John Grisham - The Racketeer

“Here’s the latest, Nathan,” I begin. “The crooks are demanding $1 million from the jet’s owner, and he’s agreed to pay it, so these scumbags will get their money. They’re not going to charge me with anything, as of this morning. For you, they want a half a million bucks. I’ve explained, through Rashford, that neither of us has that kind of money. I’ve explained that we were just passengers on someone’s jet, that we’re not rich, and so on. The Jamaicans don’t believe this. Anyway, that’s where we are as of right now.”

Nathan grimaces, as if it hurts to breathe. As bad as his face looks, I’d hate to see the rest of his body. I’m imagining the worst, so I don’t ask what happened.

He grunts and says, “Can you get back to the U.S., Reed?” His voice is weak and scratchy; even it is wounded.

“I think so. Rashford thinks so. But I don’t have a lot of cash, Nathan.”

He frowns and grunts again and looks as though he may either faint or cry. “Reed, listen to me. I have some money, a lot of it.”

I’m staring him straight in the eyes, or at least his right one because his left one is closed. This is the fateful moment upon which everything else has been created. Without this, the entire project would be a gargantuan disaster, one horrific and lousy gamble.

“How much?” I ask as he pauses. He does not want to go on, but he has no choice.

“Enough to get me out.”

“A half a million dollars, Nathan?”

“That, and more. We need to be partners, Reed. Just me and you. I’ll tell you where the money is, you go get it, you get me out of here, and we’ll be partners. But you gotta give me your word, Reed. I have to trust you, okay?”

“Hang on, Nathan,” I say, pulling back and throwing up both palms. “You expect me to leave here, go home, then come back with a sackful of money and bribe the Jamaican police? Are you serious?”

“Please, Reed. There’s no one else. I can’t call anyone at home. No one there understands what’s happening here, only you. You gotta do it, Reed. Please. My life depends on it. I can’t survive here. Look at me. Please, Reed. You do what I ask, get me out, and you’ll be a rich man.”

I back away some more as if he’s contagious.

He’s begging: “Come on, Reed, you got me into this mess, now get me out.”

“It might be helpful if you explain how you made so much money.”

“I didn’t make it. I stole it.”

No surprise there. “Drug money?” I ask, but I know the answer.

“No, no, no. Are we partners, Reed?”

“I don’t know, Nathan. I’m not so sure I want to start bribing Jamaican police. What if I get busted? I could end up just like you.”

“Then don’t come back. Send the money to Rashford, get him to make the delivery. You can figure it out, Reed, hell you’re a smart man.”

I nod as if I like the way he’s thinking. “Where’s the money, Nathan?”

“Are we partners, Reed? Fifty-fifty, just me and you, man?”

“Okay, okay, but I’m not risking jail over this, you understand?”

“I got it.”

There’s a pause as we study each other. His breathing is labored and every word is painful. Slowly, he extends his right hand; it’s puffy and scratched. “Partners, Reed?” he asks, pleading. Slowly, I shake his hand and he grimaces. It’s probably broken.

“Where’s the money?” I ask.

“It’s at my house,” he says slowly, reluctantly, as he gives away the most precious secret of his life. “You’ve been there. There’s a storage shed in the backyard, full of junk. It has a wooden floor, and to the right, under an old Sears push mower that doesn’t work, is a trapdoor. You can’t see it until you move the mower and some of the junk around it. Watch out for snakes-there are a couple of king snakes that live there. Open the trapdoor, and you’ll see a bronze casket.” His breathing is labored and he is sweating profusely. The physical pain is obvious, but he’s also tormented by the pain of such a momentous revelation.

“A casket?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yes, a child’s casket. Closed and sealed, waterproof and airtight. There’s a hidden latch at the narrow end, where the feet would go. When you lift it, the seals release and you can open the casket.”

“What’s inside?”

“A bunch of cigar boxes wrapped in duct tape. I think there are eighteen of them.”

“You hid cash in cigar boxes?”

“It’s not cash, Reed,” he says as he leans closer. “It’s gold.”

I appear too dumbfounded to speak, so he continues, almost in a whisper. “Mini-bars, each weighing ten ounces, as pure as anything being mined in the world. They’re about the size of a large domino. They’re beautiful, Reed, just beautiful.”

I stare at him for a long time in disbelief, then say, “Okay, as hard as it is, I’ll resist asking a lot of obvious questions. I’m supposed to hustle home, go fetch the gold from a casket, fight off some snakes, somehow find a dealer who’ll swap me gold for cash, and then figure out a way to smuggle a half a million bucks back here into Jamaica where I’ll fork it over to some crooked Customs agents and police who’ll then set you free. That pretty well sum it up, Nathan?”

“It does. And hurry, okay?”

“I think you’re crazy.”

“We shook hands. We’re partners, Reed. You figure out a way to do it, and you’ll be a rich man.”

“How many dominoes are we talking about?”

“Between five and six hundred.”

“What’s gold worth these days?”

“Two days ago it was trading for fifteen hundred bucks an ounce.”

I do the math and say, “That’s between seven and a half and eight million bucks.”

Nathan is nodding. He does the math every day of his life as he watches the price fluctuate.

There is a loud knock on the door behind me, and one of the jailers appears. “Time’s up, mon,” he says, then disappears.

“This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ll ever do in my life,” I say.

“Or maybe one of the smartest,” Nathan replies. “But please hurry, Reed. I can’t survive long.”

We shake hands and say good-bye. My last visual of Nathan is a battered little man trying to stand, in pain. Rashford and I leave in a hurry. He drops me off at my hotel, where I run to my room and call Vanessa.

She’s in the attic, where it’s 120 degrees, picking through old cardboard boxes and broken furniture. “It’s not there,” I announce. “It’s outside, in the storage shed.”

“Hang on,” she says as she climbs down the retractable ladder. “Has he told you?” she asks between breaths.

“Yes.”

“Someone’s here,” she says, and through the phone I hear a loud doorbell chime. Vanessa ducks low in the hallway and reaches for the Glock. “I’ll call you right back,” she whispers into the phone and turns it off.

It’s late Sunday morning. Nathan’s truck is in his driveway. Assuming his friends would know he was away for the weekend, the presence of his truck would raise questions. The doorbell chimes again, and someone starts pounding on the front door. Then he yells, “Nathan, you in there? Open up.”

Vanessa crouches but doesn’t move. The banging continues, then someone else is knocking on the back door and yelling for Nathan. There are at least two of them, with voices of young men, no doubt friends of Nathan’s who stopped by for some reason. They show no signs of leaving. One of them taps on his bedroom window, but he cannot see inside. Vanessa eases into the bathroom and wipes her face. Her breathing is heavy and she’s shaking with fear.

They’re pounding and yelling and will soon come to the conclusion that something is wrong with Nathan. They’ll kick in a door. Instinctively, Vanessa strips down to her bikini panties, dries the sweat off her body, leaves the Glock near the bathroom sink, and steps to the front door. She opens it widely and the young man gets a most unexpected treat. Her brown breasts are large and firm; her body athletic and toned. His eyes drop from her chest to the panties, pinched together to reveal as much flesh as possible, then he catches himself. She’s smiling and saying, “Maybe Nathan is busy right now.”