Flying Blind

by Howard Hammerman

  “What about the money? If there were drugs, there had to be money.”

  “Richard gave me ten thousand dollars. He kept the rest.” I turned my head away, hoping she wouldn’t detect the lie.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “The money God damn it!”

  “In my computer case.”

  She left the room and returned with my computer case. She took out the money and stacked the bills on the desk. “There’s only ten thousand here. Where’s the rest?”

  Naked and tied up, I still couldn’t tell her the truth. “Richard kept it. I guess he had it in his car when he died.”

  She spat in my face, walked away, then returned with one of the cocaine packets. “Do you know what this is worth?”

  I had an idea but said “No.”

  “Over ten thousand on the street, half of that wholesale. How much do you think your bag weighs?”

  “About 30 pounds.”

  “That’s over six million dollars. You want me to believe that you risked your worthless life for only ten thousand dollars?”

  “I didn’t know I was getting into a drug deal,” I whined. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have done it.” I didn’t dare tell her that I flew Richard in exchange for a hit of cocaine and one-twentieth that amount.

  Her mood softened. “What were you going to do with the drugs? Were you going to sell them?” She laughed at the prospect. She sat on the bed. “Dan, listen to me very carefully. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer, or if I think you’re lying, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap. It’ll hurt like hell. You’ll never walk normally again. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes, two dark marbles, penetrated my soul. My entire body quivered with fright. “Yes.”

  “Now answer my questions truthfully. Do you work for the Cartel?

  “No.”

  “Do you work for the DEA, the FBI, or any other government agency?”

  “No!”

  “Do you work for a police department?”

  “Do I look like I’m a policeman?”

  “Answer the question!” She slapped me again.

  “No!”

  “Did you kill Richard?”

  “No!”

  “Did you, or your people you work with, kill Don Ricardo and Marco?”

  “No! And I don’t have people!”

  “Did you bring me to this shit-ass motel to kill me?”

  “No. You came running to me, remember? I don’t work for the Cartel. I don’t work for the DEA or the police. Until last Tuesday, I never saw cocaine in my life. I got caught up in this mess because of Richard!”

  She pressed the gun barrel into the soft part of my knee until it hurt. “The drugs were in your airplane. Where were you taking the drugs?”

  “I was going to dump the bag in the Chesapeake Bay on my way home. I wanted no part of the filthy things.”

  “Stay there! Shut up! I need to think.” She turned away and paced the room. Thankfully, she put the gun on the desk.

  “Untie me,” I pleaded.

  She resumed her seat on the bed. “Let me get this straight. You, Richard and the other asshole decide to take down a Cartel drug delivery. In the process, you killed two of their men. Did you think you would get away with it? How long did it take the two of you to come up with this half-assed plan?”

  “It was Richard’s plan. I was just supposed to fly him to an airport so he could have his meeting then fly him back. He lied to me, changed airports twice. It rained. I hit one man in the head with my hammer. I shot a gun for the first time in my life. Richard killed both men. We burned their bodies. Please untie me.”

  “Fuck you, Dan. My friends are dead because of you.”

  “Fuck you too. You worked for drug dealers.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  I kept quiet. My inquisitor paced back and forth.

  “The Cartel is looking for us,” she said more to herself, than, to me. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

  “Just what I told you.”

  “And the rest of the money?”

  “Richard kept it.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Yes.” Humility seemed to be the better part of valor.

  She sighed and cut my ropes using a knife with a slim blade. I noticed that it was the twin of the one Richard used to arrange his cocaine.

  “Relax. I’m not going to kill you. Not today. Get dressed. We really need to talk.” She tossed me the towel signaling the end of my inquisition.

  I tried to get up, but my knees wouldn’t cooperate. “Let me help you,” she said, transforming from inquisitor to girlfriend.

  We stumbled into the bathroom where I sat on the toilet while she tended to my head wound. Every time she touched me I could feel lust replacing anger, pain, and humiliation.

  She noticed the growing bulge under the towel and smirked. “Not now, Chico, I’m not in the mood. Get dressed, I’m hungry. We need cigarettes, beer, rum, and food.” I almost said “we” don’t need cigarettes, but had the presence of mind to keep quiet.

  Once dressed, I walked into the other room. Maria sat at the desk writing on a legal pad she liberated from my computer case. “If the Cartel finds us, we’re dead,” She said as she handed me the car keys and my wallet. “If we don’t either eliminate them or get them off our trail, your family will die.”

  A cold chill ran down my back. “Look, why don’t we go to the police? They’ll protect us. We’ll give them the drugs and tell them what we know. I’ll split the ten thousand with you.”

  “And then what? Do you really think the police will protect you? Do you think they’ll believe your unbelievable story? You were a witness to two murders. Why didn’t you go to the police then?”

  I had no answer.

  “I can’t talk to the police,” she continued. “Are you that dumb? How do you think I’ve made my living during these past five years?” She opened the last can of beer and drank. “Get out of here, buy the stuff, come right back.”

  “Maria, I’m sorry about your friends.”

  In a calm, sorrowful tone she replied, “Yeah, me too. I need to think about this and what we need to do next. One thing’s for certain — you’re not dumping the cocaine in the ocean. It’s the only thing that’ll keep us alive. If we can get to New York, we can sell it wholesale. I have contacts.” She took a breath. “With six million dollars, we might get lucky.”

  She looked at me and said nothing for a few seconds. “Do you know what cojones means?”

  “Balls?”

  “Yes, balls. But it also means courage. Do you have the cojones to fly me to New York and help me sell these drugs?”

  “Yes, I do.” At last a plan! I could feel a whole new life opening up for me. We could sell the drugs, and I’ll find a way to get back to Beth and my daughters.

  “I need to think. Go buy the stuff. Don’t forget the cigarettes. Get a carton.” She paused, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks for the apology.”

  ***

  On my way into town, I realized that I left Maria with ten thousand in cash, a gun, and thirty pounds of cocaine. Would she still be there when I returned?

  As luck would have it, the liquor store was next to a sub shop. I placed my food order and went next door for the other items.

  An older black man and I were the only customers. I brought a fifth of rum and a six-pack of Corona to the counter where I asked for a carton of Camels to complete the purchase. On a whim, I added ten two-dollar “instant” scratch-off lottery tickets. I turned to leave when the other customer advised, “Ain’t you gonna check your tickets?”

  It was a good idea. If I win, God’s telling me that I’m doing the right thing.

  Three tickets had matching numbers. I handed the winners to the clerk. He ran it through the computer, and said, “You’re a winner!” and handed me a hundred-dollar bill. I smiled, looked at the ce
iling and whispered “Thanks.” No one noticed.

  Smiling from ear to ear, I drove back towards the motel with my purchases. Surely it was a sign, but I couldn’t discern for what. Despite what I said to Maria, part of me longed for my old life. Her New York drug dealing plan scared me to death.

  Part of me wanted Beth. Not the angry, sarcastic woman she had become but the way she was during our honeymoon — a woman who would smoke dope and fuck until she could fuck no more. But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

  Did I want Maria? The woman, who hit me on the head, tied me up and held me at gunpoint? The woman who rolled in the trash with me, who broke all the rules, who wanted me in the most elemental way? Could we be partners?

  I stopped at a red light on the way back to the motel. The road to the right would take me to the airport and my plane. If I took off right away, I could be home before dawn. There would be a lot of explaining, both to the authorities and to my wife, but if I left right away, I could probably save my marriage.

  If I turned left, I would return to the motel and Maria. Maybe, the test wasn’t from God but from Maria. Maybe, she wanted me to fly home. She’d be rid of me and be able to keep the drugs and money for herself.

  Or, maybe she did trust me. I would return, we would talk and eat and drink and fuck. She would wrap her legs around me, call me filthy names in Spanish and scratch my back while she screamed.

  Or maybe she didn’t want me anymore. I would return and find Maria, the drugs, and my money all gone.

  My left hand held the turn signal lever. If I pressed down, I would turn left to Maria. If I pushed it up, I would turn right to the airport and Beth.

  I looked for a sign. God tell me what to do! The light turned green. I stayed motionless. Up or down — Beth or Maria. Down or up — Maria or Beth. The light turned red. I had another ninety seconds to make a decision.

  I felt the stubs from the winning lottery tickets in my shirt pocket. If God wanted me to go back to my wife, would He let me win a hundred bucks? Was that a sign?

  A pickup truck stopped behind me. The light turned green, I didn’t move. The driver honked a short, polite honk urging me to make a decision. Turn left or turn right, Maria or Beth. The driver honked again. This time, longer and more urgently. He had places to go, things to do. Maybe he had a woman waiting for him? Didn’t the driver know I had to make a monumental decision? Was the pickup truck behind me the sign?

  Maybe it was the smell of the subs that tipped the balance. Maybe it was a third honk from the vehicle behind me. Maybe God pressed down on my hand.

  I turned left and drove the quarter mile back to the motel.

  Chapter 16

  Te Amo Tambien

  I didn’t know what I would find when I got back to the motel.

  Maybe she sent me on the shopping trip just so she could leave — taking the drugs and money with her. Maybe she’ll be waiting for me, soft, naked, lying on the bed.

  I had to tell her what I’d just went through at the stoplight.

  Of course, she was angry. Her friends were murdered, she was pursued. No, she’ll be there. We’ll talk, eat the food, kiss, drink, make love again. This time she’ll be gentle.

  I found her at the desk, still writing on a legal pad. All business, she glanced at me as if I was the delivery boy. “Light me a cigarette.”

  “Light it yourself. When are you going to quit smoking? It’ll kill you.”

  She laughed. “I should live so long. I’ll quit when I’m good and ready.”

  I handed her the carton of cancer sticks and a book of matches. “Would you like to eat here or in the other room?”

  “We’ll eat here. Hand me the booze?”

  “What are you working on?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how we’ll sell this blow.”

  She had redecorated the room. The cocaine packets now occupied the top of the bureau — twenty neat rows of addiction stacked six high and three deep.

  “Where’s the cash?” I asked, trying to hide my rising anger.

  “I took half. The other half’s back in your briefcase.” It was as if I asked where I left my bedroom slippers. The cash, like the legal pad and 30 pounds of narcotics, had become community property. I was $5,000 poorer thanks to my aerial hitchhiker.

  She opened the rum and took a swig directly from the bottle. “This is shit. Couldn’t you get anything better?” She sneered, “And why did you get Camels? You know I like Lucky Strike.”

  “I thought you — ”

  “Forget about it. See if you can do something about the temperature. It’s hot as hell in here.” She lit up and headed to the bathroom. The door stayed open. A moment later, I heard the unmistakable sound of urine meeting water. Did she leave the door open on purpose? Was it a sign of our intimacy? Or did she care so little about me that it made no difference?

  The window air conditioner in Maria’s room was turned up high, but only hot air came out. Frozen. I turned it off. The unit in my room wouldn’t even turn on. Its power cord ended in three bare wires.

  Maria re-entered the room, zipping her fly. “Drink,” she said. “You need to drink, even if the stuff you bought is shit.”

  “No way. We’re flying tomorrow. I can’t do anything about the heat. Both air conditioners are on the blink.”

  I needed to share my feelings. I didn’t want to talk about alcohol or cooling equipment. I needed to let her know my thoughts at the intersection. Should she know that I was there because of a lottery ticket? But the time wasn’t right.

  “Drink, we have a long night ahead of us.”

  “I don’t really like rum.”

  “I don’t really like getting shot at. I don’t really like spending the night in a fleabag motel in West Nowheresville. We’re here. We’re in a world of shit.” She filled two plastic cups to the brim, grabbed one, tossed her head back and swallowed. I took a sip and put the cup back down on the coffee table.

  “This rum really is shit,” she said.

  “You said that already. I’m tired of your bitching. I’m tired of being ordered around.” I grabbed a sandwich and headed for the other room.

  “Come Chico. Lo siento. I’m sorry. Sit on the bed. Drink, you’ll get used to it. I’ll eat with you.”

  We sat and ate and drank. She was right. The rum tasted better after the third or fourth sip. She refilled her glass twice.

  She finished half her sub then said, “I’m hot,” and pulled off her t-shirt. She took another swig of rum directly from the bottle while trying to chew her food. Some of the liquid ran down her neck and into the cavity between her breasts. Her bra acted as a miniature dam, creating a tiny alcoholic lake.

  “Whoops! Estoy poco borracha. I’m a little drunk. Come, Chico, take a drink.” She added an extra ounce directly from the bottle to make the effort worthwhile and shook her chest back and forth. Unable to resist, I buried my face between her breasts and slurped a wild combination of booze and sweat. I started to unfasten the button securing her jeans, but she pushed me away with a giggle. “Not now, Chico, we need to talk.”

  I found a towel and wiped my face. “Okay, let’s talk.” I handed her the towel. She wiped her chest.

  “So tell me, Chico. What were your plans today?”

  “I was going to fly home to my family and throw these filthy drugs into the bay. I want no part of them.

  “And the money?”

  I shrugged. “My daughter needs new braces. We have credit card bills to pay.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then nada, nothing. We, you and I, our relationship was over. I was going to live my life, teach my classes. My younger daughter broke her arm this week. My older daughter wants a cell phone. My lawn needs mowing.”

  She nodded her head like a prosecuting attorney leading a witness into a confession. “So you were going to go home and mow your lawn and forget about me and the drugs that you stole from the Cartel?”

  “I didn’t steal — ”

>   “Oh, right. You and your friend Richard just found the drugs and the money. Do you really think the Cartel cares about that detail?” Maria finished her shot and poured another. Great, I thought, I’m in an isolated hotel room with a woman guzzling rum. I didn’t see the gun but suspected she hid it within easy reach.

  She put her glass down and leaned over to me. Holding both my hands, she stared intently into my eyes. “Do you really think the people you stole from will forget about their drugs and their money? Now that they know you and I are together, they will use your family to get to you, they will use you to get to me. Whether you like it or not, you, me, your family, we’re all in this together.” She paused, sipped more rum.

  “They would go after my family?”

  “Por supuesto! Of course! It will take them some days to figure out the connection and your address, but it will happen. Can you imagine what the Cartel goons would do to your daughters?”

  “Oh, my God — ”

  “You sent them away, right?”

  “I told my wife to go to my father-in-law’s.”

  “Good.”

  We were silent for a few minutes. We saw a flash of lightning and heard thunder. The rainstorm was on its way.

  “I didn’t steal the drugs. We only took them and the money after two assholes tried to kill us!”

  She laughed, and a mouthful of rum sprayed across the bedcovers.

  Even as I said the words, I realized it was a ridiculous argument. I imagined coming before Pablo Escobar in a jungle courtroom trying to explain the distinction between stealing drugs and appropriating them after a fight. Your honor, my co-defendant and I are innocent. We didn’t mean to steal the drugs. I shuddered to think how the jury would react.

  Back from the jungle, I said, “Can’t we just return the drugs to the Cartel?”

  “Dan,” she said carefully pronouncing each syllable, “You really are an idiot.” She pointed to the cocaine. “Do you think this is like a library book that you can return and pay a fine?”

  If I were back in Escobar’s courtroom, I would stand and object. “Your honor, the prosecution is using an unfair metaphor.” I couldn’t resist the weight of her logic and fell silent.