James Siegel - Detour

Ha, ha.

Paul wondered if Jews other than Miles found that particularly funny.

“I don’t suppose you have the kind of money to make it up to them?” Miles finally said. He was looking down at his hands where his fingernails were still black, even after the shower.

“Two million ?” Paul said. It might just as well have been two billion.

“Okay.” Miles shrugged. “Just asking.”

Paul had come to a decision of sorts. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was clearly the only one. It didn’t matter that he’d smuggled drugs into the country. Not anymore. The drugs were gone, the cupboard bare. His family was hanging by a string.

“I’m going to the authorities,” he said.

“The authorities ?” Miles repeated, as if it were a strange and foreign concept. “Okay. Which authorities are we talking about?”

“The police, the government, whoever has a chance of doing anything. The State Department, the Colombians. Every authority there is—all of them. I’m going to tell them everything—throw myself on the mercy of the court. Isn’t that the expression?”

“The mercy of the court? Oh yeah, that’s an expression. Absolutely. That’s pretty much all it is. I don’t think mercy is allowed through the metal detectors. You might want to reconsider.”

“ Reconsider? What do you suggest I do? Tell Pablo I lost two million dollars’ worth of drugs, but if he doesn’t mind, I’d like my wife and daughter back anyway? I’ve got to do something. It’s the only thing left.”

“Maybe not,” Miles said.

“What are you talking about?”

Miles stood up, stared at the four walls, began pacing back and forth behind his desk, slowly, bit by bit, seeming to regain that can-do aura right before Paul’s grateful eyes, until he stopped, looked up, and snapped his fingers.

“Plan B,” Miles said.

TWENTY-SEVEN

His name was Moshe Skolnick.

He was a Russian businessman, Miles said.

What kind of business? Paul asked.

“I have no idea,” Miles answered. “But he’s awfully good at it.”

Whatever the nature of his business, Moshe did a lot of it with Colombians. “He’s got contacts there,” Miles said. “He flies to Bogotá at least three times a year.”

Plan B, going to Moshe, was preferable to Plan C, going to the authorities, Miles said, because Paul needed someone who knew the right people. Or, more accurately, the wrong people.

“Someone who’s got credibility with both sides.”

Paul had agreed to give it one more shot. If Paul was fueled by sheer unadulterated panic, Miles seemed fueled by sheer stubbornness, as if giving up would be a personal affront. Once upon a time Miles had promised them a baby and he’d only half delivered. He seemed determined to finish the job.

They were driving to Little Odessa.

“How do you know him?” Paul asked.

“That’s the thing about being in my line of work. You meet all sorts of people you wouldn’t ordinarily meet.”

“He was a client?”

“More like a client of a client.”

“Not a friend?”

“You don’t really want him as a friend. You don’t want him as your enemy either. He owes me a favor.”

First Miles dropped Paul off at his apartment.

He needed his own clothes; Miles’ pants felt like they were cutting off his circulation. He needed his own surroundings and his own life. Lying low didn’t much matter anymore. He and Miles had decided that if he ran into his friends John or Lisa, he’d blame Joanna’s absence on a visa screwup, something Paul had come back to work out from this end. With any luck he’d avoid seeing them.

He took the stairs to lessen the odds. He made it to his apartment without running into anyone he knew.

When he shut his door, very gently because he didn’t want John or Lisa to hear, he saw a crib sitting in his living room. It had pink wooden slats and frilly bedding decorated with teddy bears. An oversize red bow was stapled to it, looking like an enormous hothouse flower. It was conspicuously empty.

He walked over and picked up the card Scotch-taped to the headboard.

Congratulations on our new grandchild! Figured you’d need this when you got home. Matt and Barbara.

Joanna’s parents, making their first down payment on grandparenthood.

He felt a stab of pain somewhere under his heart. If heartache was a misnomer, if emotions resided somewhere in your brain and not lower down, why did it physically hurt there ?

They should’ve been home by now. The three of them.

Friends would’ve come calling, toting bakery cakes, bottles of champagne, tiny pink baby clothes. Joanna’s parents would’ve settled into the guest room for a solid week or so. The apartment would’ve been pulsing with life.

Its current emptiness seemed to accuse him of something. He knew what too.

All he had to do was look at the clock sitting on the living room TV, the time and date prominently displayed in numbers the color of blood.

Miles would be back in fifteen minutes to pick him up. He dressed in chinos and a T-shirt, threw his cellular phone into his pocket, and headed for the door.

His answering machine was pulsing green.

Oh well.

He hit the play button.

Hello, Mr. Breidbart. I’m calling on behalf of Home Equity Plus. We’re offering a special rate on refinancing good for this month only . . .

Hey, it’s Ralph. When you get back, give me a call, would you? I couldn’t find your charts on McKenzie. By the way, congrats on the baby. Cigars to follow.

Hiya! It’s Mom, honey. Got your letter, but we don’t know when you’re coming back. The hotel said you checked into another one. Call us, please! Love ya! How do you like the crib?

Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Breidbart. This is María. I’m calling to check up and see how everything is.

María Consuelo, making that follow-up call she’d promised them.

This call was followed by two more follow-up calls from María. Then a spectacular one-time-only offer from a carpet company. Followed by an automated solicitation from an assemblyman up for reelection. Then another message from María.

By this fourth one she clearly sounded annoyed. She’d called them four times, four, and there was still no word. She’d appreciate it if they would do her the honor of calling back and letting her know how things were.

Hi, María. As a matter of fact, things aren’t going so well. The baby you gave us was kidnapped by your nurse and driver. I smuggled drugs into the country to try to get them out, but we were attacked and almost burned to death. So, all in all, things could be looking better. Thanks for asking.

LITTLE ODESSA SEEMED LIKE ITS NAME. LIKE ANOTHER COUNTRY. The evening had turned gray and misty, and a strong wind was whipping in from the ocean. You could see flecks of white foam out there and little whirlwinds of sand dancing across the beach.

Half the store signs were in Russian. The street fronting the beach was crowded with nightclubs, most of them named after Russian cities.

The Kiev. The St. Petersburg. Moscow Central.

Lack of shut-eye was catching up to Paul. He’d nodded off going over the Williamsburg Bridge—only the combination of metal grating and worn shocks revived him, bouncing him awake to a scene of stark black and white. The little bit of sleep had been painfully sweet—once his eyes were open, the dread quickly returned.

Moshe worked at a sprawling warehouse.

Miles pulled into the back lot. Two men were leaning against the only other car—a maroon Buick—smoking cigarettes and jabbering in Russian.

When they got out, Miles waved at them, but they didn’t wave back.