At 10:55 a man bumped my legs going by and blocked my view of the entrance. I craned my neck to look around him. He was an old man, white haired and leaning on a cane, and he was slow going past. I cursed silently to myself-Lacey might be coming through right now and I would miss him, all because of this guy-
Then I took a closer look at the old man. He had his face turned away from me so all I caught was a portion of his profile, but I knew it at once. That angular nose, the jowls hanging down beneath his chin-it was Lacey! He’d had the same notion we had, only he’d gone us one better, shaving part of his skull bare to make himself bald on top, all except for a fringe around that he’d powdered white. Add a cane and a stoop and you had a harmless granddad that no one would think was Jim Lacey if they didn’t look carefully, and then only if they were as near to him as I was sitting.
He hadn’t noticed me, or hadn’t recognized me, at least-that was to the good. But he’d passed me by now and was heading in his slow, measured way toward the gate at the end of the room, and I could see, looking around desperately, that none of Tom nor Mr. Christopher nor Mr. Schwartz had noticed or recognized him either. I wanted to get up and point, or shout, or do something-but then the game would be up, since Lacey had nothing on him but the cane in one hand and a light topcoat over his other arm. The money was surely with his girlfriend, and if I raised the alarm, she would bolt.
Where was she? Where-? I scanned the room left and right, looking for any female figure that looked out of place. But there was no reason, I knew, for her to look out of place. She’d be a woman, traveling alone, carrying a heavy case-but the room was packed, at the very height of the noon rush, and there must have been two dozen women traveling alone, every one of them with a heavy case in hand.
Then I looked over toward the gate. There were several women standing there, but one in particular caught my eye. She was holding a big dispatch case by her side and wearing dark glasses like mine. Neither of these facts was a guarantee of anything, of course. But as I watched, Lacey glanced at her and I saw her chin dip minutely in a nod.
Or had I imagined it? Had she been nodding at someone else? But no: he was heading straight for her, and though I couldn’t see her eyes behind the shadowed lenses, she was facing him directly, her lips were drawn tight, and looking down I saw the toe of one of her feet tap impatiently.
I glanced over at Tom. Behind his raised magazine he was staring toward the entrance, the wrong direction entirely. And Mr. Christopher and Mr. Schwartz were looking at each other-I saw one glance at his wristwatch and shrug.
There was no time any longer for subtlety. In a minute he’d be at the gate and it would be too late. I got up and crossed quickly, my heels clattering loudly against the tile floor. I watched Lacey’s back in front of me and prayed he wouldn’t turn around at the sound.
He didn’t. He just kept going, aimed like an arrow at the gate and the plane beyond, and the freedom they both represented.
A dozen hurried steps brought me to Mr. Schwartz’s side and I bent to whisper in his ear: “That’s him, the old man with the cane, the one who just went by. He did himself up like Tom did!”
He looked, and got up. Across the way, Mr. Christopher stood as well, seemingly casual-but not really so casual if you noticed how quickly he moved. They exchanged a glance, and I saw his eyes shoot along Lacey’s path to his destination. And now at last Tom looked over too, following what was going on from where he sat.
Mr. Schwartz was at Lacey’s side in an instant, one hand sliding in to grip his upper arm. Mr. Christopher, meanwhile, shot past, to the gate, and clamped his hand over the woman’s on the handle of the dispatch case. I couldn’t hear what she said, but saw a look of alarm on her face, and an attempt to pull away from him, until he flashed a badge that he held in his hand. At that point her shoulders fell.
They walked back past me toward a door marked PRIVATE-NO ADMITTANCE, all four of them, first Mr. Schwartz leading Lacey, who was no longer stooping or using the cane, and then Mr. Christopher leading the woman. I wondered what spectators might be thinking about the arthritic old man’s miraculous recovery. “Come with us,” Mr. Christopher said as he passed, and only after a moment did I realize he was addressing me. I shot a glance back toward where Tom sat, some distance off, and he hadn’t budged; perhaps grateful that things had come to a head without his having to show his face at all. I was nearer in any event, and time was at a premium.
“Ma’am, please,” said Mr. Christopher. I followed quickly in his wake.
He and the woman went through the door, then down a steep set of stairs, to a room marked AIRPORT OFFICE. Inside were some uniformed officers to whom Mr. Schwartz was showing his badge, and of course Lacey, looking frightened and combative. Mr. Christopher showed his badge as well, and then Mr. Schwartz got down to brass tacks: “We don’t want any trouble, cause you to miss your plane or anything like that-but we hear you’re carrying a large amount of money out of the country.”
“Who said that? They’re lying-”
Mr. Schwartz turned to me. “Is this the man?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Who are you?” Lacey said, still not recognizing me. “What is this?”
“We’re not the police,” Mr. Schwartz said. “We’re Internal Revenue. We don’t care where the money came from or what you did to get it. We just care that Uncle Sam gets his fair share.”
Mr. Christopher, meanwhile, had wrestled the case out of the woman’s hand and as we watched he unpacked a top layer of clothes and toiletries and then turned the case over to dump packs of money out. I could see they were held by paper tapes with printing on them-apparently the denominations of the bills, and how many. I saw some fifties, some hundreds, and one stack of twenties.
The woman suddenly sat down heavily in a chair. I confess I felt sorry for her.
Mr. Schwartz leafed through one pack of bills and Mr. Christopher leafed through another. They didn’t take off the tapes, but did each take out a card and write down an amount on it after checking a pack and putting it to one side. “O.K.,” said Mr. Schwartz when they’d finished and compared cards. “We make it fifty-five thousand even, and the tax on that is twenty-which we’ll impound, as taxes paid on account, giving you a receipt, and noting it’s subject to repayment, in part or in whole, if, as, and when warranted by your timely filed federal income tax return.”
Mr. Schwartz got a book out of his briefcase, a thing that looked like a checkbook, and wrote. It must have taken him just a few minutes to fill out the receipt, but it felt like ages as we all stood there in silence, glaring at one another. Then Mr. Schwartz tore out what he’d written, checked the carbons, of which there were two, and handed the original to Mr. Christopher. Mr. Christopher looked it over, handed it to Lacey, then put several packs of money into his briefcase, first letting Schwartz count each. I suddenly felt horror-stricken-they were almost done and still I didn’t have Lacey. He was right there in front of me, but his plane would leave in ten minutes and there was no way I could stop him from taking it. “Are we done?” he asked Mr. Schwartz, suddenly.
“All done.”
“Then, Flo-?”
But Flo didn’t get up from the chair she’d dropped into. “Ah, for Christ’s sake, Jim,” she growled. “Wake up, this is it, you’ve had it.”
“What’s the matter, you scared?”
“I guess so, call it that.”
“Well I’m not. I’m going.”
He grabbed the dispatch case up and jammed the remaining money and the clothes back in any which way. He didn’t even bother buckling it closed before heading for the door.