Booker ignored the police tape and entered the house. Everything was pretty much destroyed. Upstairs in his bedroom, what was left of his clothes were soaking wet from the fire truck’s hose. He did a once over, seeing nothing that was salvageable, and gave it up as a bad job. Downstairs was nothing better. What wasn’t smoldering was soaking wet. None of the water faucets worked, and the fridge, while standing upright, had been left open so all the food looked bad. He grabbed a water bottle and used it to wash his hands and face as best he could.
Among the tattered remnants of cabinetry, he pulled out his tattered camera. The lens had shattered, and the camera itself had cracked down the middle. Shaking his head, he tossed it over his shoulder and left the house again.
As he ducked under the yellow police tape on his way out, he noticed an unmarked news van parked at the end of Ocean Front. It was parked in front of a neighbor’s detached second garage. Most of the homes on Ocean Front had a detached garage or living space across the small street from the main residence. The driver was talking into a walkie-talkie and had a large map unfolded in front of him. When he saw Booker watching him, he lowered the walkie-talkie.
A few moments later, Booker heard Joanna’s garage opening next door and saw a gleaming, candy-apple red Mustang pulling out into the misty gray morning light. It was brand new with glossy black tires and spotless tinted windows. The engine growled as the car trundled toward him.
The passenger window rolled down as he walked forward and let out a soft whistle. “Nice,” he said. “When did you get this?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” she said, laughing at the look of astonishment on his face. “It was a gift. This is the first time I’ve driven it. Come on, get in!” He opened the door and dropped into his seat, breathing in the new-car smell. Joanna said, “You ready?”
“I think so,” said Booker. “When did you say we’ll be back?”
“I didn’t,” she said, putting on her silver aviators. “Don’t worry, Wonderboy. I’ll take care of you.”
Booker looked ahead of them and saw the man who had been sitting in the unmarked van was now standing in the street. He was holding a cell phone, and he snapped a picture of them as they drove forward. “What the hell?” said Booker. Joanna smiled and waved as the picture had been taken.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Joanna. She drove to the end of the street and pulled onto HWY 101. The engine roared, and the wind ruffled their hair as the car shot forward with tremendous speed. She laughed as the car continued to gain speed and they shot up the hill towards downtown Del Mar.
She only slowed when they reached the first stoplight and the morning traffic. Del Mar was already busy with shoppers, surfers walking down the hill towards the beach, and cyclists finishing their morning rides. Joanna opened the center console, pulled out an unmarked CD and inserted it into a small slit in the dashboard. “You like Aerosmith?” she said.
“Sure,” said Booker. “But who in the world uses CDs anymore? How does this car even have a CD player?”
“CDs are the best,” said Joanna.
“How old are you? Fifty?” he said.
She laughed, saying, “Watch it, Wonderboy.” The music started playing, and she cranked the stereo as the light turned green and they shot off again. On Interstate Five, Joanna swooped in and out of traffic, the Mustang motor roaring and throwing them back in their seats every time she found an opening. She sang along to Walk This Way and Just Push Play as she drove, and they reached the airport in less than thirty minutes. She only turned down the radio after whipping the car into a parking spot. She revved the engine one last time before hitting the engine stop button “Good car,” she said, patting the dashboard.
“You drive like a maniac,” said Booker with an uneasy laugh.
“I got us here in one piece, didn’t I? You should see what happened to the last Mustang I drove. I was in Germany. That car got me out of a pretty tight spot, but I hate to say I wrecked it. My friend Jimmy loved that car. He’s the guy that sent me this one. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be a gift or if he’s hoping I crash this one too and actually die this time.” She climbed out of the car, and Booker followed suit. As he stood, Joanna tossed the key fob over the roof of the car and said, “Hold on to that for me, would you?”
“Sure,” he said, examining the key. It still had a red dealer tag attached to the keyring.
Joanna didn’t have a bag. When they reached security, he saw her pull out a money clip thick with $100 bills, a passport, and her old, fat iPod with white earbuds wrapped around it. Booker followed close behind her, showing his ID and boarding pass to a tired-looking TSA agent. The woman looked him up and down after checking his ID, and then handed them back and said, “Enjoy your flight,” in a bored voice.
A few minutes later, he watched Joanna walk into a tall cylindrical scanning machine. She winked at him, standing with her legs apart and her arms raised up as the machine scanned her. Booker dropped his shoes, belt, and the contents from his pockets into a bin for the x-ray machine. Before he followed Joanna into the scanner, a hand landed on his shoulder, and a voice said, “Excuse me, sir.”
Booker turned and saw a large, bald TSA agent staring down at him. He had a black goatee and small dark eyes. “Uh, yes?” said Booker.
“Would you mind coming with me, sir?” said the TSA agent, in a deep voice.
Booker glanced over his shoulder, looking for Joanna. He saw her on the other side of the scanner and x-ray machines. She too was talking with a TSA agent, except her agent looked a lot more friendly. It looked like Joanna was about to get a pat down and a couple passes with a metal detector wand.
“I was actually just with my friend over there and-” Booker said.
“Right this way please,” said the TSA agent. With the man’s large hand on his shoulder, Booker was steered away from the security line. Another TSA agent unclipped a stanchion line to let them through and they walked toward a few banks of ugly airport chairs sitting in front of a white plastered wall.
There were a few people standing around the chairs all wearing blue windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled across the back in bright yellow. There were two men and one woman. Booker felt his stomach jolt as they approached, and the three FBI agents looked at him. One of the men handed the women a beige file and then the two men departed.
“Thank you, Cleo,” said the woman as Booker and the TSA agent reached her. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”
Cleo, the big TSA agent, let go of him and stepped a few paces away.
Standing there in his socks felt very undignified, especially when the woman took a long moment to look him up and down. She had tan skin and black hair tied into a neat ponytail. She wore a large pair of black sunglasses and held a Starbucks coffee in one hand which she sipped before saying, “You must be Booker.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Booker.
“Sit,” she said, pointing at the bank of airport chairs behind him.
Booker sat and she sat across from him, crossing her legs, and opening the beige file in her lap. She was wearing shiny black heeled shoes and black dress pants with faint gray pinstripes. She looked just like every FBI agent he had ever seen on TV.
She clicked her tongue, flipping through the file for a moment, and said, “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“No,” said Booker.
“Where are your parents?” she said.
He hesitated a moment before saying, “My dad is at work.”
“And where are you going?” she said.
“Las Vegas,” said Booker.
“What’s in Las Vegas?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Booker.
“You don’t know?” she said
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Carol Summer,” she said, looking up from the file. “Are you traveling with anyone today?”
“Yes,” said Booker.
“Who?” said Summer, taking a sip of coffee.
“My friend, Joanna,” said Booker.
“Have you been friends long?” she said.
“Yes,” said Booker.
“How long?” said Summer.
“About a year,” said Booker.
“Would you say that you’re close friends?” said Summer.
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Booker didn’t know what to say to that. Summer was watching him closely through her black sunglasses and seemed to be leading him somewhere. He sensed one of those interrogation traps coming where the police get you to agree to a bunch of small questions that seem insignificant, and then they pin something on you. He finally said, “Close friends? I mean, we’ve known each other for a long time. What do you mean by ‘close friends?’”
“Well, you’re traveling to Las Vegas together,” said Summer. “Doesn’t that constitute a close friendship?”
“I guess so,” said Booker.
“Would you say you know her well?” said Summer.
“Sure,” said Booker.
“You know what she does for work?” said Summer.
“She mentioned that she is retired,” said Booker.
“Indeed,” said Summer. “Do the two of you do a lot together?”
“Not really,” said Booker.
“But you’re going to Las Vegas with her?” she said.
Booker shrugged. “Yeah.”
“How long will you be there?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Booker.
“Are you meeting anyone else there?” she said.
“I don’t know. What is this all about? Am I in trouble or something?” said Booker.
“Not yet,” said Summer. She took another sip of coffee and said, “So, you’ve known Joanna for about a year. You and your father moved to Ocean Front about a year ago, correct? So, you must have met Joanna when you moved in?”
“Yeah,” said Booker.
“And you’ve gotten to know her pretty well since you met her?” she said.
“I think so,” said Booker. “She seems nice.”
“It’s funny,” said Summer, holding up the folder for him to see. “We’ve been keeping an eye on your friend Joanna for a long time, and this is the first time we’ve ever seen the two of you together.” Clipped at the top of the folder was a picture of Joanna’s Mustang from that morning when they had left her house. Both she and Booker were visible through the windshield. Booker looked confused, and Joanna was smiling and waving to the camera.
Booker leaned forward to see the picture more clearly, but Summer flipped it over again before he could take a good look. “Let’s see,” said Summer, reading from the top piece of paper in the file. “Attended Torrey Pines High School. Grades look fine. A couple write ups for insubordination. Fighting with other students. I bet your dad was really happy with all the detention time. Then four years at UCSD. Graduated with a 2.9 GPA - double major in Business and photography? Grades in photography look good, but business was a struggle. Did you enjoy business school?”
“My father chose it,” said Booker, scowling at her as she looked up from the file. “He wanted me to study something that could get me a higher paying job.”
“Of course he did,” said Summer, looking back down at the file. “You’re big into sports. Intramural soccer, baseball, football, tennis. Part time Del Mar lifeguard. And look. at. this. - an honest to God police report dated October 25th last year. Looks like you got into quite a little scrap with a ‘Benjamin Williams?’” She unclipped a small picture from the file and flashed it in his direction. It was a picture of a college age kid, his face bloodied and bruised. Summer glanced at the photo again, shaking her head, before saying, “But no arrest. What happened there?”
What happened was Booker stepping in to prevent a bad situation from getting worse. “I was just helping a friend,” he said.
“So, you beat the crap out of this guy to help a friend? No questions asked?”
Scowling, Booker said, “He was going to hurt her.”
“You like playing the hero?”
“I don’t like it when people wait for someone else to help when I can do it myself.”
“You start getting into fights before or after your mom died?”
Booker gritted his teeth, feeling his fists clenching at his sides. He fought hard not to show his anger, but Summer seemed pleased at the reaction her words sparked. She said, “A lot of troubled kids come from broken homes. But not many are as fortunate as you. Not everyone has a daddy to bail them out of jail time. Keep them from getting kicked out of school.”
“Oh yeah, I feel really fortunate,” he said.
Summer gave him a cold smile and closed the file in her lap. Tapping it with her index finger, she said, “Do you know what all this tells me?”
He shrugged.
“Absolutely nothing,” said Summer. She tossed the file onto the seat beside her. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Booker didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing.
“There’s been a lot of activity around your neighborhood since yesterday. Police, firefighters, paramedics, even the fire marshal showed up. Doesn’t look like anyone took your statement though. Official word is that a gas leak blew up your house. What do you think?” she said.
“Our house is all electric,” said Booker. “And I gave a statement.”
“Do I want to hear it?” she said.
“The police didn’t,” said Booker.
She nodded and changed tack. “Your friend Joanna made a few calls last night. One to a private number in Las Vegas we traced to a man named Georgio Fontana. He’s General Manager at the Bellagio Hotel. She made a call to a courier company in San Diego, and another to a man named Dutch McCoy. Her last call was to purchase two plane tickets on the earliest available flight to Las Vegas. Imagine our surprise when we found out the second ticket was for you.” She nodded to the file on the seat beside her and said, “That’s all we could come up with in the last hour, and it tells me jack shit about you. So, I figured I’d just ask - Why are you here?”
Booker was thinking fast. He felt uncomfortable, and he could tell that Summer knew it. She was playing with him, but he wasn't sure what she wanted.
“Well?” said Summer.
“Joanna said she needs my help with something,” said Booker, slowly.
“She needs your help,” repeated Summer.
Booker nodded. “Yes, that’s what she said.”
“Why would she need your help?” said Summer.
Looking around, Booker said, “Am I under arrest?” This was another line he’d heard on TV. If he wasn’t under arrest, then she couldn’t keep him there. She would have to let him go.
Summer smiled. “No, you’re not under arrest.”
“Then I am free to go?” said Booker.
Summer sighed, removing her sunglasses and slipping them into the pocket of her windbreaker. “Okay,” she said in a soft, amused sort of voice. She stood up. Booker began to stand up, but she held a hand up and said, “Not so fast. This isn’t an episode of CSI Miami, okay? If I wanted to, I could have Cleo over there lock you up in airport security for the next 48 hours. No Miranda rights, no lawyer, no phone call. It might not be clear yet, but you’ve walked into something very dangerous. And pretty soon, you won’t have a way out. So, before you do anything stupid, I think you should take a moment to consider that this might be your last chance to go home. You should forget about your friend Joanna before she ruins your life.”
Summer pulled out a white card from her pocket and held it out to him. He took it and saw the FBI seal embossed on the card. “Special Agent Carol Summer” was printed in the center of the card with a black phone number below it. “What’s this for?” said Booker.
“In case you want to talk,” she said. “If you do go on this little trip and you do end up getting your hands dirty, I’ll find you, and even daddy won’t be able to bail you out,” said Summer. “Your move, kid.” She backed away, and Booker stood up slowly.
A moment later his belongings were shoved into his arms. His shoes were on top, and his belt was wrapped around them. “Thank you, Cleo,” said Summer. The large TSA agent nodded to her and took Booker’s shoulder to steer him around. “I hope I don’t see you again, Booker,” said Summer.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Summer watching him, taking another sip of coffee. Then Cleo unclipped a stanchion and guided 1Booker back through the crowded security line. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of a pair of escalators with hurried passengers all around him. Booker quickly dropped his things on a bench and pulled on his shoes. He had just got his belt on when Joanna appeared out of the crowd.
“There you are,” she said. “Sorry I took so long. They had to give me a pat down. I can never go through these metal detectors without setting off some kind of alarm.”
“Yeah?” said Booker.
“I have a few metal bits in here,” she said, indicating her left shoulder. “Took a nasty fall from a balcony.”
“Oh,” said Booker. He felt uneasy. “Did you slip or something?”
“No. Jumped,” she said.
“What?” said Booker.
“I had good reason. Come on, we’re this way,” she said. She skipped the crowded escalator and opted for the empty stairs beside them. Booker followed, looking back to see if Summer or any other FBI agents were following them. There were none.
The terminal was round with a few small shops in the center selling candy, packaged sandwiches, and cold drinks. There was also a bar crowded with men in sports coats. He followed Joanna around the circle to their gate, and they sat down. She pulled out her old iPod. “What’s up? You look spooked,” she said, inserting one of the earbuds.
“I’m fine,” said Booker, scanning the terminal.
Joanna looked around too, brushing her hair to one side. Then she looked at him with her eyes narrowed. “Looking for someone?”
“No,” said Booker, turning and looking over his shoulder.
She considered him for a moment and then said, “Did Summer pull you out of line? I thought you disappeared somewhere. Did she try to scare you?”
He was surprised she was able to deduce what had happened so fast, but only said, “Did she try to scare me? She didn’t even have to try. The FBI just pulled me out of line like I was a terrorist or something.”
“Hey, don’t say ‘terrorist’ in an airport. What’s wrong with you?” said Joanna.
“Why is the FBI following you? She made it sound like you're some sort of, I don’t know, bad person.” He looked away awkwardly as he spoke.
“The FBI follows all kinds of people. That doesn’t mean they’re all bad,” said Joanna. He started to say more, but she said, “Listen, don’t worry about Summer. What did she tell you?”
“She just said that they’ve been keeping a close watch on you. She said you were calling people last night and that you bought tickets to Las Vegas for two people, and they wanted to know why I am going with you.”
“And what did you tell them?” said Joanna.
“I said I don’t know,” said Booker. “What exactly is your plan?”
“You’ll see,” said Joanna with a small shrug and a smile. “I’ll take care of you, Wonderboy. Don’t worry so much.”
Booker shook his head. He couldn’t stop fidgeting in his seat and looking over his shoulder. “Look, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I think I should just go home. I don’t want to get into any trouble, and this whole thing seems like-”
“Listen,” said Joanna, rolling her eyes and leaning closer to him. He stopped fidgeting when he felt her hand on his arm. The light from the windows overlooking the runway reflected in her eyes, giving them a small twinkle. “If you want to go home, you still can,” she said. “But I want you to come with me. Summer is just trying to spook you and get under my skin. She doesn’t know what I need you for, but she knows if you get cold feet, she’ll be ruining my plan.”
“Well, it’s kind of working,” said Booker. “I still don’t know what your plan is.”
“You want to help your father, don’t you? You’re just going to have to trust me,” said Joanna in a low voice. She rested her chin on her fist and smiled. A chime sounded over the loudspeakers followed by a friendly voice saying, ‘Good morning passengers for flight 1637 to Las Vegas. We will begin pre-boarding momentarily. If any of our passengers today are-”
“By all means, go,” said Joanna. Her voice was still low, and her eyes were still locked on his face. “There’s not much of a house left for you to go to. Maybe you could walk on the beach, enjoy the southern California paradise.”
Booker saw passengers lining up to get on the Las Vegas flight. There were fat couples in orange and green Hawaiian shirts, bored-looking children, and college-age boys and girls all staring at their phone screens. The voice overhead said, “We’ll start with our pre-boarding passengers, group A 1-15.”
“Or,” said Joanna, pinching his arm to get his attention again. When he looked at her, she smiled, small creases appearing around her eyes. “You can get on that plane with me, and we’ll do something amazing. Something you couldn’t even imagine. Come with me, and things will all be different.”
“How different?” said Booker, feeling knots in his stomach. “Good or bad?”
“That’s for you to decide,” said Joanna.
Booker considered her for a moment. The voice overhead started calling for the next ‘A’ boarding group. “How are we going to help my father? What’s your plan?” he said, nodding to the gate.
“My plan is for us to go on a quick adventure,” said Joanna, her eyes getting wider.
“That could mean anything,” said Booker.
“Now you’re getting it,” said Joanna, and she winked. She pulled down her silver aviators. The layered bangs that were being held back by the sunglasses now flowed down around her face and she said, “So, what’s it going to be, Wonderboy?”