Detour

EIGHTEEN

They found an Exxon station somewhere in the Bronx.

A Middle Eastern man pumping gas pointed to the back of the station when Paul asked for the bathroom.

Paul had made it back into the taxi in the middle of the Triborough Bridge, with the assistance of a middle-aged woman who’d magically materialized from a white minivan. He’d refused the woman’s offer to obtain medical assistance. He’d told the taxi driver, who’d remained snugly in his front seat, that he wasn’t interested in going to the police. No. Just 1346 Ganet Street in Jersey City.

First he’d needed a bathroom.

The taxi driver closed the plastic partition between driver and passenger as Paul sat half on his hip the entire way.

When he got into the stifling gas station bathroom—which wasn’t so much a bathroom as a hole with toilet—he discovered pretty much what he’d expected.

Everything he’d swallowed back in Bogotá had come out. The condoms were still intact.

He dumped them into the filthy sink, washed them off with warm rusty water. He took off his pants and slathered them with the yellowish gunk that came out of the soap dispenser, then soaked them under the faucet. He cleaned himself up as best he could.

He wasn’t going to swallow the condoms again. He couldn’t. He would get to the house in Jersey City and tell them what happened—that they’d come out just a few miles from delivery.

He carefully placed the drugs in the overnight bag he’d dragged into the bathroom with him. He went back out to the taxi and crawled into the backseat. The driver had aired it out during his bathroom break. Both doors were wide open, both windows rolled down.

At least the driver didn’t say anything to him. Paul had taken one on the chin for him.

His gratitude must have outweighed his disgust.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER THEY ENTERED JERSEY CITY.

Paul was looking on the bright side. Yes, there was a bright side. He’d made it this far. Consider the percentages.

He was blocks from delivering his cargo. From fulfilling his part of the bargain.

The taxi driver turned into an area festooned with Arabic signs. They passed a yellow mosque complete with gleaming minaret, an open-air market dripping with exotic-looking fruits and vegetables. They crawled past several women covered head-to-toe in black burkas, drifting down the street like shadows.

My name is Paul Breidbart. I have something you’ve been waiting for.

He pictured Joanna’s face as she got off the plane. Still hollow-eyed and fatigued, but flush with gratitude and relief. She would have Joelle pressed to her chest. They would go home, where their best friends, John and Lisa, would’ve tied bright pink balloons to the doorknob of their apartment.

My name is Paul Breidbart. I’ve got something for you.

The taxi stopped. The driver was craning his neck, peering out the side window.

“Are we here?” Paul asked.

“Thirteen forty-six Ganet Street?” the driver said.

“Yes. Is this it?”

“This is Ganet Street,” he said.

“Good,” Paul said. They were in the middle of a block. A grocery, a drugstore, and two check-cashing places were situated on one side of the street. The other side looked residential, which must’ve been the side he was looking for.

Only something was wrong. The taxi driver was shaking his head and sighing.

“Thirteen forty-six?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“It’s not there,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look,” the taxi driver said. “It’s missing.”