The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [122]
Missing the bus wasn’t a big deal, but Henry had arranged passage in exchange for work on the Carolina—a container carrier bound for Recife and loading cargo at San Pedro Sula, where he planned to jump ship. An otherwise costly trip for a song. After glancing around for signs threatening smokers with fire and brimstone, he fished a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one, under the reproachful gaze of a lone police officer who must have kicked the habit recently and begrudged anyone who dared to light up. He puffed away contentedly and weighed his alternatives. He had money to spare and could grab a flight to Tampa and be at the docks before the Carolina’s appointed time to cast off. He could fly to San Pedro Sula, for that matter, and be done with it. But after years of rubbing coins together, he couldn’t bring himself to be careless with money. He’d splurged on the boots, new jeans, a plaid shirt, a sage-green windbreaker, and a black Stetson hat. He’d needed new clothes. Okay, perhaps the boots qualified as a want, but he needed something on his feet, and he’d dreamed of narrow-pointed high-heeled lizard-skin boots. So he bought them. Henry, he thought to himself, you’ve worked hard and gone through lots of shit and you deserve a superb pair of boots.
Another alternative was to wait almost four hours until midnight to grab a night bus heading in the right direction. Eventually he would get to Tampa. There he could bum around and hope to find another ship. Fat chance. Yet as he drew a small tin box from a side pocket of the backpack and ground the butt inside—to the obvious chagrin of the police officer, who must have hoped to call him to order for tossing it on the concrete—he thought about destiny. Had missing the bus been a signal? Could it be that he wasn’t destined to catch that bus or board the Carolina? It would be sobering to read in the next morning’s paper that the bus had hurled itself from a bridge or down a ravine, coaxed by a sleepy or bungling driver. Or the ship. Damn ships disappeared all the time. Agreed, the run to Recife wasn’t the Bermuda Triangle, but what if? Stranger things had happened.
Some people nurtured the most outlandish beliefs—reincarnation, homeopathy, or the flatness of the earth were only a few examples—but not him. Yet he routinely admitted to a higher office entrusted with drawing the destiny of every human being and ensuring nobody strayed from the set course. Definitely, there had to be a grand reason why he’d missed the Tampa bus.
Henry nodded, glanced toward the police officer, and produced his pack of cigarettes again. He made a mute offer and, basking in the disgust shadowing the face of law and order, lit another cigarette.
He must have drifted or zoned out. When he jerked his head, the shadows had shifted into dusk and the concourse looked deserted. Then he heard a woman’s voice, little more than a whisper, and was about to reach for a small bottle of water from his windbreaker’s pocket when he caught “Washington, D.C.,” then “facility” and finally “breakout.” He snapped alert, craning his neck toward the sound.
Smack in the middle of the concourse was a kiosk selling soda, hot dogs, candy, and ice cream, staffed by a morose fat man in a filthy apron, looking at a small TV hooked to one of the booth’s supports. Hefting his backpack, Henry neared the stall, his eyes never leaving the screen where a woman with something mean about her spoke to the camera.
“The U.S. government will guarantee full protection, total immunity from prosecution—including that of the informer’s family—and fifty million dollars to whoever can supply information leading to the capture of the fugitives. We believe some of the people