Joe Gores - Interface

Docker waited inconspicuously between parked cars until the down-ramps disgorged a group of five servicemen, two of them in civvies. Docker didn’t really blend in with them because of the length of his hair, but he did get protective coloration from them.

At the far end of the moving sidewalk were escalator stairs up to the luggage and transportation level, then yet another escalator to the terminal main floor.

He seemed to be with a woman and a three-year-old baby getting off the escalator in the immense expanse of waiting area, by staying a tight three paces behind them as they angled over toward the newsstand in the center of the building.

Despite this a youth with a bad complexion, and the sort of scraggly beard so often worn to mask a receding chin, glanced up sharply from his comic book when Docker passed. The youth was sitting on one of the black Naugahyde chairs that flanked the escalator.

He sighed, folded his comic book, stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans as he stood up. By chance he wandered in the direction of the newsstand.

Beyond the newsstand, and enclosed on three sides by glass walls to discourage rip-offs, were several rows of paperback book shelves. Docker threaded his way through browsers and time-killers to the rear of the bookracks, where he stood with his back to the glass wall and scanned the crowds for a full two minutes.

Apparently he saw nothing to disturb him. He bought a candy bar, went down to the central cluster of departure gates munching it, then entered a small dark intimate bar under the huge departure board.

Here he found a table facing the door, ordered and sipped a tall pilsener glass of draft beer while agreeing with the comments of the short-skirted waitress about the freeway accident by South San Francisco which apparently had tied up all the south-bound lanes. He left too much silver on the table, lounged under the departure sign for two more minutes, then limped down the corridor to the nearest men’s room. Another three minutes there.

After all this, Docker went back through the main terminal and outside to the ARRIVALS curb, where he stood weighing up the various uniformed porters. He finally selected one, talked with him. A twenty-dollar bill changed hands.

Docker went back inside, this time to cross directly to American Airlines and queue up at the PURCHASE TICKETS HERE window. Waiting, he set the attaché case between his feet, toed it along ahead of him as the line inched forward.

Eventually the overweight blonde in stretch pants and mink coat stepped aside with her ticket. Docker returned the smile of the well-groomed, uniformed, utterly forgettable young man behind the chest-high counter, and accepted his offer of aid.

“I’d like,” he said precisely as he looked down to toe his attaché case forward again, “a ticket to — hey! ”

On the final word he turned quickly, stepping back so his heel came down firmly on the foot of the youth with the scraggly beard and comic book. Somehow the attaché case slid six feet across the floor in the process. Because Docker was whirling with such energy at the same time that the youth was anchored firmly in his path, his elbow struck the captive a numbing blow in the chest.

“ My attaché case! ” Docker was yelling and pointing. “ He tried to steal my attaché case! ”

The boy was staggering back, mouth open to yell protests. Docker stumbled as he did, apparently losing his balance because of his suddenly very noticeable bad leg. To save himself, he reached out to grab the youth’s jacket front with both hands.

Somehow, in passing, the hands clapped the boy smartly and simultaneously on each side of the head. Not hard enough to rupture the ear drums but hard enough to compress them sharply.

The boy did what any normal person would do in such a situation. He screamed.

His scream so disconcerted Docker that the big man lost his footing, sprawled full length on the floor. His outstretched hand closed firmly around the handle of the attaché case. People were exclaiming, jostling. Uniformed security guards were converging.

“All right, what happened—”

“What’s going...”

Docker, struggling to rise, had a grip on the boy’s belt. The boy was still yelling. Docker was shouting about his attaché case. The guard trying to help him up was pointing out that the attaché case was in Docker’s other hand. The other guard had hold of the boy by this time.

“That kid tried to grab my case,” Docker finally got out.

“I didn’t!” The boy had stopped yelling, was rubbing his ears. “I was just standin’ there...”

“... knocked me down, ask these people...”

“... pushed that man, I saw...”

“... bad leg...”

“ Quiet! ” roared one guard. He got a semblance of it. “Now, who saw what happened? Really saw, not just heard the commotion?”

A bland-faced black porter pushed forward through the crowd.

“I saw it, officer.” He spoke almost apologetically. “It’s like the gen’man says. He was in line, went to move his case with his foot, an’ this here kid’s hand was jes’ pullin’ it away. He try to grab it, the kid shove ’im...”

The guard turned to the hippie youth firmly in the grasp of the other guard. The boy’s mouth was still spilling protests and his eyes had become almost frantic with the realization of what was happening.

“That’s it, son,” said the guard.

“He hired that porter...”

“Oh, Christ!” said the guard in a disgusted voice.

Docker, meanwhile, had been tapping his watch, shaking his head, backing away. He said, “I’m going to miss my plane if I remain here any longer.”

The guard seemed to not realize he had bought no ticket. “Hey, but wait a minnit, mister. You—”

“I’m sure this gentleman can furnish the full particulars.”

“Mos’ surely can,” supplied the porter.

“But...”

“I’ll be back from Los Angeles tomorrow, officer, then I will be fully prepared to prefer charges against this young beast.”

“Well, but...”

“Officer, my plane...”

The hippie youth’s eyes were murderous, but there was no way he could follow. Docker, still casting worried looks at his watch, had pulled an empty plane ticket folder from an inner pocket and was consulting it assiduously as he moved off. His gestures and movements were precisely gauged to mime harassed worry without tipping over into parody.

At the far end of the terminal from American Airlines was a long ramp which slanted down one floor to the baggage area. It was directly beside one of the corridors to the waiting planes, so Docker, now well out of sight of guards, hippie and porter, skipped down the ramp.

The only person who reacted in any way was a short, worried, pudgy man in an almost electric green suit. He chanced to unglue himself from the wall as Docker passed, entered the phone booth he had been standing beside, dropped his dime and began dialling.

Docker went through the gate and past the revolving baggage carousels, past the deplaned passengers clucking over their luggage like hens around scattered feed, and down the escalator to the moving sidewalk. Two minutes later he was back on the ground floor of the parking garage.

He did not head off toward the yellow Montego directly, however. Instead, he went around to the far side of the huge concrete shaft housing the escalators, stairway, and slow groaning elevator to the upper floors. He punched the elevator button.

As he did, the short, out-of-breath man in the electric green suit came pounding around the corner of the housing, saw him, and pulled up short.

“Ah... going up?” he asked Docker with a lame bright smile.