Michael Crichton - Dealing or The Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues

John said, “Murphy’ll take your six bricks, keep the girl, and figure out a way to bust you later on.”

“No way,” I said, and laughed. But John wasn’t laughing, and Herbie wasn’t laughing. And I began thinking about Murphy, and the interrogation room in San Francisco, and I began to think that maybe they were right on. Murphy was a pig—the pig.

I stood up. “All right,” I said. “The only way is to arrange a trade.”

John shook his head. “Who do you think you’re messing with, man?”

But by now I was thinking very fast, and seeing things clearly. Seeing how it could be done. I picked up the phone again.

“What’re you doing?” Herbie said.

I just dialed the number.

There is no building in Boston quite like South Station. It’ll be torn down soon for some new structure, but in the meantime, it is unique: giant, cavernous, dirty, and deserted. Especially at three o’clock in the morning. The faint smell of piss hung over everything—the dirty walls, the cracked wooden benches, the handful of sailors and derelicts who were sitting around.

I arrived by taxi and walked in the west entrance. It had once been pretty fashionable, with a broad metal overhead canopy leading through six swinging doors to the inside. Just back of the doors were rows of telephone booths. I paused at one to take down the number. Then I went back outside. There was a taxi rank lined up at the curb, the drivers sitting back in their cars, smoking cigarettes. I went to the first cab and said to the driver, “I want you to do me a favor.”

“Sure,” he said. “You and the President.”

I held out a ten-spot. He looked appeased. “What’s the story?”

“In half an hour,” I said, “a man will get into your taxi and say he is a police officer. Ask to see his identification. If he produces it, drive him to the Newton tolls. This should cover everything.” I wagged the ten dollar bill.

“That right?” the driver said.

“This is police business,” I said gravely.

“It don’t sound—”

“Okay,” I said, and started down the line toward the second taxi.

“Just a minute!”

I went back and looked at my driver. His name, I could read on the seat-plate identification card, was Joseph V. Murphy. Naturally.

“Just a minute,” he said. “The Newton tolls?”

“Yeah.”

“Fifteen bucks and I’ll take him. That covers my waiting time. I might get a customer, you know.”

I looked around the deserted station entrance. What the hell. “Okay,” I said. “Fifteen.” I gave him the money, and made a production out of writing down his name and license number. He watched me do it.

“What’s this all about?” he said.

“Undercover,” I said. “Narcotics division.” The cabby looked at me. Then he looked at the fifteen dollars. Then he nodded, and I went back inside.

The first part was completed. I re-checked the telephone number in the booth. I sat in the booth and looked out. From where I sat, I could see through to the street and to the warehouses beyond. There were dozens of windows, all dark, in the buildings across the street.

Perfect.

Whistling now, I went into the innards of the station. A train was pulling up on one of the far tracks; I heard the metallic screech of brakes and the hiss of steam. Otherwise, it was silent. A half-dozen sailors sat laughing drunkenly on one of the benches near the center of the room. I went over and sat down next to them, placing my nondescript suitcase (an old one of Sandra’s, wiped of prints) at my feet. The sailors ignored me. After a moment I leaned over toward the nearest one and said, “I got to take a leak. Watch my bag?”

“Yeah, sure,” the sailor said, and kept on talking with his friends. I wandered off.

Fifteen minutes to go. I kept glancing at my watch. I looked back at the sailors, wondering if they’d decide to take off with the bag or maybe open it. But they weren’t paying any attention. I went over to the train schedules, pretended to read them, and then wandered over to a far corner of the station, where there were more telephone booths. I sat down in one of them. I could barely see the booths near the entrance; they were perhaps a hundred yards away, and down a slight incline.

I waited.

I kept thinking of things that could go wrong. A million things could go wrong. For instance, he could flood the place with narcs—but that would mean he’d have to split the take, or else he’d have to play it straight. Too much bread in it for that to happen. Unless Murphy was going to be honest. A dreary thought.

I waited some more.

At three-thirty I looked over at the west entrance. Nobody there. Five more minutes passed, and still no one arrived. I was beginning to worry. And then I saw him come through the doors.

Sukie was with him. No cuffs. He’d done it—he’d gotten her off, charges dropped, and brought her to South Station for the exchange. Just as I’d told him.

For a moment, I felt exhilaration, and then caution. Murphy stood with Sukie in the center of the west entrance, waiting. He said something to her; she shook her head.

I put my dime into the receiver and dialed. Faintly, I could hear the phone ringing in the booth near where she was standing with Murphy. They ignored it for a moment. Then Murphy looked over at the pay phone. One pay phone in a row of twelve just doesn’t start ringing at three-thirty in the morning for no reason. He went over to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, lieutenant.”

I could see his body stiffen. He started looking around, back toward the inside of the station, and then outside.

“Forget that,” I said. “I’m where I can see you, and you can’t see me—unless you want to search a lot of buildings.” That one worked; he was looking out toward the warehouses.

“Is the girl free?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me talk to her a minute.”

“I want those—”

“Let me talk to her. I’m watching you.”

“You son of a—”

“You want to blow it, Murphy? And have to book her again? What would they think about that, down at the station?”

There was a long silence. Then he waved Sukie over. He remained sitting in the booth. He held his hand over the receiver, said something to her, and then gave her the phone.

“Hello?”

“Sukie,” I said, “don’t speak. Just listen. I want you to answer yes or no to my questions. Have you been released?”

“Yes.”

“Have charges been dropped?”

“Yes.”

“Is Murphy alone?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Give the phone back to him.”

She did. I watched Murphy take the receiver. “All right now you little—”

“First of all,” I said, “send the girl to stand by the information booth in the center of the station. Then go over to the sailors inside. You’ll see a black suitcase near one of them. The suitcase contains six bricks. Go check that.”

“What about the rest?”

“I’ll tell you about it.”

Murphy put down the receiver. He said something to Sukie, who walked away from him. Then he went over to the sailors and demanded the suitcase. They protested. He flashed his badge. They gave it to him. He walked back to the telephone, sat down, opened the suitcase and checked.

“The bricks there?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“All right. Here’s how you get the rest. Go out to the taxi rank and get into the first cab. Say you are a policeman and show identification. The driver will take you to where the rest of the bricks are—and they’ll be there, if nothing happens to the girl in the meantime. Understand?”

“Yeah.” Very low.

“Anything happens to the girl between now and then, and by the time you get to the drop-off, the stuff’ll be gone. Understand?”