Chapter 8
Paradise Lost
Willie slowly regained consciousness to the vague, faraway sound of a man screaming. Disoriented in the blackened room, the young man found himself unable to move his arms, head throbbing and body hopelessly tangled in the sheets.
More screams, still distant but disconcerting as he tried to focus. Without warning, the bedroom door slammed open and the overhead light flipped on. Willie squinted but couldn't shield his eyes. Jason took one look at his naked partner, whose wrists were tightly secured to the bedposts with silk neckties, and sighed with resignation, "Raquel."
The Irishman cut him loose with the switchblade. Willie's room was a shambles, his things strewn everywhere. "She stole it, the entire score! And everythin' else besides!" Jason howled. "That connivin', thievin' bitch!"
Willie yanked on his jeans and ran to the sitting room (which was also trashed), then to the other bedroom where he observed his partner's sea chest was flung on its side, empty. Jason spun the boy around and grasped his shoulders, panic was in his eyes.
"We need to leave. Now. Go pack your gear." He thrust a large shopping bag at Willie. "Not the new things; they'll go in here. We have to raise some cash."
Familiar with the hasty exit, the young outlaw stuffed his old clothes into the duffle bag. In the bathroom, he scooped up his straight edge razor and all the complimentary soaps and shampoos. On the way out, Willie also nabbed the fluffy, terrycloth robe. He never saw the need to steal towels, but the bathrobe was really nice, and he had never had one before.
In the shopping bag, Willie tossed the soft, silk shirts and red leather jacket, Calvin Klein jeans, Argentinean boots, and silver sunglasses. He fished the gold necklace and ring from inside his ratty sneaker, kissed them, and dropped them on top. Raquel would've taken them too if she had only known where to look. Willie smiled; sometimes he wasn't so dumb.
The two deserters dashed down the stairs to the ground level, and were about to exit unnoticed through the side door when Albert Zorin and his entourage stepped out of the elevator. The gangster wouldn't have suspected anything was amiss except for the expressions on their faces and all their worldly possessions in tow. Jason and his partner ducked into the dining hall as Zorin signaled his men to give pursuit.
The room was empty except for a maid vacuuming at the other end. She never looked up as Willie shoved a chair under the doorknob and the pair blocked the entrance with a heavy table, sending the white table cloth and place settings flying in all directions. Then they dashed though the swinging door into the kitchen.
"Ayúdenos a esconderse!" (8) Jason pleaded with a dishwasher, grabbing his arm with desperation. The wrinkled man pointed to a nearby meat locker, as if fugitives seeking asylum in the hotel kitchen was a common occurrence. The Irishman dragged his sea chest into the freezer and someone swung it closed. The mafia members stormed into the room just as Willie dove under the sous chef's station.
"Where are they?" Zorin demanded. "Where did they go?"
The mobster stood immediately adjacent to the prep table, his polished oxfords inches from where Willie huddled, holding his breath, frozen with fear. The others began to search the room when the young man realized he was holding only the shopping bag. His duffle lay discarded in the middle of the floor. One of the gangsters sidestepped it, and a teenage busboy casually picked up the sack and tossed it in the corner on top a pile of similar laundry bags containing linen napkins.
At that moment, the irate head chef slammed through the doors and stormed the strangers trespassing on his turf.
"¿Quién crees que eres? No se le permite estar aquí!" (9) he barked, undeterred when the criminal pulled out a pistol and waved it in his face.
"I'm going to ask one more time." Zorin glared. ¿Dónde está los dos gringos hombres?" (10)
The bus boy apprehensively pointed a shaky finger toward the rear exit. "Por favor, señor…"
The racketeer returned the gun to its holster, and the mob poured out the back door. Moments later, a visibly shaken Jason was sprung from the freezer compartment and his cohort crawled out from beneath the stainless steel table.
"Mucho grazie, beaucoup!" Willie called back to their accomplices as the pair slipped out by way of the loading dock and circled round to the parking garage's street entrance.
While Jason drove around trying to locate a pawn shop, Willie picked and bit at the stubborn knotted ties on his wrists. Man, she coulda been a sailor. He looked through the shopping bag at all the nice things they were about to relinquish.
"Can I keep my switchblade?" No answer. "Jason?"
"I think so. We may need it."
Selling their belongings raised enough cash to purchase two one-way tickets to Raleigh, North Carolina, which was the soonest flight to leave and the farthest destination they could afford. The crooks drove to the airport and abandoned the Ferrari in the short-term parking lot.
Willie rubbed his bruised neck and looked out the airplane window, which dimly reflected a colorful hickey he did not recall receiving. The boy wished there had been time to shower and eat before they had to skip town, but the hasty exit allows for no such luxuries, and the most this flight had to offer was soda pop and peanuts. Maybe at least he could wash up a bit in the tiny restroom, so Willie made his way down the cramped aisle to the rear of the plane and paused just before knocking on the lavatory door. He could hear his partner inside; Jason was crying.
Willie quietly returned to his seat, disturbed. He had never known his partner to lose it like that, and they had had a lot of close calls. But the young man knew it wasn't about being betrayed or swindled or even hunted by the Russian mafia.
It was because they had lost the score of a lifetime.
(8) "Help us to hide."
(9) "Who do you think you are? You're not permitted to be in here."
(10) "Where are the two white guys?"
