For Gaetano, the problem in the current situation was being dependent on people he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. Somebody was supposed to meet him when he landed on the island, but there was no guarantee it would happen. Since the trip had been patched together so quickly, there was no plan B or contacts to call, except Lou back in Boston, and Lou could be hard to get ahold of after-hours. Even if the mystery man showed up at the airport, there was always the chance he and Gaetano wouldn’t hook up in the inevitable confusion, since neither knew what the other looked like. To make matters worse, Gaetano was supposed to be back in Boston the next day, so it wasn’t like he had the benefit of a lot of time.
The other reason Gaetano was nervous was because he didn’t like small planes. Big ones were okay, since he could talk himself out of believing he was up in the sky. Little ones were another story altogether, and the one he was on at the moment was the smallest he had experienced. To make matters worse, the plane was vibrating like an electric toothbrush and bouncing around like a billiard ball. Gaetano had nothing to hold on to, except the seatback in front of his nose. There wasn’t much room in the cabin. With his bulk, he was literally wedged in against the window.
Gaetano had caught an American flight down to Miami, where he’d transferred to the plane he was currently on. The sun was setting when he took off on this second leg, and now it was pitch dark outside his window. He tried not to think about what was below the bobbing aircraft, although every time the engines sounded as if they were slowing down, the mental image of a vast, black ocean involuntarily popped into his mind’s eye to add to his anxieties. Gaetano had a secret: He couldn’t swim, and drowning was a recurrent nightmare.
Gaetano glanced around at the other passengers. There was no conversation, as if everyone were as terrified as he. Most were blankly staring ahead. A few were reading, with individual, narrow beams of light coming from over their heads to form isolated shafts of illumination in the general murkiness. The cabin attendant was seated facing her charges in response to a directive from the pilots about turbulence. Her bored expression provided a bit of reassurance, although it was partially trumped by her considerably more substantial seat belt with shoulder straps, as if she expected the worst.
A particularly solid thump followed by the plane quivering made Gaetano start. It was as if they had struck some airborne object. For a minute, he didn’t even breathe, but nothing happened. He swallowed to relieve a suddenly dry throat. Resigning himself to his fate, he closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. The moment he did so, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom to announce that they would be landing shortly.
With a burst of optimism, Gaetano pressed his nose against the window and looked down. Instead of a black void, he now saw twinkling lights ahead. He exhaled with relief. It seemed that he was going to make it after all.
The plane landed with a welcome, distinctive thud. A moment later, the whine of the engines magnified, accompanied by a sensation of rapid braking. Gaetano supported himself against the seatback in front of him. He felt so good about the plane being on the ground that he smiled at the passenger seated to his right. The man responded in kind. Redirecting his attention out the window, Gaetano was now able to concentrate on his worries about the gun.
With relatively few passengers on the plane, disembarking was rapid, and Gaetano was among the first on the tarmac. He sucked in the warm, tropical air while luxuriating in the sensation of being on terra firma. When everyone was out of the cabin, he and the rest of the passengers were herded into the terminal.
Clutching his small carry-on, Gaetano paused just inside the door. He didn’t quite know what to do. He thought his size made him stand out, but no one approached him. He was wearing the same upscale clothes he had worn on the last visit, which included the short-sleeve Hawaiian print shirt, light tan slacks, and dark blue jacket. Pressure from people behind him made him move forward. It was like being carried along in a river flowing toward passport control. When it was his turn, Gaetano handed over his document. The agent was about to stamp it when he caught sight of the notations of Gaetano’s recent visit. Not only was it a short time ago, it was only for a single day. He looked up at Gaetano questioningly.
“I was just checking the place out the first time,” Gaetano explained. “I liked it, so now I’m back for vacation.”
The man didn’t respond. He stamped the passport, pushed it toward Gaetano, and reached for the next person’s.
Gaetano pressed on, past the crowds at the baggage carousels and then approached customs. With his American passport in his hands and his carry-on, the agents waved him by. He walked out through a pair of double doors that were propped open. An attentive crowd of people stood behind a flimsy metal movable railing. They were all eagerly trying to see family and friends through the open doors. No one expressed any interest in Gaetano.
Unsure about what to do, Gaetano kept going. Initially, he had to move laterally to get beyond the railing before merging with the boisterous crowd. After walking a short distance, he stopped and scanned the terminal, hoping to make eye contact with someone. No one paid him the slightest heed. He scratched his head, wondering what to do. For lack of a better plan, he made his way to the car-rental area and waited in line.
Fifteen minutes later, he had keys to another Cherokee, although this time it was supposed to be green. He wandered back to the international arrivals area and was about to try to call Lou when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
By reflex, Gaetano spun around, ready to do battle. He found himself staring into the dark eyes of the blackest, baldest man he had ever seen. There were enough gold chains around his neck to make bending over a resistance exercise, and there was enough light reflecting off his scalp to make Gaetano squint. The man responded to Gaetano’s overreaction by stepping back and holding up both hands as if to parry a blow. One of the hands held a wrinkled brown paper bag.
“Easy, man!” the individual said. He spoke with the same colorful, Bahamian accent Gaetano remembered from his first visit. “I don’t mean no harm.”
Gaetano was embarrassed about his aggressiveness and tried to apologize.
“No problem, man.” The voice had a definite lilt. “Are you Gaetano Baresse from Boston?”
“Speaking!” Gaetano said, with a smile of relief. For a second, he felt like hugging the stranger, as if he were a lost relative. “You have something for me?”
“If you’re Gaetano Baresse, I do. The name is Robert. Let me show you what I have.” With that, the man unrolled the top of his paper bag and reached in with the intention of lifting out the contents.
“Hey, don’t whip that thing out here!” Gaetano forcibly whispered. He was horrified. “Are you crazy?” Gaetano’s eyes made a nervous sweep around the terminal. There were several armed but bored policemen in the immediate area. Thankfully, they weren’t paying any attention.
“You want to see it, don’t you?” the man asked.
“Yeah, but not here in the middle of everything. Did you come in a car?”
“Sure, I came in a car.”
“Let’s go.”
With a shrug, the man led the way out of the terminal. A few minutes later, they climbed into a pastel, vintage Cadillac with huge tail fins. The man switched on the overhead light and handed Gaetano the bag. Gaetano was expecting some sort of Saturday night special, but what he pulled out surprised him considerably. It was a nine-millimeter SW99 equipped with a LaserMax and a Bowers CAC9 suppressor.