Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [31]
The officers exchange looks. The pit bull’s fingers twitch at his sides, just itching to pull his gun out of his holster. The first one asks in a measured tone, “Can we please see your identification and flight information?”
Marcus can’t help but think that even the first officer, so polite with his “please” and “pardon me,” wouldn’t hesitate to handcuff and haul him off to a holding cell. Fortunately (or not), he has had a lot of practice with negotiating his way out of situations like this. Just as Marcus is unfazed by attracting the attention of strange females, he is equally accustomed to being subjected to impromptu interrogations by police officers, security guards, and other keepers of the peace.
“No problem,” Marcus says, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He flips it open to his driver’s license photo. The policemen examine the man in the photo (thinner, somehow older at twenty-two than he is at twenty-six, with an unfortunate Al-Qaedan beard) and compare it to the man standing in front of them.
“And your flight information?” the first cop asks.
“Of course,” Marcus says, patting his pockets until he finds evidence of his flight from New Orleans, the only proof he has right now that he still has reason to be here. He hands over the halved boarding pass with no further explanation. Marcus knows better than to put up any protest, especially when the officers are harassing him for no reason. No reason can turn into a night in jail very quickly.
The first officer takes a look at Marcus’s document, then hands it to his partner for appraisal.
“This flight landed hours ago,” the pit bull says, his voice rising. “You have no reason to be here. Only valid ticket holders are permitted to remain in the airport. We can issue you a citation for loitering.”
Marcus has been threatened with the same charge more times than he can count. He is a habitual loiterer. Though today it’s intentional, a consequence of watching Jessica from afar, his loitering is usually accidental , an unplanned ambulatory meditation during which he gets so caught up in his thoughts that he forgets what he’s doing (walking somewhere), where he is (leaning against a lamppost on Nassau Street), or how long he’s been there (a half hour). How many times has he been shaken back into consciousness by a man in uniform who assumes Marcus is under the influence of alcohol or another, more illicit mind-altering substance? How many times has he shown up late without an acceptable answer when asked where he’s been and why it took him so long to arrive?
“I’m waiting for a friend whose flight is late.”
Marcus immediately regrets this lie because he doesn’t like to lie. He doesn’t like to lie on principle: The truth should always suffice, and if it doesn’t, well, that’s his own fault for getting himself into such a morally questionable position to begin with. But he also doesn’t lie for practical reasons: He can never keep his lies straight.
Now that he’s already lied, he sees no choice but to commit to it. “I’m supposed to stand here by this telephone bank until she arrives, but—” Marcus cuts himself off midsentence, unwilling and unable to embellish any more than that.
“What flight is your friend on?”
This is exactly why Marcus doesn’t like to lie. One lie always requires another, and another, and it’s all too much for him to handle. Marcus’s heart speeds up. He can feel a bead of sweat dropping from his armpit, trickling, tickling its way down his torso, slipping past his waistband.
“Your friend must have provided her flight information, correct?”
Even the first cop is tensing up, his fleshy cheeks popping in and out with the clenching and unclenching of his jaw as he looks Marcus over. The cop doesn’t know what this guy is up to, but there’s something not quite right about his story. He thinks the guy is under the influence of something, but he’s not sure what. Marcus wonders if it’s too late to backtrack from his first