I spend half an hour examining the airplane, then begin looking at my watch as if I'm irritated at Nathan and his tardiness. "This kid's from the mountains," I explain to Devin as we sit in the cabin. "Doubt if he's ever been on a plane before. He's kinda rough around the edges."
"What kind of movie ya'll doing?" Devin asks.
"Documentary. The meth business in Appalachia."
Devin and I return to the terminal and continue waiting. I've forgotten something in my car, and I leave the building. Minutes later, I see Nathan's new pickup truck roll into the lot. He parks quickly, then hops out, eager. He's wearing cutoff denim shorts, a pair of white Nike running shoes, no socks, a flat-billed trucker's cap, and, best of all, a pink-and-orange floral-print Hawaiian shirt with at least the top two buttons unfastened. He grabs a stuffed Adidas gym bag from the back of his truck and bounds toward the terminal. I intercept him and we shake hands. I'm holding some papers.
"Sorry about the delay," I say, "but the airplane is here and ready to go."
"No problem." His eyes are watery and I catch a whiff of stale beer. Wonderful!
I lead him inside and to the front desk where Devin is flirting with the receptionist. I walk Nathan to the windows and point to the Challenger. "That's ours," I say proudly. "At least for this weekend." He gawks at the aircraft as Devin walks over. I quickly slip him Nathan's fake passport. He glances at the photo, then at Nathan, who at that moment turns from the window. I introduce him to Devin, who hands me the passport and says, "Welcome aboard."
"Are we ready to go?" I ask.
"Follow me," Devin says, and as we leave the terminal, I say, "Off to the beach."
On board, Devin takes the Adidas gym bag and stores it in cargo while Nathan falls into one of the leather chairs and admires his surroundings. I'm in the galley, preparing the first round of beers - the real thing for Nathan, one with no alcohol for me. When they're poured into ice-cold mugs, you can't tell the difference. I banter with Devin as he goes through the emergency procedures, nervous that he might mention our destination. He does not, and when he retires to the cockpit and straps himself in, I take a deep breath. He and Will give me the thumbs-up and start the engines.
"Cheers," I say to Nathan, and we tap glasses and take a gulp. I unfold a mahogany table between us.
As the jet begins to taxi, I say, "You like tequila?"
"Hell yeah," he replies, already the party animal.
I jump up, walk into the galley, fetch a fifth of Cuervo Gold and two shot glasses, and place them hard on the table. I pour two shots and we kill them, following them up with more beer. I have a buzz by the time we take off. When the seat belt sign is turned off, I pour another round of beer and we do more shots. Shots and beer, shots and beer. I fill in the conversation gaps with drivel about the film and how excited our financial partners are at the moment. This soon bores Nathan, so I tell him we have a late dinner lined up, and one of the young ladies there is a friend of a friend who could be the hottest chick on South Beach. She's seen a portion of our footage and wants to meet Nathan. "Did you bring any long pants?" I ask.
I assume the Adidas bag is filled with clothing about as tasteful as what I'm looking at.
"Oh yeah, got all kinds of stuff," he says, his tongue getting thicker by the moment.
When the Cuervo Gold is half gone, I look at the navigational map on display and say, "Only an hour to Miami. Drink up." We knock back another shot each, then I drain my glass of unleaded. I weigh at least thirty pounds more than Nathan, half my drinks have no alcohol, and my vision is blurred as we pass over Savannah at thirty-eight thousand feet. He's getting bombed.
I keep pouring, and he shows no signs of slacking off. As we pass high over my old stomping ground at Neptune Beach, I fix the final round. Into Nathan's beer mug, I drop two tablets of chloral hydrate, five hundred milligrams each.
"Let's kill these dead soldiers," I say, slamming them onto the table, and we turn bottoms up. I take it easy and Nathan wins the contest. Thirty minutes later, he's dead to the world.
I watch our progress on the screen next to the galley. We're now at forty thousand. Miami is in sight, but we are not descending. I pull Nathan out of his chair and drag him to the sofa, where I stretch him out and check his pulse. I pour a cup of coffee and watch Miami fade below us.
Before long, Cuba is behind us too, and Jamaica emerges at the bottom of the screen. The engines throttle back a notch, and we begin our long descent. I gulp coffee in a desperate effort to clear my head. The next twenty minutes will be crucial and chaotic. I have a plan, but so much of it is beyond my control.
Nathan is breathing heavily and slowly. I shake him, but he's unconscious. From the right pocket of his too-tight denim cutoffs, I remove his key ring. In addition to the one for his pickup, the collection includes six others of varying shapes and designs. I'm sure a couple fit the doors and dead bolts of his house. Perhaps a couple lock and unlock Bombay's. In the left pocket, I find a neat fold of cash - about $500 - and a pack of gum. From the left rear pocket I remove his wallet, a cheap vinyl Velcro tri-fold that's sort of bulky. As I inventory it, I realize why. Our party boy had loaded up with eight Trojan condoms, stored at the ready on his left buttock. There are also ten crisp $100 bills, a valid Virginia driver's license, two membership cards to Bombay's, a business card for his parole officer, and one for a beer distributor. Nathan has no credit cards, probably because of his recent five-year stint in prison and his lack of a real job. I leave the cash in place, don't touch the Trojans, and remove everything else. I substitute the fake driver's license for the valid one and give Nathaniel Coley his wallet back. Then I gently place the fake passport in his right rear pocket. He doesn't move or twitch, doesn't feel a thing.
I go to the restroom and close and lock the door. I open the cargo hold, unzip my carry-on, and remove two nylon pouches with the words "First Aid" stamped in bold letters. I stuff these into the bottom of Nathan's gym bag, then re-zip everything. I walk to the cockpit, pull back the black curtain, and lean forward to catch Devin's attention. He quickly removes his headset and I say, "Look, this guy drank nonstop until he passed out. I can't seem to wake him up and there's not much of a pulse. We might need some medical attention as soon as we land." Will hears this even with his headset, and for a split second he and Devin stare at each other. If they were not descending, one of the two would probably step into the cabin and take a look at Nathan.
"Okay," Devin finally says, and I return to the cabin, where Nathan lies in near rigor mortis, but with a pulse. Five minutes later, I return to the cockpit and report that he is indeed breathing but I can't rouse him. "Idiot drank a fifth of tequila in less than two hours," I say, and they both shake their heads.
We land in Montego Bay and taxi past a row of commercial airliners at the gates of the main concourse. To the south, I see three other jets parked at the private terminal. There are emergency vehicles with red lights flashing, all waiting for Nathan. I'll need the chaos to aid in my disappearance. I'm far from sober, but the adrenaline has kicked in and I'm thinking clearly.
When the engines are turned off, Devin jumps up and opens the door. I have my briefcase and carry-on in my chair, ready for the opportunity, but I'm also hovering over Nathan. "Wait for Immigration," Devin says.
"Sure," I reply.