CHAPTER 19
Panama City, Florida
20 West, the two-lane road leading into Blountstown where they would turn south on Highway 231 for Panama City, was dark.
Santo lit two smokes and handed one to Paisley. This act served as a vocal catalyst for Paisley. His harmless chatter lasted until they reached Blountstown, where they stopped for gas and Coca-Colas. Then paranoia infiltrated his behavior, infecting the others.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the convenience store, in contrast to the comfortable obscurity of the unlit road, made them whisper and measure their movements. They appeared stiff and out of place, and they left as quickly as possible.
When they finally reached Panama City, Florida, it was 11:30 P.M. Paisley made the necessary turn onto Highway 98, which took them easterly across town and over the Hathaway Bridge. They passed the small naval base and made a left onto 757. A minute later, Paisley drove into the parking lot of their destination: a bar called the Down Under. Nat rolled up beside them and cut off his headlights.
Paisley released both hands from the driver's wheel for dramatic emphasis. “Okay Rick, let's not waste any time.”
They got out of the car while the other two sat tight. Julian simply rolled down his window and passed the other half of the money, also in a brown bag, to Santo. Then he followed Paisley around to the back of the building, where they approached a weather-beaten door. But before Paisley had a chance to knock on it, somebody unlocked the dead bolt and swung the door open.
Santo felt ill at ease and began to feel the weight of the money.
They entered a dimly lit room, which served as a storeroom and as an office. And after shutting the door, a woman gracefully escorted them to a cluttered metal desk. The atmosphere reeked of mildew.
“You're here early,” she said.
“Couldn't be helped.”
“And someone new, I see.”
“Is that a problem?” Paisley asked.
“Not your usual standards.”
“I'm growing confident in my old age.”
“Let's hope confidence isn't synonymous with recklessness.”
She was British. Her refined manner, along with her proper accent, seemed incongruous in these surroundings. She was tall, thin, and had a fair complexion. And although she was plain, she was not unattractive. Her light brown hair was shoulder-length and pulled to one side behind her left ear in a loose pony tail. She wore a long-sleeved white blouse with a pair of pressed jeans.
When Santo presented the money to her, she finally smiled. This illuminated her eyes and revealed a startling intelligence. She reached into one of the bags, pulled out the money, and thumbed the corner of the bills like a deck of cards. “Do I need to count this?”
“Only you can answer that question,” Paisley said.
Her eyes twinkled. “You always say the right thing.”
“I aim to please.”
Her eyes dulled to normalcy. “Quite.” She pointed to four burlap sacks. “There's your merchandise. I suppose you need to be quick about it.”
“What about the coke?”
She presented a cigar box to him. The lid was secured with two thick rubber bands.
“Do I need to check this?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up with pleasure, once again. “Even I would feel compelled to raise the lid. It's from a different supplier.”
“Then please, do me the honor.”
She unsnapped the rubber bands and opened the box, disclosing several cellophane pouches of cocaine. Santo became uneasy.
Paisley picked out one of the bags and opened it. He stuck a dry finger into the white substance, then placed it on the end of his tongue. “Tastes good to me.”
“When shall I see you next?”
“Not sure I'm doing this next.”
“Pity.”
“Is that some sort of invitation?”
“Perhaps.”
Paisley smiled. “I guess it's worth a tank of gas to find out.”
“As long as it's round trip.”
“That was understood.”
She appeared to be pleased. “Good.” And as Paisley re-secured the box, she addressed Santo. “I suppose you're his relief then?”
Santo shook his head. “Not likely.”
“I see.” She dismissed him. “Well then, Paisley…until we meet again.”
Santo shot a heated glance at Paisley as soon as they were in the parking lot.
“You lied to me, goddamn it.”
“About what?”
“The deal was for weed only.”
“That was your assumption. Besides, drugs are drugs, man.”
Santo was furious. Cocaine was serious business. But it was too late to do anything about it now. And by the time he reached Nat's car and transferred two of the burlap sacks to Julian through the window, he was resigned to the situation. Julian sensed his wariness, however, and probed him.
“That was easy, man.”
“Yeah.” He felt compelled to warn him. “Paisley's carrying a load of cocaine.”
“Where did that come from?”
“I don't know. But it's enough to put us in jail forever.”
“Christ.”
“So don't let yourself get arrested, no matter what.”
Nat leaned across Julian's lap in an effort to get as close as possible to Santo. “This changes everything.”
“No shit.”
“It sure does take all the fun out of this joy ride,” Julian said.
“I should leave the bastard and come along with you two…but I won't. You guys better take off. Remember, we don't know each other. That should make it easier for you two if…”
“Hey, man, these people aren't stupid,” Julian said. “If we get busted, they'll be able to figure out that we're in it together.”
“Then look at it on the bright side,” Santo said.
“What's that?”
“You're black. You're going to fit right in with the prison decor.”
“Then I'm going to make sure we get the same cell, so you can appreciate the interior design.” They chuckled as they clenched their fists together in a brotherly affection. “You be careful, my man.”
“Yeah, sure,” Santo muttered. “Now beat it before we start drawing attention to ourselves.”
Nat started the Chevrolet and backed away. Then the car skidded softly off the oyster-shell-covered parking Jot onto the road's blacktop; its headlights pierced the darkness when Nat finally turned them on.
Santo began to feel paranoid as he watched them drive away. The threat of arrest would have been less likely without the cocaine since law enforcement agencies focused their efforts on hard-core drugs. This made marijuana busts incidental as they went along their merry investigational way. But that was no longer the case.
The utilitarian purpose of the speed was unnecessary now; there was enough adrenaline pumping through his veins to keep him awake for a week. He didn't remember getting into Paisley's Volkswagen.
The flash of the oncoming traffic headlights jarred him out of his pensive state. He glanced at Paisley, who seemed to know where he was going as he drove across town through unfamiliar streets.
Santo began to relax and feel the stillness within him until he became centered. He tasted the dryness of his throat, touched the fabric of his surroundings, and smelled the freshness of the air.
He knew something was going to go wrong tonight. But there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
His last premonition occurred while on a patrol tagged with the call-sign, “black hawk.” Santo saw death after they were shot-out of two hot LZ's. So, when scuttlebutt brought him news about an available dive billet within their battalion, he double-timed over there.
The dive locker was near his company area, and the sergeant-in-charge who recruited him was a friend. This released Santo from regular patrols, including black hawk's next insertion attempt.
“Don't go!” he wanted to scream. “I see death!” But they would have to ignore him.
He was crippled with vertigo by the hollow screams trapped inside his skull, which forced him to stay in his rack on the day they were to leave. There were many choppers flying out that morning, but he knew which chopper was carrying black hawk. He closed his eyes and broke into a helpless cold sweat: black hawk went out; nobody came back.
Santo opened his eyes. No escape this time. But he did not see death. He stared at the oncoming traffic. He knew something was going to go wrong tonight.
He was ready…to deflect the oncoming danger.