nodded extra hard.
“Okay, back on the mattress.”
The girl started getting up but fell down again, pulling a sheet with her.
“Jeremy,” said Rood. “Give her a hand.”
The cameraman helped her the rest of the way.
He returned. “I think they’re ready.”
“I think you’re right. Roll camera.” Rood raised his voice toward the bed: “Make out with each other. And I want to see lots of tongue on nipples!”
“Forget it!”
“That’s gross!”
Rood went over to the wet bar.
BOSTON
A buzzer sounded. A belt jerked to life in baggage claim.
Anxious travelers ringed the carousel and bunched near the front where luggage came out, trying to see through the hanging rubber strips as if it would accelerate the process.
People snagged suitcases and tote bags. Some placed them back on the belt when the name tag was wrong. Others were easily identified from a rainbow of ribbons their owners had tied to the handles.
Guillermo saw an orange ribbon and snatched a Samsonite. His colleagues grabbed their own luggage, which came by at random intervals.
Finally, they had retrieved everything. And they stayed there.
A taxi stopped outside at the curb. A man with red hair and freckles emerged. One of the few people bringing baggage into baggage claim. He took a spot on the opposite side of the carousel from the Florida visitors. Two grandparents rolled bags away; he stepped forward and set a black suitcase at his feet. Guillermo knew the man was there, but neither looked. After sufficient time to allay suspicion, the man studied the name tag on the black suitcase and pretended it wasn’t his. He placed it on the belt.
Guillermo watched it make the turn and nonchalantly grabbed a handle on the way by. They headed for the rental counter.
Thirty minutes later, a Hertz Town Car cruised south on I-93. Raul rode shotgun, opening the black suitcase in his lap. He reached into the protective foam lining and passed out automatic weapons. “What was the deal back there with the Irish guy?”
“Raul,” Guillermo said patiently, “what is it about not checking machine guns through in your luggage that you don’t understand?”
They took the Dorchester exit at sunset and reached a bedroom neighborhood in the dark. Large oaks and maples. TV sets flickering through curtains. The Town Car slowed as it approached the appointed address. Guillermo parked a house short on the opposite side of the street.
Miguel leaned forward from the backseat. “Is that the place?”
Guillermo checked his notes, looked up and nodded. Everything appeared normal. That is, except for the fiercely bright spotlight in the middle of the front yard.
The gang watched as a last, straggling TV correspondent wrapped up a taped spot for the eleven o’clock report. The yard went dark. Guillermo opened his door.
“Excuse me? Ma’am?”
The woman turned.
Guillermo jogged toward the station’s truck as a cameraman removed his battery belt. “Do you have a second?”
“What is it?”
“Is that the home of hero Patrick McKenna?”
“You know him?”
“Went to school together. Amazing what he did!”
“You went to school with him?” She looked over her shoulder. “Gus, get the camera. We might have something.”
“No!” Guillermo’s palms went out. “I mean, no, my wife will kill me. I was supposed to go to this boring dinner party but told her I was working late.”
She sagged. “Forget it, Gus.”
Guillermo looked toward the house. With the camera off, it became obvious there wasn’t a light on in the place, not even the porch. He turned back toward the woman. “Anyone home?”
She shook her head and opened the van’s passenger door.
“Expect him back?” asked Guillermo.
“Not any time soon.” She climbed inside.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he moved out.”
“Moved? When?”
“This morning. It was crazy.”
“How was it crazy?”
“If you can tell me anything at all about him, I won’t use your
“Okay, back on the mattress.”
The girl started getting up but fell down again, pulling a sheet with her.
“Jeremy,” said Rood. “Give her a hand.”
The cameraman helped her the rest of the way.
He returned. “I think they’re ready.”
“I think you’re right. Roll camera.” Rood raised his voice toward the bed: “Make out with each other. And I want to see lots of tongue on nipples!”
“Forget it!”
“That’s gross!”
Rood went over to the wet bar.
BOSTON
A buzzer sounded. A belt jerked to life in baggage claim.
Anxious travelers ringed the carousel and bunched near the front where luggage came out, trying to see through the hanging rubber strips as if it would accelerate the process.
People snagged suitcases and tote bags. Some placed them back on the belt when the name tag was wrong. Others were easily identified from a rainbow of ribbons their owners had tied to the handles.
Guillermo saw an orange ribbon and snatched a Samsonite. His colleagues grabbed their own luggage, which came by at random intervals.
Finally, they had retrieved everything. And they stayed there.
A taxi stopped outside at the curb. A man with red hair and freckles emerged. One of the few people bringing baggage into baggage claim. He took a spot on the opposite side of the carousel from the Florida visitors. Two grandparents rolled bags away; he stepped forward and set a black suitcase at his feet. Guillermo knew the man was there, but neither looked. After sufficient time to allay suspicion, the man studied the name tag on the black suitcase and pretended it wasn’t his. He placed it on the belt.
Guillermo watched it make the turn and nonchalantly grabbed a handle on the way by. They headed for the rental counter.
Thirty minutes later, a Hertz Town Car cruised south on I-93. Raul rode shotgun, opening the black suitcase in his lap. He reached into the protective foam lining and passed out automatic weapons. “What was the deal back there with the Irish guy?”
“Raul,” Guillermo said patiently, “what is it about not checking machine guns through in your luggage that you don’t understand?”
They took the Dorchester exit at sunset and reached a bedroom neighborhood in the dark. Large oaks and maples. TV sets flickering through curtains. The Town Car slowed as it approached the appointed address. Guillermo parked a house short on the opposite side of the street.
Miguel leaned forward from the backseat. “Is that the place?”
Guillermo checked his notes, looked up and nodded. Everything appeared normal. That is, except for the fiercely bright spotlight in the middle of the front yard.
The gang watched as a last, straggling TV correspondent wrapped up a taped spot for the eleven o’clock report. The yard went dark. Guillermo opened his door.
“Excuse me? Ma’am?”
The woman turned.
Guillermo jogged toward the station’s truck as a cameraman removed his battery belt. “Do you have a second?”
“What is it?”
“Is that the home of hero Patrick McKenna?”
“You know him?”
“Went to school together. Amazing what he did!”
“You went to school with him?” She looked over her shoulder. “Gus, get the camera. We might have something.”
“No!” Guillermo’s palms went out. “I mean, no, my wife will kill me. I was supposed to go to this boring dinner party but told her I was working late.”
She sagged. “Forget it, Gus.”
Guillermo looked toward the house. With the camera off, it became obvious there wasn’t a light on in the place, not even the porch. He turned back toward the woman. “Anyone home?”
She shook her head and opened the van’s passenger door.
“Expect him back?” asked Guillermo.
“Not any time soon.” She climbed inside.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he moved out.”
“Moved? When?”
“This morning. It was crazy.”
“How was it crazy?”
“If you can tell me anything at all about him, I won’t use your
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