Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [109]
Roberto patted his midsection. “Thanks anyway,” he said, “but I feel a little queasy. I better wait till I get my feet back on solid ground.” The flight attendant nodded sympathetically and glided down the aisle.
Queasy! Who wouldn’t be? Roberto thought to himself. This was a survival mission, nothing less. That hijo de puta McRae and his fucking cocaine. Call me a thief!
Roberto seethed whenever he replayed the confrontation.
“I didn’t rip you off, Rennie. I am not foolish.”
“Two dumb lies,” McRae had replied, his face swollen and beet-blotched. “There’s no point in arguing. You’ve got a week to redeem yourself.”
“But I didn’t take it!”
McRae had waved him off with one hand. “You replace the stuff, and I forget about the inconvenience and the bump on my head. Now get out of my office before I kill you.”
“You go fuck yourself,” Roberto had said.
Then they’d blasted his Mercedes, and that was all the encouragement he’d needed. Foolish is what he would have been if he had ignored that kind of warning.
“I brought you something.” It was Illeana, the stewardess. She held out a small plastic tray with a glass of water and a package of Alka-Seltzer tablets.
“You’re very sweet, but I think I’ll be OK when we land,” Roberto said.
“We’ve got Dramamine, too.”
“No, thanks,” Roberto said, touching her hand.
He was dying for a double scotch, but that would have been stupid. His stomach actually was beginning to churn.
U.S. CUSTOMS Inspector W. K. Junior Hillings walked up to the athletic-looking blond man and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The man folded the sports section of the Miami Journal and tucked it under one arm.
“Yes?”
“It just landed.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Hillings led Wilbur Pincus to an office overlooking the congested customs inspection lobby in the bottom level of Miami International. The first arrivals off Avianca 6 were queuing up behind some flight attendants from BOAC out of London.
From where Pincus sat, he had a clear view of each line. He noticed everyone whose luggage was marked with the orange and white flight tags of Avianca.
Roberto Nelson slung his suit bag across his back. He no longer cared about wrinkled clothes; his business was finished. The line before him moved slowly. His watch read 5:45. His stomach roiled.
Sourly Roberto thought how unpleasant the next few days were going to be. Afterward, he would eat a whole pig.
“Excuse me, sir.” A man in a government uniform with a small silver badge touched Roberto’s arm. “Could you come with me, please?”
“Sure,” Roberto Nelson said amiably, “but I really don’t want to lose my place in line.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Junior Hillings said.
Roberto followed him to a small stale room where two other inspectors waited impassively. Hillings closed the door. “We’re going to search your luggage,” he said.
“Can I ask why?”
“Just routine,” said one of the other officers, a huge red-haired man who was built like a refrigerator. He took the suit bag from Roberto Nelson and laid it on a table. Roberto shrugged and sat down in a chair.
“Please,” Hillings said, “you’re going to have to stand up for a body search.”
Roberto scowled. He rose and, facing the wall, spread his legs, leaned forward and braced his hands high over his head. “I believe this is the proper position,” he said snidely over his shoulder.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Hillings said politely, “but let’s try it with your clothes off. Please.”
“No!” Roberto wheeled, reddening. The third inspector, a lean black man with biceps like bread loaves, took a step forward and squared his weight like a boxer.
“Mr. Nelson, if you don’t cooperate, there will be a lot of trouble and paperwork for everybody.” Hillings sighed.
“I’m an American citizen!”
“Naturalized American citizen,” Hillings corrected, waving Roberto’s passport. “It doesn’t matter. By law we could do a body search on Nancy Reagan if we wanted.”
“Take off your clothes,” said