James Siegel - Detour

“There’s something I haven’t told you. Are you listening? Good. Riojas might be in a federal prison here, but he’s still looking for her. You don’t want him to find her.”

FORTY-FOUR

They were on their way to the zoo.

Paul was riding in the bird-watcher’s Jeep, just the two of them.

After Paul had hung up on Pablo, he’d needed to make one more call.

The bird-watcher had given him a number if Paul needed to reach him.

Twenty minutes later he showed up at Paul’s apartment— I was in the neighborhood, he said.

Paul told him about the Bronx hospital. About Miles’ little sentencing trick from his days in juvenile court. About finally standing face-to-face with Manuel Riojas’ lost little girl.

The bird-watcher was suitably impressed.

“You want an honorary badge? We give them out to schoolkids who take the official DEA tour in Washington. You can be my real make-believe deputy.”

Paul declined. He was up to the hard part, what he needed the bird-watcher to agree to.

The exchange.

“Whoa, I don’t know about that, Paul. You didn’t mention anything about a trade. Last time I looked, that wasn’t part of my job description.”

“My wife’s an American citizen. You promised you’d help get them out. Here’s their chance. Here’s how. Miles must’ve gotten Riojas’ daughter into the country illegally. Isn’t that normal U.S. protocol—sending illegals back where they came from?”

“After suitable bureaucratic bullshit, which you cannot begin to believe. I imagine you’re talking just a little bit faster here. And the girl might—and I reiterate might —be valuable to us. Wasn’t that the nature of your enticement, Paul? The carrot you so artfully dangled in front of us?”

“She’s not going to disappear. You can make whatever arrangements you want after you send her back. Put her someplace you can see her—stick her in another hospital. I don’t care.”

He was lying, of course.

He did care.

Spending ten minutes with her in that awful place had made him care. If he could effect the trade, he’d be helping three people.

“I don’t know, Paul. You’re asking me to go outside normal channels. To put my cowboy hat on. I’d have to think about that one. By the way, did the weeping widow mention anything about illicit money? Assuming Miles didn’t blow it all on the Cleveland Cavs? There’s nothing the DEA likes better than bags and bags of ill-gotten gains. It’s how we keep score.”

“No,” Paul said. “She didn’t have a clue about any of this.”

“Okay, fair enough. You’ve done a bang-up job, Paul. First-rate. At some point we’ll have to do a full body search on his bank accounts. As far as your trade scenario, I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I admit I’m kind of leaning toward helping you. I mean, fuck those little Marxists, right? They won’t be very happy when Pablo kidnaps their hostages. It puts a smile on my face just thinking about it.”

This was two days ago.

One day later the bird-watcher called him with the good news.

He’d done some thinking, run it up and down the flagpole a few times.

He’d made a few calls to overseas assets.

He’d wangled the necessary papers.

In the end he’d put his Stetson on.

The plan. The girl would be taken to a debriefing house in Glen Cove, Long Island. How much she knew was probably negligible, but it was worth the effort to find out, and worth seeing what Riojas might do when he found out they had her. They’d make sure he knew. Maybe he’d send someone to try and get her. It’s possible. They’d keep the girl there long enough to find out. To make sure Paul’s wife and daughter got on a plane. To flush Riojas’ men out of the weeds. Then, if all went according to plan, they’d reciprocate.

Paul, honorary DEA deputy and faux insurance agent of the late Miles Goldstein, would accompany the bird-watcher to Mount Ararat Hospital.

Plan on.

THEY WERE CURRENTLY ZOOMING OVER THE 138TH STREET BRIDGE. Well, not zooming, moving in fits and starts, due to construction in the left lane.

Clouds were gathering over the East River. It was late morning, hot and humid.

“Looks like rain,” Paul said.

“Thank you, Uncle Weatherbee,” the bird-watcher said.

Paul realized he still didn’t know the bird-watcher’s name. When he’d asked him, the bird-watcher said he preferred to remain an international man of mystery, then asked Paul if he’d preferred Austin Powers 1 or 2.

Yankee Stadium was looming off to the left, its graceful arches bone white against the blackening clouds. Twins vs. Yanks 7:30 tonight.

When they got to the end of the bridge, they veered left.

“Not exactly prime real estate, is it?” the bird-watcher said. “If I put my jacket on and yelled DEA, half the neighborhood would start running.”

The bird-watcher pointed out a restaurant— best chorizo in New York. He nodded at a kid in retro basketball shorts, nervously bopping up and down on a graffiti-scarred street corner. Ten to one he’s pulling guard duty for a skank house.

Now they were headed up Hunters Point Boulevard.

“Ever been to the Bronx Zoo?” the bird-watcher asked.

He seemed relaxed and chatty today, as if Paul were his partner riding shotgun on a case, instead of an insurance actuary who’d taken an unfortunate detour.

“When I was a kid.”

For some reason Paul had never visited the zoo as an adult.

He knew the reason.

You go to zoos when you’re a kid.

Or when you have kids.

THE HOSPITAL SEEMED MORE OPPRESSIVE TODAY.

It might’ve been purely physical—the air-conditioning was on the blink, someone said—but Paul thought it had more to do with just being there again. Seeing it a second time let him appreciate the full awfulness of the surroundings, what it must’ve been like for Julius to stare at these salmon-pink walls for three years.

What it was like for Ruth he could only imagine.

Now she’d be leaving it behind.

He felt as if he were at the end of a marathon. Exhausted, yes, but with an exuberance that felt like hope.

After the bird-watcher had presented his credentials, they were ushered into a wood-paneled office, where the hospital administrator offered them seats. The bird-watcher had called ahead. He’d pulled strings, twisted arms, pulled rank, produced papers, done whatever a high-level DEA agent does to get what he wants. Mostly, he’d played the national security card—which, like AmEx platinum, seemed capable of opening all doors and rebuffing all dissent.

The administrator seemed glad to see them, as if he were in the company of minor celebrities. At least one minor celebrity.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me any details?” the man asked the bird-watcher in a tone of voice that suggested he was more than capable of keeping national secrets.

The bird-watcher declined.

“Let’s just say if it wasn’t crucially important, I wouldn’t be here,” he said.

The man— Theodore Hill, the degree on the wall said—nodded knowingly.

“I assume you have doctors waiting wherever this place is you’re taking her,” Theodore said.

“Of course,” the bird-watcher replied.

“Her meds are listed in her file. Lithium mostly. She’s not much trouble.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Up to this point, Paul Breidbart, insurance agent, had remained silent. But curiosity got the better of him—that, and the assumption that what an insurance agent wasn’t privy to, a DEA agent was.

“What happened to her?” Paul asked. “Back in Colombia?”