Moondogs - Alexander Yates [113]
“Are we going to be on time?” he asked. The police commander tasked with his father’s case was supposed to brief them this afternoon.
Monique flipped her wrist so that her cuff fell below her watch. “We have a little over an hour. But don’t worry. He’ll wait.” Across the terminal the heavy jetway doors swung open with a loud clack and travelers began pouring out looking exhausted and lost. Benicio stood, fingers drumming against the back of his chair, weight shifting as he watched for Alice’s brown hair among the uniformly black and close-cropped. She was one of the last out, eyes red and watery, nothing but a bloated purse as her carryon. He rushed to meet her in the middle of the corridor, where they hugged tight, agitating the foot-traffic. Alice started to cry but stopped when she felt his whole body tighten. She kissed him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?” She gripped his shoulders and extended her arms; a kind of taking-you-in gesture that an older relative might do to a child that had grown since the last time they’d seen them. She looked exhausted and pink. For a quick moment she glanced at the cameras beyond the security conveyors, their flashbulbs reflecting in her bloodshot eyes. “About nothing. It’s a stupid … it’s a silly thing to say.”
Monique and Jeff joined them. They escorted Alice on the fast track through customs and out under the ugly concrete overhang where Benicio had waited for his father not a full week ago. Edilberto was out there, holding a handmade sign above his head that read Mrs. Bridgewater even though Benicio had been very clear that they weren’t married. Seeing the sign, Alice laughed a little. She loaded her bags into the Shangri-La car, but wouldn’t get inside herself.
“Screw that,” she said, “I’m going wherever you’re going.” She pulled a yellow steno pad from her purse that they used to keep atop his fridge at home. The front page reminded Benicio that he still needed cilantro, red onions and boullion cubes. “I came to be useful.” She pivoted to face Monique and Jeff. “You two are coming with us? What are your names? Wait …” she fumbled in her purse for a ballpoint pen. “Could you spell that, please?”
ALICE SCRIBBLED NOTES as they boarded the embassy shuttle—a boxy minivan with tinted windows and doors so heavy they were hard to open. She and Benicio sat in the back. She left her seatbelt unbuckled and shot questions at the front seat, filling her yellow steno with the answers. Jeffrey Tober, Regional Security Officer, ext. 4415. Big guy, southern, green polo. Monique Thomas, Acting Chief, American Citizen Services, ext. 5656. Acting? Remember to ask B. Bright suit. Bright makeup. Going to E-R-M-I-T-A station for briefing by R. Ocampo. New to case. Green polo knows him. Doesn’t seem to like him. Benicio unbuckled his own seatbelt so he could sit closer to her. “If you get too tired,” he whispered, “just say the word.” Alice didn’t answer him, but she wrote not tired at the bottom of her notes. She tapped the words a few times with the tip of her pen before crossing the not out. She wrote, least I can do, underlining the first word twice and then circling it.
They arrived a few minutes late and hurried into the station lobby, nearly slipping, the floors covered in runoff from a dripping air conditioner. A uniformed receptionist behind a chin-high desk directed them to wait on a pair of wooden benches sitting beneath a big clock ticking twice a second to catch up with the right time. Benicio sat and took Alice’s hand. Her notes lay ready atop her knees. He kissed her cheek and her ear. A few officers looked up from their desks and pointed. He did it again.
“Sorry I’m late,” boomed a big voice behind them. A short Filipino stood in the station entrance wearing frayed jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. If not for the polished badge clipped to his belt he would have looked like just some dude who’d wandered in off the street. “The traffic in this city! A nightmare, am I right?” He smiled and showed off a set of orthodontic braces