satisfied.
Sam turned and noticed Harold talking again.
“...she works at the hotel, too. It was love at first sight. You know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah, man. I know what you mean.” Did he ever.
Harold seemed to settle down after they reached airspace, and Sam opened a magazine in hopes that Harold might take a nap. He didn’t. They both ordered a couple of drinks from the flight attendant, who seemed too young to serve alcohol, and Harold’s monologue seemed to relax a little. Even so, Sam learned more than he wanted to know about Harold’s jitters over the new job, his worry that his new girlfriend didn’t like him as much as he liked her, and his fear that she might have flown the coop while he went home for the past three weeks. Harold seemed to be afraid of a lot more than flying.
The flight attendant announced the plane was approaching Grand Cayman. It had been a while since Sam had been there, and he couldn’t remember the flight taking so long, being only a few hundred miles from Miami. He guessed that flying around Cuba might be one reason. The lights of beach hotels rose under the plane, pale in comparison to those of Miami. This happened to be the home for much of the money in the world that people wanted to hide, probably many billions. But for all outward appearances, the island was just a laid-back tropical paradise with nothing on its mind but sun and drinks and slow, warm afternoons. Sam might come back again when he could stay a few weeks, and lie in the sun and drink rum until his head buzzed. Right now, though, he had to find the place identified by the coordinates written on a note in his pocket.
A few minutes later the plane descended to the runway and Harold grabbed onto Sam’s arm. Once on the ground, Harold wiped perspiration from his forehead and thanked Sam for his patience.
“Glad I could help. Good luck with the new life.”
They deplaned and Sam pointed him toward baggage claim. Sam got in line, showed the passport and license to an airport official, and headed for the taxi stand outside.
He had to wait in line a few minutes before a taxi became available.
“Where to, Mac?” The driver appeared to be American, probably retired from a factory job in the northeast.
“I don’t know, give me a minute.”
The old driver looked at him with one eyebrow raised and just nodded. Had he been in Miami, the driver probably would have told Sam to get out of the cab and gone on to the next customer. Sam fired up the gadget, compared the coordinates on the screen with the ones J.T. had given him, and found he needed to go north. He vaguely remembered a main highway running north and south on the west end of the island.
“I want to take the road that heads northwest.”
The driver hesitated and said, “Not much going on up there this time of night, and it’s pretty dark out. You sure you know where you’re going?”
“Yeah, I know exactly where it is,” Sam said with as much confidence as he could muster.
The driver shrugged and started the engine. They rode for about twenty minutes, passing a turtle farm that lit up the dark, but not much else. The latitude coordinate on the GPS unit increased in numbers and got closer to the coordinate on the note, then the road turned slightly east and the longitude coordinate, which had stayed right on the money since their journey began, started moving away from the target. Sam hadn’t seen a building or anything else that might be his destination, but he asked the driver to stop and turn around.
“I think the place I’m going is close to here, so go slow.”
The driver mumbled something Sam didn’t understand, but he did as asked. They approached a path on the side of the road, a swath about ten feet wide cut in the scrub, and Sam said, “Turn here, I think this is it.”
The driver put on the brakes. “Sorry, I can’t go down there. The sand might be soft and we’d get stuck.”
Sam looked at the GPS screen. The place
Sam turned and noticed Harold talking again.
“...she works at the hotel, too. It was love at first sight. You know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah, man. I know what you mean.” Did he ever.
Harold seemed to settle down after they reached airspace, and Sam opened a magazine in hopes that Harold might take a nap. He didn’t. They both ordered a couple of drinks from the flight attendant, who seemed too young to serve alcohol, and Harold’s monologue seemed to relax a little. Even so, Sam learned more than he wanted to know about Harold’s jitters over the new job, his worry that his new girlfriend didn’t like him as much as he liked her, and his fear that she might have flown the coop while he went home for the past three weeks. Harold seemed to be afraid of a lot more than flying.
The flight attendant announced the plane was approaching Grand Cayman. It had been a while since Sam had been there, and he couldn’t remember the flight taking so long, being only a few hundred miles from Miami. He guessed that flying around Cuba might be one reason. The lights of beach hotels rose under the plane, pale in comparison to those of Miami. This happened to be the home for much of the money in the world that people wanted to hide, probably many billions. But for all outward appearances, the island was just a laid-back tropical paradise with nothing on its mind but sun and drinks and slow, warm afternoons. Sam might come back again when he could stay a few weeks, and lie in the sun and drink rum until his head buzzed. Right now, though, he had to find the place identified by the coordinates written on a note in his pocket.
A few minutes later the plane descended to the runway and Harold grabbed onto Sam’s arm. Once on the ground, Harold wiped perspiration from his forehead and thanked Sam for his patience.
“Glad I could help. Good luck with the new life.”
They deplaned and Sam pointed him toward baggage claim. Sam got in line, showed the passport and license to an airport official, and headed for the taxi stand outside.
He had to wait in line a few minutes before a taxi became available.
“Where to, Mac?” The driver appeared to be American, probably retired from a factory job in the northeast.
“I don’t know, give me a minute.”
The old driver looked at him with one eyebrow raised and just nodded. Had he been in Miami, the driver probably would have told Sam to get out of the cab and gone on to the next customer. Sam fired up the gadget, compared the coordinates on the screen with the ones J.T. had given him, and found he needed to go north. He vaguely remembered a main highway running north and south on the west end of the island.
“I want to take the road that heads northwest.”
The driver hesitated and said, “Not much going on up there this time of night, and it’s pretty dark out. You sure you know where you’re going?”
“Yeah, I know exactly where it is,” Sam said with as much confidence as he could muster.
The driver shrugged and started the engine. They rode for about twenty minutes, passing a turtle farm that lit up the dark, but not much else. The latitude coordinate on the GPS unit increased in numbers and got closer to the coordinate on the note, then the road turned slightly east and the longitude coordinate, which had stayed right on the money since their journey began, started moving away from the target. Sam hadn’t seen a building or anything else that might be his destination, but he asked the driver to stop and turn around.
“I think the place I’m going is close to here, so go slow.”
The driver mumbled something Sam didn’t understand, but he did as asked. They approached a path on the side of the road, a swath about ten feet wide cut in the scrub, and Sam said, “Turn here, I think this is it.”
The driver put on the brakes. “Sorry, I can’t go down there. The sand might be soft and we’d get stuck.”
Sam looked at the GPS screen. The place
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