Two more days and it will all be over.
Not only had the tour gone off without a hitch, this will be the biggest payday Brooklyn Davis, Inc. has ever seen. Just two more stops—Mexico City tonight, and Las Vegas tomorrow.
I have to roll over to check the red numbers on the clock—five a.m. The squishy mattress, like most of the hotel offerings I’ve had on this international tour, make me bounce up and down like a trampoline every time I move.
After punching down the pillow, I take a deep breath hoping to steal another twenty winks, but realize I’ve already committed to welcoming the new day. With one eye fully open and the other wanting to, I can’t ignore the telltale signs of dawn sneaking in around the edges of the blackout shades—confirmation of another restless night. Twenty stops on the international tour, twenty fitful nights.
The stillness, between waking and rising, offers me a perfect time to lie motionless, breathe deep, and meditate for a few minutes. The best way to recharge my batteries in front of a hectic day. I repeat the mantra by heart—lie still, find a comfortable position, and clear my mind. Ten minutes of thinking about nothing at all doesn’t guarantee peace, but I am ready to face the day ahead.
Sliding back the blackout shades, I take in Mexico City from twenty stories up. Downtown high-rises, endless avenues, and countless parks spread out in a colorful carpet. The modern mixed with the past, shopping centers and churches, favelas and mansions, all packed together, on top of each other, stretching out for miles. Smog, garbage, and traffic, the byproducts of nine million residents also vie for my attention. A mix of old world and new, castles and slums, keep me hypnotized. It’s all so impossible, fantastic, and yet breathtaking.
I think about dialing room service but remember what a fiasco the day before had been—the day from Hell. We had flown in from Rio, arrived late, and finally got our room assignments sorted out by midnight. I made sure everyone had what they needed, then put JoJo on first watch outside Dr. Knight’s room. JoJo’s always good for midnight watch—calls it his “thing,” whatever that means. I finally hit the sack around 1 am. By this time all housekeeping carts are stowed away, and any calls to room service produce a recording.
After a steaming hot shower, I dress and head downstairs for some caffeine and a plate of eggs. I make sure my bags are packed before leaving the room. We’re hitting the airport two hours after the speech tonight—the red-eye to Vegas. It’s a four hour hop, and I like to be ready before I have to be ready. That’s my thing.
I trudge downstairs to the café. There’s a pharmaceutical conference in town and the hallway is packed with people, even at this early hour. I guess everyone wants to get a jump on the morning. I fall in line behind everybody else following their noses to the buffet.
After two minutes of not moving, I check my watch to determine what’s more important—standing in a never-ending line for a couple of eggs or being on time for the security walkthrough at the arena. Waiting here will make me late, so hunger goes on the back burner, once again. My trek across the room to the beverage tables takes longer than expected. I fill a cup with steaming hot coffee and mix in cream and sugar, managing to spill more on the black tablecloth than ever gets into my cup. I scorch my tongue in a hurried sip, utter the first curse word of the day, and finally admit I should have stayed in bed for those extra twenty winks.
My cell comes out of my coat pocket with ease. It’s something I do about a hundred times a day—emails, messages, news alerts—it’s become part of who I am. Whether that’s a good thing or bad is a moot point. It’s just my reality.
Turning back to the exit, I catch a glimpse of a woman standing in the far corner of the room—five feet two, strawberry blonde, in her early thirties. Memory is a funny thing. Some people are blessed with the gift of total recall—I’m not one of them. But this girl raises a red flag. I’ve seen her before—somewhere on this tour—and the little I can recall isn’t pleasant. In fact, the memory gets my adrenaline pumping.
I ditch the coffee cup on the nearest table and double-time it toward the girl. By the time I dodge through the crowd, she’s vanished. I don’t know why it’s so important to confront her, but now I’m disappointed, which doesn’t make any kind of sense, since I don’t know why I wanted to catch her in the first place. A hand perches on my shoulder.
“Brooks,” says Wade Barrow, one of my company’s tactical experts and my best friend.
“What’s up, Wade?”
“I don’t know, you were the one tearing through the crowd. You tell me what’s up.”
“I thought I saw…” I shake my head. “There was this girl—”
“Always is, am I right?”
“No, this was different. This girl, she…this girl was like my best friend.”
“Hey, that’s my job. What’s her name?”
My mind’s a blank. I can barely recall her face now. I stare at Wade in silence.
“It’s okay, pal,” he says putting a hand on my shoulder, “she sounds like a real Georgia peach.”
“Funny, I can’t even remember her name.”
He grins a sly expression and I roll my eyes, but still he has to say it. “That’s the best kind of her to know.” Wade considers himself quite the man with the ladies, though I have yet to meet a lady who would agree. More like harmless, but definitely fun to be around.
“I’m headed over to the arena,” I say, “share a cab?”
“No can do, amigo,” Wade says with a wink. This time I’m certain of what he’s going to say, “I’m just here to grab a coffee and head back up to the room. Can’t keep the señorita waiting.”
“Lucky girl.” I give him a wink of my own. “Just be on time this afternoon. You’ve got afternoon watch, copy?”
“Copy that. Fourteen hundred hours.” He’ll be on time. He always is.
“And say hello to the lucky lady, uh…”
“Uh, Maria.”
Right. Maria—the most beautiful woman in his imagination.
Mexico City is waking up. The sun warms all the nooks and crannies of this amazing and complicated metropolis. Taxis are few in number at this hour, but I manage to hail one and settle into the back seat. “Azcapotzalco,” I get out, “the Mexico City Arena.”
“Si, señor. Americano?”
“Si.”
In perfect English he says, “Are you in town for Dr. Knight’s tour? The man is a genius. He really sees everything through a unique perspective, don’t you agree?”
I perk up. “Si, I mean, yes. He’s one of a kind.”
“My wife and I are going tonight. She’s a true fan. She has every one of his books.” He swerves around a truck that appeared out of nowhere. He leans out the window and shouts, “Pendejo!” After passing the truck he continues in a calm voice, “Dr. Knight’s message of peace and unity is amazing, no? We are one is more than a slogan, they are words of wisdom, no?”
“Yes. I agree.”
“You know señor, you’re arriving very early. The doctor doesn’t begin his speech until eight. Do you work for the tour? A…what do you call it? A roadie?”
“What’s your name?” I’m always intrigued by someone who exhibits a degree of intelligence and supposition. This man displays both.
He keeps one hand glued to the steering wheel and thrusts the other toward the back seat. “Jorge Robles, and you?”
I shake his hand. “Brooklyn.”
“Ha, like the Dodgers.”
“Sorry, pal, way before my time. Most people call me Brooks. Tell me, Jorge, where can I get a decent cup of coffee?”
“Starbucks is just a few blocks up ahead.”
“Starbucks?”
I see Jorge’s eyes twinkle in the rearview mirror. “A few blocks more is The Best Coffee. They make an espresso to die for.”
“Sounds good. What’s it called?”
“That’s the name, señor, The Best Coffee.”
“The Best Coffee it is. Come in with me—my treat.”
“Señor, I wish all my fares today are as pleasant as you. It would be my pleasure.”
I enjoy becoming someone I’m really not with somebody who’s never met me. It’s liberating. I’m generally not a good-natured person. In reality, I’m skeptical, cynical, and cautious. As long as I’m being honest, I hate being that way. I wish I were more like the person I’ve presented to Jorge, but it’ll never happen. Never. So, I’ve learned to live with who I am. Besides, suspicion comes in handy in my line of work—c’est la vie.
I’m glad Jorge joined me. We sit outside, enjoying our espressos in the early morning sunshine. Traffic builds on the avenue and horns honk with increased regularity. Bumper to bumper is the norm for Mexico City.
“Rush hour,” Jorge says between sips. “The same all over the world.”
“Where have you travelled?”
“Italy, England, and, of course, the US. Oh, the traffic jams in Italy, ni me digas.”
“Rough, huh?”
“The worst. Thank you so much for the coffee.”
“My pleasure.” And it was. I have a love/hate relationship with the personal protection business. When my firm works for someone like Dr. Knight, it’s love. His take on science and religion, the “new age” movement and what he calls “alternative globalization,” is hypnotic. The We Are One world tour is wildly successful, making him the wealthiest speaker on the circuit, and his books have literally given me a new lease on life.
As for some of the others we’ve protected, I could have easily done them in myself—pure hate. Sometimes all I want to do is close up operations and drive a taxi, like Jorge. Leave all my worries behind. Occasionally yell pendejo out the window at jerks who cut me off.
“When you get to the arena tonight, go to will-call. I’ll have a couple of backstage passes waiting for you and your wife, sound good?”
His face brightens. “Si, señor. Muchas gracias.”
“Don’t mention it. Thanks for turning me on to The Best Coffee. It really is.”
We kill a few more minutes on the sidewalk discussing life, politics, and sports. He brings out his wallet and shows me pictures of his wife and two boys. A proud papa.
Foot traffic increases on the sidewalk, with crowds of businessmen marching to work, filing by in an endless stream. Soon joined by schoolchildren, shoppers, and tourists, the sidewalk becomes congested.
“We should hit the road.” I hate to get back to the “real” world, but it is what it is. We climb back into his cab and I think about tonight, tomorrow in Las Vegas, and then…what? Coming back here and driving a taxi? No more mistrust, no more hunches, no more intrigue. The thought brings a rare smile to my face.
He pulls up in front of the arena, twists around in his seat, and refuses to accept the fare. Instead, he shakes my hand. “Thank you again, señor, will I see you tonight?”
“Of course.” I lie. There won’t be time to greet him, to meet his wife, or exchange pleasantries. My team will be too busy getting the good doctor out of the arena, and to the airport in one piece. Then it’s off to Sin City for the final stop on the tour.
I stand on the sidewalk and wave, watching his taxi fade into the distance. I like Jorge. I’m certain he’s the kind of guy who would definitely have my back if he were in the game. Good people.