give you any trouble?” It was my turn to talk, but I didn’t know what to say. Should I try to imitate a New Jersey accent, and pretend to be his partner? Should I say “drop the gun we have you surrounded?” Should I offer to trade the money for Richard’s life?
I said nothing and my lack of response gave me away. Tony looked at me and moved his aim from Richard to me. Tutored by a thousand Hollywood scripts, I raised mine and said, “gun.”
Tony smiled. I got angry and thrust my arm forward. Somehow the wrong finger touched the trigger in the right way. The gun fired. Tony yelled, dropped his gun and fell on top of Richard. There was a moment when I couldn’t tell who I had hit.
Tony stayed down clutching his thigh. Richard emerged, without hesitating, fired two bullets through Tony’s forehead. He turned to me with a savage look on his face. That’s when I first saw the huge gash on the right side of his head. His shoulder was covered in blood.
“Where di other?”
“He’s back near the plane on the street. I tied him up. He can’t hurt us. Please don’t kill him.”
“You tie ’im up?”
“Yeah. It was an accident.”
“Jus by accident, you tie up a mon?”
“Well, I hit him with a hammer first.”
“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. I tink you woulda do good inna dis bizness.”
I smiled and said, “I don’t think so. Where’s Henry?”
“Henry’s over dere. See if you can help him. I’ll be right back.”
Richard went around the car. I walked over to a pile of darkness that once was Henry. He was beyond help. He died holding a large black duffel bag, identical to the one that had been in my plane.
Two more shots rang out in the diminishing rain. Did Richard kill the other man or did the other man get loose and kill Richard? Or were they both dead?
A figure came out of the headlights. Not a figure really, just a shadow in the brightness surrounded by darkness. Was it Richard? I raised my pistol. The silhouette raised its hands. “Hey, Daniel, please don’t kill me. Me hurt enough already.” Then he laughed — in the middle of the macabre night, Richard laughed his jolly “no problem” laugh. And I laughed with him. Somehow I saw the humor in this major fuck-up of a drug deal. We were a bizarre and dark version of a Laurel and Hardy comedy.
Maybe, it was all a bad, practical joke. At any moment the three men will get up and join in the laughter. It wasn’t blood, I tried to reason, it was ketchup. Maybe it was all just a horrible, tasteless, practical joke.
Then I stopped laughing. The dead didn’t get up. The red stuff was blood, not ketchup.
Oh, my God, Richard had just killed a defenseless man. I felt sick.
“How’s Henry?” Richard asked.
“Henry’s dead.” I dropped the gun and sank to my knees. It was all coming back to me. In the space of about thirty minutes, I landed illegally on a residential street, beat a man into unconsciousness, shot a gun for the first time in my life, and witnessed three murders.
I threw up for the second time that night, and whatever was left in my stomach covered the gun and splattered my pants. What the fuck am I doing here? I want to go home!
Richard confirmed Henry’s condition. Then, he sat on the curb under the shelter of a wing and watched Henry’s unmoving body. I watched the rain dripping off Richard’s dreadlocks.
We moved to the nearby car. Carefully maneuvering around my airplane, Richard drove to the other end of our makeshift runway and the Ford Explorer. Most of my concentration was on my innards — I didn’t want to throw up in the car.
Richard put the car in park. “Dis is how it is. Dem two guys, dem was supposed to bring us di cocaine, and den we give dem da money. We do dis maybe once a month for di past few months. And every month dem two guys short us on di cocaine. And when I bring it back to me boss, ’im take it outta my share. So dis time, we change di money.”
“What do you mean, you changed the money?”
“You’ll see. You drive di other car back an’ I’ll show you.”
“Before you show me anything, before I help you, I need to know what you did to my family.”
“Daniel, like me tell you, you family safe. Henry, ’im take di pictures. I’ll show you.”
We drove back to the plane and parked the cars on the grass. Richard opened the SUV’s tailgate to create a temporary roof for the work we had to do. He sat in the back and pressed a Philadelphia Eagles t-shirt against his head to stem the flow. Then he lit a cigarette and gave me orders.
“We hav’ tree bag. One dat was inna you plane, one by Henry and one more inna di other car. Bring dem here. Also, bring me Henry’s phone an’ him wallet.”
Getting the things from Henry was difficult. His lifeless arms cradled the bag against his lifeless chest as if it were a living thing. When I lifted him up, he stared at me with accusing eyes.
The second bag, the one that Richard had in my plane, was on the ground not far from Henry.
I found the third bag in the back seat of the sedan. When I was done, three identical black duffle bags filled the back of the Ford Explorer. The rain storm had moved away leaving only an annoying drizzle.
“Okay Richard, tell me about my family.”
“It be real simple. Henry ’im drive ’im car to the Cape May Ferry inna di morning, and ’im wait by you house. Den ’im follow you wifey and take the pictures. Look inna ’im phone. 3698 ah di password.”
I opened the phone and looked at the saved pictures. The time stamps confirmed that they were taken in the early afternoon that day.
“How do I know you don’t have anyone else watching my family?
“Daniel, you nuh know. You must trust me.”
“So what’s in the bags?”
“Open di first bag and tell me what inna it.”
“It’s full of glassine envelopes. I assume it’s cocaine.”
“Dat’s right mon. Itta very good cocaine. Each packet ah one gram and it worth four hundred dollars on di street if we nuh cut it. We talk about all a dat later. Ah, three thousand of dem packets less a few I take and one I give to you. Open di next bag. Tell me what you see.”
“It’s the bag that you hid in my plane. It’s full of money.”
“Right again mon. It full ah hundred dollar bill. Every bundle have one hundred bills. Ah, one hundred and sixteen of dem bundles we have. T’was one hundred and twenty when we started but me an Henry, we tek four.”
I didn’t tell him that he was one short. The bag now had one hundred and fifteen bundles. I kept a straight face. Richard went on, “Now open di third one.”
“It’s the same. It’s filled with money.”
“Open ah bundle.”
I removed the rubber band and spread out the bills on the tailgate. The outside bills, the ones used as wrappers, displayed the now-familiar picture of Benjamin Franklin. But the remaining ninety-eight bills were ones.
“Holy shit, you were going to cheat on the payment. What do you call this?”
Richard smiled. “We call dis a Jamaican sandwich. We not cheatin’, we just ah get back what dem tek from us. Every ting was going good until di big guy dat you buss up, ’im open di bag with di money and look pon di bills. Den everything went to shit when Henry try shot ’im and miss. Dey shoot him and den beat me up. You save mi life.”
***
We were quiet for a while. Richard squirmed trying to find a comfortable position. Every time he moved, he groaned. Finally, he reached into the first bag and extracted one of the envelopes.
“Tek some ah dis.”
I didn’t argue. We both took a hit. It cleared my head, and my hands stopped shaking. It had the same effect on my companion. He stopped groaning, at least for a while, but his increased heart rate made his head wound bleed again. The t-shirt was soaked. I found a flannel jacket in the backseat of the other car and gave it to my companion to use as a compress.
“How badly are you hurt?” I asked.
Richard chuckled. “Mi hurt all over. Dat Tony guy kick me inna mi side. Tink me ribs is broken. Den him hit me on da head wid him gun.”
“You’ll need stitches.”
“Ya mon, maybe we can find a needle and thread inna you toolbox.”
I didn’t have a needle and thread. Even if it had, I wouldn’t know how to stitch a scalp. But I did have duct tape. The duct tape worked to bind Richard’s chest.
Richard closed all three bags, and I put them in the back of the plane. We lifted the bodies into the SUV with the help of a ramp I created using two boards from a half-finished house.
I drove the Explorer, trying not to think about my cargo. Richard drove the other car. Our little caravan of death left the development and headed west. The pavement ended after a few blocks, but we continued on a dirt road further and further into the pine-wood forest. Finally, the road ended at an informal trash dump.
I pointed my flashlight at the SUV’s back quarter panel. Richard aimed and fired three bullets near the gas cap. The third one hit its target releasing a thin stream of unleaded onto the road.
We made a fuse by soaking newspaper in the gas then lighting it with Richard’s Bic. I threw it into the puddle, and the gasoline ignited with a whoosh. We watched until the back left tire exploded then returned to the scene of the crimes.
It was after 3:00 am. The rain was a damp memory. Above us, the sky was mostly clear with silver clouds sailing past an almost full moon. I couldn’t help comparing the moon’s orderly, monthly orbit with my suddenly chaotic life. Why couldn’t my life be as well regulated? Yet I knew that, ultimately, I was the cause of the chaos.
In spite of the chaos, I never felt more alive. In many ways, I was very fortunate. My parents stayed together until they died. We always had enough money. Following a path set before me, I stumbled through college, graduate school, marriage, fatherhood and my first job. I did what was expected and got the expected results. Until that night, I never faced existential demands. That is the thrill of being a pilot. The only thing between life and death is luck and your innate skill.
“Richard, stay in the car and for God’s sake, keep that jacket pressed against your head.” He nodded and closed his eyes.
I turned the plane around and pulled it back to the very end of the road. The moonlight shining off the wet pavement made the street easy to see.
Getting Richard out of the car and into the plane was more difficult. I moved the car onto the grass and as close to right wing as I dared. “Richard, wake up. We have to go.”
It seemed that the drive to the garbage dump absorbed all of Richard’s strength. I half-carried him to the open door of the plane, but there was no way I could lift him into the seat. I placed his right arm on a grab bar and said, “Richard, for God’s sake, you need to pull.” From somewhere deep inside, he found the strength to get aboard.
I was ready to leave, but Richard stopped me. “Daniel, you need to burn da otta car mon.”
“Why?”
“Because, Daniel, me blood an you fingerprints be all over da car. Jus tak it dare an burn it.” He handed me one of the guns. “Tak dis. You know wat ta do.”
At first, I thought
about parking the car at the end of the street as a flaming marker. But that would destroy my night vision. So I burned the car onto the concrete pad that would someday be the floor of a two-car garage.
Back at the airplane, I pressed firmly on the brake pedals, lowered the flaps, set the propeller to maximum pitch, then started the engine and pushed the throttle all the way in. I watched the RPM gauge climb up to and just above the red line. Then I released the brakes.
We were rolling. I kept my eye on the right-hand curb, illuminated by the moon and my landing light. At the same time, I watched my airspeed. I needed at least sixty miles per hour for takeoff.
The airspeed needle was at fifty when a set of headlights appeared on the road to our left. My eyes swerved to the intruder but quickly returned to the pine trees at the end of the street.
“Someone’s coming!” Richard yelled and pulled out his gun. I ignored him, focusing on the airspeed indicator. I gripped the yoke with white knuckles and forced myself not to pull it up.
When the needle moved up to fifty-five, I said, “Fuck it,” and I pulled back on the yoke. We were airborne. But we were just airborne. I knew that if I pulled back too far and tried to climb over the trees, we would stall and drop like a stone. If I didn’t and kept the yoke steady, we would crash into the trees.
I opted for a compromise. I raised the flaps halfway, trading lift for airspeed, and turned slightly to the left, heading directly towards the perpendicular road and the on-coming car. We flew over it with about forty feet to spare. I used the clear space over the road to gain enough airspeed to bring the flaps all the way up and then gained more altitude.
We were on our way. But someone had seen us. Were they able to see the numbers on the side of my plane?
I turned off my landing light and stayed just above the treetops as I headed southwest.
There was no way I could get back to the Gaithersburg airport without getting clearance from air traffic control. I needed a plausible story.
My solution was the airport in Millsboro, New Jersey, just east of the Delaware River. If I could fly there undetected, I could contact ATC, pretend to be an early morning commuter, and get the necessary codes. It was a good plan, but one that would only succeed if no one witnessed our arrival at Millsboro.
Flying Blind Page 5