He concentrated on the sitcom as he shoveled the rest of his food down. The alcohol hit fast and he was soon buzzing. The itching was no longer constant, but instead came in waves, uncomfortable but manageable. The pulsating pain continued, but was considerably less intense.
This won’t be so bad.
He downed the Johnnie Walker Red label and started focusing on the characters in the sitcom. He even managed to chuckle quietly, with one palm pressed against his head.
More food.
Some white wine.
The show got better by the minute until he laughed out loud, spitting his food onto the screen, and partially spraying the legs of the jerk next to him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, offering a napkin, but the guy was already busy cleaning his pants. Mitch offered the man a bottle of vodka and when he refused, Mitch popped the top off and downed it himself. He looked at the remainder of his stock: one whiskey, one vodka, a Drambuie and about a half bottle of white wine.
That ought to keep me going for at least an hour.
But he managed to knock it all back in less than twenty minutes. The pain was dull and tolerable, but the itching was still uncomfortable.
He got up out of his seat, losing balance and knocking his food tray onto the floor, the left over mashed potato and gravy spilling into the aisle and onto the mother’s side. She gave him a filthy look.
“Sorry,” he said, then did his best to walk in a straight line to the rest room. He slammed the door and shut the locked it. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw the food on the front of his clothing.
Shit. Don’t fuck this up! If you’re not careful they’ll throw you out!
He laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought before his attention returned to the itching. He pulled off his skullcap, examining the bandages that encircled his head in the mirror. A small amount of blood had seeped through.
Nothing to be alarmed about.
He unclipped the fastener and slowly unrolled the bandage off his head. He tilted his head down to take a look. The skin around the stitches was bright red, almost glowing.
It’s the stitches. I’m allergic to the material. That fucking quack cheaped out on the stitches!
An intense burst of itching came on. He turned his head sideways to the mirror, and pressed his palm against the stitches. Little did he know that it was the tiny stubbles of hair within the wound that were causing the itching.
You can do this. A couple more drinks and you’ll pass out and sleep all the way to Los Angeles.
He started putting the dressing back on, or trying to, rolling it around his head in a drunken, half-assed way when the plane was hit by a burst of turbulence. He was thrown against the wall, the bandage falling into the open toilet. The turbulence ended.
Oh, for fuck sake!
His skullcap sat in the hand basin but was only slightly wet. He looked at the bandage and paused, then reached down for it.
They hit another patch of turbulence, the plane shaking violently. This time he was flung to the floor, his arm plunging straight into the bottom of the foul, murky toilet. Finally it ended and he got to his feet, pulled the bandage out of the toilet and looked at it. Smeared with shit and urine, there was no way he was putting it back on his head now. He dumped it into the disposal unit, washed his hands thoroughly, and put the skullcap on his head. One last look in the mirror.
You look like shit but hey, it’s a long flight. Who won’t look like shit by the end of it? You’ll do.
He staggered out. As he pulled the toilet door shut, he noticed the cabin crew area at the back of business class was unattended. He wandered in and saw four food carts, partially stocked with food and 500 ml bottles of liquor. He grabbed two bottles and stuffed them down the front of his jeans, then he took a food tray, still hot.
What the hell, take a couple!
He took another food tray and dumped its contents onto the first, then walked back down the aisle. The lights were out and almost all of the window covers were down, most of the passengers sleeping, or trying to. He slumped down and sat the tray on the flip-out table and started eating, glancing sideways as a stewardess passed by, paying him no attention.
He set one of the Black Label bottles on the table. The guy next to him, now wrapped in a blanket, cringed and turned away. His head was beginning to itch even worse than before and he thought the fibers in the cotton skullcap were probably to blame.
Time for more booze!
Chapter 7
“Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me, sir?” Rob said.
Mitch felt himself being shaken. He kept his eyes closed, hoping it would stop, wishing to remain asleep until they landed. But the shaking continued, awakening his senses to a tsunami of a hangover. With every shake, his brain seemed to roll like the ball of a compass.
He opened his eyes to see Robert, the air steward, leaning over him. Mitch squinted in the light. He looked around. All the passengers had left. His clothes were covered in gravy, mashed potato and alcohol, of which he absolutely reeked.
“Sir, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little groggy,” he said with a smile.
“The paramedics will be here in a minute, you’ll be fine.”
“What? Paramedics?”
“I’m afraid you need to go to the hospital, sir.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your stitches,” Robert said, gesturing to Mitch’s hands.He looked down at his bloody hands. He had picked the stitches out and they were scattered over his lap. His skullcap was jammed under his thighs. Mitch put a hand on top of his head and felt his scalp overlapping his forehead. He moved his hand gently to the back of his head and felt a small trench, an open wound. At the bottom of it he could feel the hard, exposed surface of the lead case. He pulled his hand down. It was wet with blood.
“The paramedics will be here in just a moment,” Robert said, and Mitch noticed two stewards standing beside him.
“I’m okay,” he said, and staggered to his feet.
“Please sit down, sir.”
Mitch stood up, swaying, and pushed himself past Robert and the other stewards. He felt gentle hands taking his shoulder but pulled away and made for the toilet. Once inside he locked the door and turned to the mirror. His face and neck were covered in blood, and his scalp was half way down his forehead.
Christ! You fucking idiot! Wait, wait.... maybe I can fix this.
He used both hands to force the scalp back, sliding it into place, blood oozing from the edges of the wound. He put the skullcap on and staggered out.
***
Inside the airport medical room, Mitch lay on an examination table. Two customs officials were standing by, reading over Mitch’s medical certificate. A paramedic examined Mitch’s head, while another unfolded a stretcher.
“Can you get onto the stretcher or would you like some help?” a paramedic asked.
“I can do it,” he said and got up slowly.
Mitch did not want to be taken to hospital and miss being picked up by Doc’s people. He had to make sure that didn’t happen.
“I appreciate your concern, everybody,” he said, standing up. “You guys are pros and I really, truly appreciate it. But the doctors back in Indo told me this might happen and it’s nothing to be alarmed about, okay.”
He pushed the two paramedics away and stepped back a few feet.
“I have family waiting to pick me up, so if you’ll kindly show me where my bag is, I’ll be on my way.”
Mitch stood swaying like a skyscraper in an earthquake.
“Sir, please lie down. You need medical attention,” a paramedic said, blocking Mitch.
“You can’t force me to have medical attention.”
“Buddy,” said a customs officer, “we can force you to have a cavity search, if you’d prefer.”
“Sir, we’re just trying to help,” said the paramedic, “please lie on the stretcher.”
Mitch sized up the customs o
fficers. He knew he had no chance of getting past them, drunk or not. He had to be smart and talk his way out of this.
“You’re right. I definitely need a doctor. But I’m not taking an ambulance, my family is just outside, right out there in the arrivals. They can drive me to hospital. In fact, they’ll insist on taking me to hospital, I guarantee.”
The customs officers and paramedics looked at each other, sighed, nodded in agreement.
“Okay, can you take us to your family?”
“Sure,” Mitch said. The room was spinning and as he took a step he felt himself losing balance. Then he watched helplessly as the floor rushed towards him. His temple struck the steel corner of the stretcher with a bang, his scalp flung off his head. He watched as the lead case hit the hard tiles, the impact triggering it to spring open. The satchel of golden brown powder fell onto the floor. As immense pain shot into his brain, his ears ringing, Mitch looked at his scalp, then at the satchel. Then he looked up at the customs officers, who were already swooping towards him.
***
The man in the black suit and tie stood in arrivals, holding a sign with Mitch’s name on it. He watched the passengers from the Jakarta flight collect their baggage from conveyer belt. None of them was wearing a skullcap and he began to feel certain his guy was a no-show.
Must’ve been nabbed in Jakarta, he thought.
Then he saw the paramedics wheeling a young guy on a stretcher, flanked by two police officers. He noticed the patient’s left hand was cuffed to stretcher and his head was a covered in a bloody bandage.
The man turned and walked towards the exit, dumping the sign in the trash.
Chapter 8
Mitch lay on the only bed in the hospital room, his head bandaged, his left hand cuffed to the bed rail. A young police officer named Jenkins sat beside him, quietly chuckling at something on his smart phone. Mitch stared at the evening news on the television, but his mind was elsewhere. Even when the doctor had explained that he might need a scalp reconstruction, all he could think about was how he was going to get the Rituxan.
Doc would surely have no intention of handing the medicine over now. He would be worried about Mitch talking to the cops, telling them everything, giving Doc up. And that was what Mitch had to bargain with. After all, it wasn’t his fault he got caught, that he had had a reaction to the stitches. Doc hadn’t given him enough painkillers. Hell, he’d risked his life to smuggle drugs for Doc. They had never agreed that the deal was off if he got caught. As far as Mitch was concerned, his side of the deal was done. Now it was up to Doc to deliver. If that old quack wants to stay out of prison, he’d better come through with the medicine.
Mitch was wondering how he might communicate his terms to Doc when a news story caught his attention.
“Becky Cox, a thirty two year old from Hollywood, died of a drug overdose when a breast implant filled with heroin ruptured inside her onboard a flight from Jakarta,” the news anchor said. “Cox was raced to hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival,” the anchor continued.
Poor GB, Mitch thought. Still, better than facing the firing squad.
“Two other passengers on the flight were arrested, one in Jakarta, the other in Los Angeles. Jack Milton has been incarcerated in a Jakarta prison for attempting to smuggle cocaine out of the country.” A mug shot of the hipster arrested on the plane appeared on the screen.
“Another man, twenty four-year-old Mitch Walker from Los Angeles, was arrested on arrival at Los Angeles International Airport for attempted heroin trafficking.” The news cut to a shot of Mitch on a stretcher, being loaded into an ambulance. “It’s alleged that Walker had the drug surgically implanted under his scalp. He is set to face California justice and a lengthy jail term, while Milton faces Indonesian justice, and most likely death by firing squad. Los Angeles police are working with law enforcement agencies in Jakarta to determine if the three Americans were mules for a local crime syndicate.”
The door to Mitch’s room opened and Detective Betts walked in. Jenkins pocketed his phone and sat up. Betts whistled and thumbed for him to leave and he walked out. Betts stood beside Mitch’s bed.
“Feeling better now?”
Mitch nodded.
“Good,” he said, and placed a small tape recorder on the bedside trolley, switching it on. “I want to make something clear to you, Mr. Walker. The amount of heroin you were trafficking will get you at least eight years inside. Plus intent to sell is another two to four. You’ll be lucky if you get ten years. That’s if you don’t co-operate. If you help us, we could pull that right back.”
“How can I help you?”
“Tell us who put you up to it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t know I was carrying heroin.”
“What, so you had a motorcycle accident, needed surgery, and the doctor decided to plant heroin in your skull?”
“Yes, as far as I can make out, that seems to be exactly what happened. I don’t even remember crashing the bike. I woke up after the surgery in Jakarta. Jumped on the first flight home.”
“What hospital was that?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Coz there isn’t a hospital in Jakarta with a record of having you stay there, and there isn’t an ambulance report with your name on it. The doctor’s certificate you had is a fake. So, give me something here.”
“This is all news to me. I’m still in shock about the accident, let alone all this!”
“Let’s save some time here, okay? The people who put you up to this, they already know you’ve been caught and are probably already plotting to kill you, either in here or in prison. Do you understand that?”
Mitch immediately dismissed the idea of Doc being a killer and assumed the cop was trying to panic him into a confession. “Nobody put me up to this.”
“They’re not going to hope that you don’t talk. With these guys, the only witnesses who get the benefit of the doubt are dead witnesses. You don’t qualify just yet.”
Mitch wasn’t intimidated, and Betts could see it.
“Why did you do it?” Betts asked.
Mitch shook his head and sighed, knowing that this guy wasn’t going to go away and this was only the beginning of a nightmare. He had to stick to his story and hope and pray that they believed that he was the victim of some drug trafficking scam.
“Obviously you needed the money. You lost your job a few months back. Things have been tough.”
“You’re wasting your time, you should be looking for the doctor at that hospital in Indonesia.”
“I’m trying to do the right thing by you, here. Help me understand. This seems to be completely out of character for you. You’ve got a clean record, you’ve even got a bravery award for intervening in an armed hold-up at a gas station. Why the sudden change?”
“There was no change. Do you really think I’d risk a death sentence to make some quick cash?”
“Clearly you weren’t thinking straight.”
The door opened and a lovely looking young woman entered, pushing a pale and gaunt boy in a wheelchair. Mitch sat up as she parked the boy at his bedside.
“Are you family?” Betts asked.
“I’m his sister,” she said.
“Okay. Hi, I’m Detective Betts,” he said, extending his hand. She shook it, looking him in the eye and managing half a smile. He was immediately taken with her.
“Lauren Walker.”
“And who’s this young man?”
“This is Peter.”
“Hello, young fella.”
Peter managed a slight smile.
“Nice of you to come visit your uncle Mitch. Alright, Mitch, I’ll talk to you later,” Betts said, and walked out the door.
Mitch was alarmed to see Peter in the wheelchair and did his best not to show it.
“Hi Pete!”
Peter smiled broadly and Lauren parked him beside the bed and gave Mitch a gentle hug and a kiss.
“My God,” she said, “are yo
u in pain?”
He shook his head.
“Jesus, Mitch. What would possess you to traffic -”
“Lauren!” Mitch barked, gesturing towards Peter. She was on the verge of tears.
“I’m sorry, I’m really... Hey, Pete, do you mind if mom puts you outside for a minute? I just need to talk to uncle Mitch for a little while.”
“Are you in trouble with the cops?” Peter asked.
“No, buddy,” Mitch laughed sheepishly, “I’ll tell you all about it soon, okay?”
Peter nodded and his mom wheeled him out of the room.
***
Betts was still talking to the Jenkins when Lauren came out.
“Would you gentlemen mind watching my son for a minute?”
“Sure, no worries,” said Betts. Lauren went back inside.
Betts squatted beside Peter. “Hey, you want to see something?” he said to the boy, who nodded. “Cover me,” he said to Jenkins, who stepped to one side, shielding Betts from the passing hospital staff and patients. Betts took out his Glock 30 pistol, popped the cartridge out of the chamber and unclipped the magazine.
“Here you go,” he said, handing Peter the weapon, “what do you think?” Peter’s eyes lit up as he held the weapon with two hands. He carefully stood up out of the chair and aimed the gun at Jenkins. “Hey! You can’t shoot a cop!”
“Bang!” he said, and Jenkins played along, clutching his gut.
“So you can walk?”
“Yeah. But not far.”
“Right. How long have you been in the wheelchair?”
“A few days.”
“Here, I better take that back now before I get in trouble,” Betts said smiling, and Peter handed it back. “Maybe when you get better, we can take you to the firing range and you can shoot some real bullets! How does that sound?”
“I’m not going to get better”
“Oh. Why, what did the doctors say?”
“They said if I don’t get the right medicine, I’m going to die.”
“So why don’t you get the right medicine?”
Brazen Violations Page 3
