Had Sheila been in a state of higher morale, she probably would have cared enough to be suspicious of the quartet now standing at the counter — a zoned-out young woman with three scuzzy-looking men. But Sheila had long since passed the point of giving a shit.
"Yes?" she said to Snake.
"We need four tickets to the Bahamas, one-way, next flight you got," said Snake.
"Nassau or Freeport?" she asked.
Snake frowned. "The Bahamas," he said.
"Nassau and Freeport are in the Bahamas," said Sheila, mentally adding you moron.
Snake thought about it.
"Freeport," he said. He liked the sound of it.
"There's a ten-ten flight," said Sheila, checking her watch, which said nine-fifteen. "Four one-way tickets is" — she tapped the computer keyboard — "three hundred sixty dollars."
Snake let go of Jenny for a moment while he dug his free hand into his pocket He pulled out the fat wad of bills he'd taken from Arthur Herk at the house. He set it on the counter, in front of Sheila, and, one-handed, started counting off twenties out loud… "twenty, forty, sixty… " At 120, his brain fogged up — he'd always struggled with arithmetic — and he had to start again. He did this twice, said "fuck," and pushed the wad off the counter, scattering bills across Sheila's keyboard.
"Take it outta there," he said.
Sheila gathered up the wad, feeling the heft of it, this big bunch of money being carried around by this guy who didn't even know how to count it. Sheila peeled off $360. Then, after glancing at Snake, who was looking around nervously, she peeled off another $480, which was what she needed to get her transmission fixed, and then another $140, which was roughly what she owed the baby-sitter for the past week. She put the rest of the wad back on the counter. Snake looked at it. He almost said something, but he didn't want any trouble here. Plus he figured he had plenty of money left. Plus a suitcase full of drugs. Maybe emeralds.
"I need the names of the passengers," said Sheila, tapping on her terminal.
Snake hesitated, then said, "John Smith."
Sheila looked up for a second, then went back to tapping.
"And the other passengers?" she said.
"John Smith," said Snake.
Sheila looked up again, at Eddie, Puggy, Snake, and Jenny. "You're all John Smith?" she asked.
"Everybody," said Snake
"I need to see photo IDs," said Sheila.
Snake grabbed a handful of bills and dropped them on her keyboard.
"Here you go," he said.
Sheila looked at the bills. It looked to be at least two hundred.
"OK, then, Mr. Smith," she said.
Monica, leaning on the horn, swerved the Kia past a car-rental courtesy shuttle on the airport access road.
"OK, listen," she said. "We're looking for the police car. You see it, you yell, OK?"
"OK," said Matt and Eliot. Anna was quiet. Nina was praying.
"Once we see the car," said Monica — who was thinking, Jesus, I hope we see the car — "if they're not in it, we go into the terminal and we look for them. There will be police officers at the airport to help us. It's gonna be OK, Mrs. Herk."
In the back, Anna said nothing.
Monica gunned the Kia up the ramp under the Departures sign. They were approaching the terminal building now, Monica, Matt, and Eliot scanning the mass of cars ahead. It was Matt who saw the cruiser in the unfinished garage.
"Over there," he said, pointing.
Monica swerved left into the garage, screeching to a stop behind the cruiser. She was out of the Kia before it stopped rocking. She saw that the cruiser was empty, slammed her hand on the trunk, spun around, and raced, dodging traffic, across the roadway into the terminal. Matt was right behind her, followed by Eliot, holding Anna's hand.
"This ain't gonna work," said Seitz, looking at the string of unmoving brake lights disappearing into the distance northbound on Le Jeune.
"If you can make a right up there," said Baker, "you can swing over to Douglas, go up that way."
"See if that guy'll let me squeeze in front of him," said Seitz, nodding toward a Humvee in the right-hand lane next to their rental. Humvees are a common sight in Miami. They're especially popular with wealthy trend-followers who like to cruise the streets in these large, impractical pseudomilitary vehicles, as though awaiting orders to proceed to Baghdad. The Humvee next to the FBI rental car was occupied by three young males whose buzz-cut heads bobbed simultaneously to the whomping, churning bass notes blasting from a speaker the size of a doghouse filling the entire rear of the vehicle. The driver had received the car two days earlier as a nineteenth-birthday present from his father, a prosperous and respected local cocaine importer.
The Humvee occupants didn't hear Seitz honk his horn, so Greer lowered his window and waved to get the driver's attention. When the Humvee driver looked over, Greer made a cranking signal with his hand. The driver lowered his window; Greer, Seitz, and Baker winced as they were pounded by the music.
I want your sex pootie!
I want your sex pootie!
I want your sex pootie!
I want your sex pootie!
Greer, squinting into the howling gale of sound, made a gesture to the Humvee driver asking him to let the rental car squeeze in front. The Humvee driver made a gesture indicating that Greer should go fuck himself. The driver raised his window; he and his friends were laughing.
"Ah, youth," said Greer.
"You want me to show 'em my badge?" asked Baker.
"Nah," said Greer, opening the door and getting out.
"You ever hear of Special Executive Order 768 dash 4?" Seitz asked Baker.
"No," said Baker. "What's that?"
"Powerful law-enforcement tool," said Seitz.
Greer rapped his knuckles on the Humvee window. The driver glanced sideways, then again flipped Greer the bird. He and his buddies laughed. They stopped when Greer drove the butt of his revolver through the window with his right hand, then reached in with his left, grabbed the driver by the front of his Tommy Hilfiger shirt, and yanked him out the window and onto the street. The driver broke his fall with his hands, scrambled to his feet, and ran ahead into the mass of traffic without looking back. The other two young males exited on the passenger side without being asked. Greer climbed into the driver's seat, ejected the CD, turned off the sound system, and drove the Humvee up over the sidewalk and into a Burger King parking lot, clearing a path for Seitz to move over. Then he climbed out of the Humvee, dropped the CD onto the pavement, stepped on it, and got back in the rental.
"I could've just showed 'em my badge," said Baker.
"Nah," said Greer.
Seitz, aided by the helpful maneuvers of surrounding drivers who had watched Greer in action and did not wish to be viewed as uncooperative, was able to squeeze around to the right and onto a cross street, heading east to Douglas. When they were northbound again, Baker said, "What do you think this guy's gonna do? I mean, why's he going to the airport?"
"My guess," said Greer, "based on crime-fighter deductions, he's gonna try to get on a plane."
"How?" asked Baker. "I mean, there's security at the airport, right?"
That got a large snort from Seitz.
When Snake and his small, unhappy group reached the concourse for their Air Impact! flight, they found a long line of people waiting to go through the security checkpoint.
"Hold it," said Snake, pulling back on Jenny's arm. He wanted to watch a little bit, see what was going on.
It was the standard airport-security operation, which meant it appeared to have been designed to hassle law-abiding passengers just enough to reassure them, while at the same time providing virtually no protection against criminals with an IQ higher than celery. Passengers put their belongings on a conveyor belt that went through the X-ray machine; they put their phones, keys, beepers, and other metal objects on a little pass-through shelf; then they walked through the metal detector. This operation was being overseen by harried, distracted employees who seemed primarily concerned with keeping the line moving.