Step On A Crack

Chapter 33

CHARLIE CONLAN waited on line for his “interview” in front of one of the purple-draped confessionals along the south walkway.

Sounded a little melodramatic if you asked him, more cheesy scare tactics like the masks and robes. It seemed like the hijackers were trying to play off the gothic mood of the place, get people afraid, keep ’em off balance at all times. Fairly intelligent tactics, actually.

Conlan knew most over-the-hill rock legends like him were pretty soft. But few had his background. What growing up poor on the downtown streets of Detroit had failed to teach him, an extended stay at the Hanoi Hilton for most of ’69 had filled in pretty well.

Conlan steeled himself as the dark wood door finally opened and a woman, Marilyn Rubenstein, emerged from her “interview.” He saw that the young actress looked shaken as she came closer to him. Her blond hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat, and her glazed-over eyes looked as if she had just been forced to witness something grossly wrong.

She caught Conlan gaping at her as the guards led her past. “Do what they say,” she advised in a whisper.

“Next,” the hijacker at the door called in a bored voice. “That means you, hotshot.”

Conlan hesitated; then he stepped across the marble entryway and into the room.

It wasn’t a confessional, Conlan realized immediately. It was a little security room. Some folding chairs, a table. A coffee machine and a row of charging walkie-talkies on a metal desk along one wall.

Sitting at the metal table in the middle of the room was the lead hijacker, Jack. He motioned to the empty metal chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Please, Mr. Conlan, have a seat. I’m a big fan, by the way.”

Conlan sat. “Thank you.”

On the table between them were two items. A pair of handcuffs in a clear plastic bag and a roll of duct tape. Conlan eyed the items, trying to keep the fear in his belly from rising. Don’t show ’em anything, Charlie. Everything close to the vest.

Jack lifted a clipboard from his lap. His pen clicked.

“Okay, Mr. Charlie Conlan,” he said. “In order to facilitate things here, I’m going to have to ask you for the names and numbers of your financial people. Any kind of pin or access codes that are needed to get to your funds, passwords, that sort of thing, would be most helpful.”

Conlan forced himself to smile as he made eye contact with Jack.

“So all this is about money?” he said.

The hijacker tapped the pen against the top of the clipboard and frowned.

“I don’t have the time for idle chitchat, Mr. Conlan,” Jack said. “Are you going to cooperate or not? Last chance.”

Conlan decided he needed to push the envelope some. See exactly what they were dealing with here.

“Let me think about that for a second,” he said, rubbing his chin with his fingertips. “Agghh. Ummmm. Fuck, no?”

Jack slowly took the cuffs out of the plastic bag, and then he stood. He walked behind Conlan and quickly, expertly cuffed his wrists behind his back.

Conlan clenched his jaw as he waited for the first blow to come. He’d had teeth pulled out with pliers. He hoped the little Napoleonic bastard had brought his lunch.

But the first blow didn’t come.

Instead there was a quick rustle-and the plastic bag was plopped over Conlan’s head.

Tape shrieked, and then a nooselike pressure encased Charlie Conlan’s neck, closing the bag with an airtight seal. Sweat immediately began flooding out of his pores. The plastic clung to his skin like grease, rattled in his mouth and nostrils as he took a panicked breath.

“Little hot in there, isn’t it, hardass?” Jack said through the membrane of plastic near Conlan’s ear.

Conlan gagged. His throat was burning up. Oh God, Christ, no. Not like this.

Jack sat down, yawned, and crossed his legs as Conlan convulsed. After an eternity, Jack checked his watch.

“You want to sign up for my cash-for-oxygen program?” he asked. “Up to you.”

Plastic crackled in Conlan’s ears as he nodded vigorously.

Jack reached across the table, and air, sweet air, rushed in around his gloved finger as he poked a small hole in the bag.

“I thought the Beatles were an influence of yours, Charlie,” Jack said, smiling as he drummed his fingers on the table. “C’mon. Don’t you remember? ‘The best things in life are free’?”

Conlan gasped and wheezed with his head down against the table. The clipboard was slid beside his chin. A pen landed on top of it.

Two thoughts pounded through Conlan’s brain with the returning oxygen. The first was a prayer. The second a curse.

My God.

We’re completely fucked.