Уолтер Мосли - Down the River unto the Sea

I had a bolt cutter and so used it on the restraint that chained Man to the bed frame. In the meanwhile Mel was fashioning a shoulder harness from thick rope that he intended to use to lower the unconscious Mr. Man from one building to the next.

I hefted the tangle-headed Man up into a seated position, and Mel began to loop the jury-rigged harness around the left shoulder.

That was when the door burst open and the light came on.

Time froze for a moment there. Officer Arkady had taken on too much what with opening the door and turning on the light. He probably heard something and thought it was Man trying to get out of his cuffs and so had not drawn his weapon. He did, however, reach for his piece when he saw us.

Mel was faster. The habitual offender swiveled to the right and fired five shots, which sounded like no more than pops. Arkady was hit in both legs and both arms. Then Mel rushed the faltering cop and hit him in the center of his forehead with the barrel of the gun.

The cop, who was portly of build, hit the floor like a dead bull and Mel was quick to use the man’s own handcuffs to restrain him. I thought that this was going a little overboard when I noticed there was no blood coming from Arkady’s extremities.

Mel noticed me looking and said, “Rubber bullets.”

Then he took a metal hypodermic from a pouch at his side and administered what I figured was some kind of knockout concoction.

While this was going on I ran out into the hall and located a wheelchair.

When I came back in my cohort asked, “What you plan to do with that?”

“No sentry. We could take the elevator.”

“What if they got cameras?”

“This place is for VIP clients. They don’t want electric eyes following them.”

Mel’s grin actually filled me with pride.

“I’ll go back down to Kershaw and take our stuff out of there,” he said. “You got those whiskers on so don’t have to wear no mask. Once you get out head west toward Broadway. I’ll grab the van and snag you on the way.”

It was the right plan, but I felt like a rat in a trap waiting for that elevator and then taking it down. Even when I made it to the delivery exit on the bottom floor, my heart was going at a triple rate. Mel had handed me his pistol, but that didn’t give me any solace. I’d spend the rest of my life in prison if I was captured. All of that said, there was a feeling of elation in my fast heart that I never had before... or since.

On the sidestreet sidewalk I began pushing the wheelchair. All of the clinic’s security was aimed at keeping unwanteds out. No one was expected to try to escape.

Even though Man was sedated when we found him, Melquarth had given him a shot of his tranquilizer.

“You had two hypodermics?” I asked.

“I got a gun with real bullets too. Same reason you brought along those crowbars, to get the job done.”

We had strapped the thin, long-haired Man with restraints that the chair provided. I looked down through his dreadlocks. His dark brown skin could have been mine. The handsome slant of his face might have belonged to a radical historian college professor.

It was cold outside; I could see that in the mist from my breath. But I didn’t feel it. Up ahead I saw the red and blue flashes of a police car. These passed by the intersection of Broadway and Maiden Lane.

“Hey!” Mel called.

He’d pulled to the curb just behind me. His van was middle green and there was a sign on the side that read HOBART AND SONS CONSTRUCTION.

We left the wheelchair at the curb and lay Man’s inert form on a mattress on the floor.

I sat back there with him while Mel drove.

We made it through the Holland Tunnel to Jersey City and then took 95 to 78 past Newark International and on, twenty miles or so past Elizabeth, arriving at a private airport. I spent most of that time making sure Man didn’t bounce around too much.

The elation was flaring inside me. I had done something, something real. This meant more to me than anything other than the birth of my daughter.

We were allowed in by a security guard at the gate to the airfield. He was a short white guy with a huge face.

“Who are you?” he asked Mel, the driver.

“Lansman,” my friend said. It was the code name I gave to my grandmother’s billionaire boyfriend.

“Your pilot is already here.”

The pilot was a tall, very handsome Hispanic man who told us to call him Jack. The three of us carried Man into the small jet and strapped him into yet another chair.

My only interaction with A Free Man was with his unconscious body. It was as if, I suppose, I was his dream. An apparition that he’d never remember but that changed his life.

“I know Jack here,” Mel said to me while the pilot made ready at the controls. “I’ll go down with him to Panama City and make sure your boy’s settled in.”

“I should go with you.”

“You been talking to people about this guy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That means you should be living your normal everyday life in case anybody wants to look at you. Also we need to get this van away from where your friend’s airplane is to keep you out of that. I mean, we don’t know if maybe somebody saw us drive away. Don’t worry, Joe. I didn’t go through all this to trick you now.”

He was right. And I really didn’t want to go away just then.

“You brought my duffel bag down from that office?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He rummaged around the back and gave it to me.

I pulled out the leather satchel that Teegs had given me.

“There’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in here. Twenty-five is to cover your costs. After you pay the pilot the rest is for Man.”

Mel took the satchel and smiled.

“You see that, Joe? A man like Mr. Man here is one’a my people. And there you are on the other side of the wall doing what’s right.”

“You better get outta here before we start kissin’ or somethin’.”

I parked the van in the long-term section of an automated underground parking lot. I had a hat and my whiskers and hope in my heart that there was no camera to see my disguise. Then I took the train from Newark back to Manhattan and the A train, which ran local after 10:00 p.m., to High Street in Brooklyn.

I got to bed by noon and slept for nineteen hours without even getting up to urinate.

In the early morning I read all about the daring prison escape. Stuart Braun had set up seven visitors for his client. The man’s wife, three doctors, Willa Portman of course, Stuart himself, and a Catholic priest for prayer. All were questioned. None were held. The investigation would go on for decades, if I was lucky. Even if Willa told about the package we gave her she had no proof of what was in it. Our note told Man to destroy and discard the note and packaging after taking his powder.

I should have been afraid, but there was nothing but joy for me that morning.

In the following days Aja came back to work. The only thing she said was that she knew what happened and we never had to talk about it.

On Friday Mel dropped by and gave me a small memory chip.

“I gave him what money there was,” Mel said. “He recorded a message for his wife. I watched it and heard what he had to say. He didn’t mention a thing that would get him or us in trouble.” He took a slip of paper from a pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s his mother-in-law’s address. Print out a note that says ‘For Honey Mama and Lil Sugar,’ and she will make sure it gets there.”

Later that day the buzzer to my apartment sounded.

“Yeah?” I said into the intercom.

“It’s Gladstone.”

I hesitated but then decided that whatever my ex-friend had to say I should hear him out.