Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [110]
“I want a lawyer.”
Hillings shrugged. “You’re wasting your time. We can keep you tied up for days.”
Roberto quavered; that would be a disaster.
“OK,” he said after several moments. His stubby, thick fingers fumbled at the buttons of his white silk shirt. “But make it quick if you can. It’s Saturday night, and I got to meet some people. You understand, don’t you?”
Seconds later Roberto’s shirt, socks, Brittania jeans, snakeskin belt and Dingo boots were on the table. A gold digital watch, a heavy bracelet with the initials RN and three rings—one set with an emerald—were placed in a bag and sealed. The black customs inspector was examining Roberto’s neck chain with its fourteen-carat pendant, a solid gold razor blade. He held it up and dangled it for Hillings to see.
Roberto was naked, spread-eagled again. His jaw set and he fought to keep his eyes from watering. He could feel the warm breath of the red-haired customs man on his back. It made his body hair prickle and stand up.
The inspector checked behind Roberto’s ears, then inside them. He felt Roberto’s armpits, wiping his hands afterward on a paper towel.
“Take one step back, please,” he directed. “Now bend over.”
Roberto whimpered, and the bitter thought of his brother seized his mind. For this he would never forgive Octavio.
The red-haired customs man spread Roberto’s buttocks and examined his rectum. Bent over like a football player at scrimmage, Roberto felt dizzy. The customs man seemed to be taking his time.
“I don’t feel very good,” Roberto said.
“We’re almost done,” Hillings told him.
Roberto cringed and felt himself shrink when the inspector touched his scrotum to lift his testicles.
“Jesus,” he cried. “Be careful.”
“That’s all,” Hillings said. “You can get dressed now and take a seat.”
Roberto’s suit bag was open on the table. He dressed hastily, stepping into his jeans so clumsily that he almost ripped the seat out. He felt hot; his mustache was damp and salty.
The black inspector was studying a wide florid necktie. He laid it flat on the table and ran his hands across, smoothing the fabric.
“I think we ought to open this up,” he said. He handed the tie to Hillings, who examined it and shook his head.
“No, it’s OK Anything else?”
“No.”
“Did you check the boots?”
“The heels are OK,” the black inspector reported.
“Mr. Nelson, are you declaring anything upon reentry into the United States?”
“You’ve got the form I filled out on the plane, so you know the answer,” Roberto said.
“Did you buy this tie in Colombia?”
“Hell, no, I got it at J. C. Penney’s in Miami Beach. Sorry if you’re not crazy about the style.”
“Excuse me,” Hillings said, walking out of the room.
Pincus was pacing in an office down the hall. It was so stuffy that he had taken the unusual liberty of loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
Hillings walked in and said, “Nelson’s clean.”
Pincus sagged against a desk, knocking over somebody’s framed picture of the wife and kids. “Did you check…”
“We checked everywhere, Wil. His mouth, his ears, his asshole.”
“His hair. Did you check his hair?”
“Christ,” Hillings said. “How much could you carry on your scalp? Come on, man, I know the difference between dandruff and cocaine. This is my job, remember? I do this five goddamn days a week. The man is clean. We gotta let him go or all of us are going to court.”
“Shit,” Pincus said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Through the window he spotted Roberto Nelson, huffing across the lobby with his suit bag.
“I better go,” Pincus said, rising. “Junior, thanks for the favor. I swear I thought he was muling.”
“It’s OK, Wil,” Hillings said. “Who is this guy, anyway—some dirt-bag or a big shot?”
“A little of both.”
Pincus saw Roberto clear the double doors of the Customs exit, and he followed, striding quickly. Automatically the doors closed. Seconds later Pincus walked through them into the steaming underground transportation plaza. Roberto Nelson was not in sight.
The curb was packed with people, yammering at porters in a variety of languages. Taxis careered heedlessly