Drug of Choice

“Harry, Sadie is waiting for us at the airport, if we miss the plane she’ll worry. Harry, do you want her to worry, your own sister, your own flesh and blood, Harry?”

Clark looked at the coins in his hand; they were slippery now with sweat. He was sweating a lot, it seemed. He looked at the coins and tried to decide who he was going to call. He hadn’t made up his mind, but somehow he felt that once he was inside the booth, with the glass door closed and the receiver in his hand, he would know who to call. He would know instinctively.

“Harry, I should have to worry my hair out over a simple airplane, why do you do this to me—”

At that moment, Harry finished his call and stepped out of the booth. He turned to the woman.

“Shut up dear,” he said, and walked off.

Clark got into the booth, heart beating fast, and dropped his dime in. He heard it cling through.

He waited.

He looked down at the card attached to the bottom of the phone. It was a rate card, with numbers to call for long distance, person-to-person, emergencies, ambulance, police…

Police.

Dial 0.

He dialed zero. The operator answered “Can I help you?”

“Get me the police,” he said. It came out as a whisper; he hadn’t intended that.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear—”

“I said, get me the police.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Of course it’s an emergency,” he said, turning in the narrow booth to look over his shoulder.

“Do you wish to be connected with Miami police, or Miami Beach police, or the airport police please?”

“I don’t care,” Clark said. “Just so you hurry—”

There was a knock on the door to the booth. He turned. Two men in trenchcoats were standing there.

“Hold on, operator.”

He opened the door.

“I’m on the phone,” he said.

One of the men smiled and said, “We’re police officers.”

That’s very quick service, Clark thought, and then he realized that it was too quick, much too quick. “I want to see your identification.”

They reached into their pockets and flipped badges in little leather billfolds. He couldn’t really see, but it looked—

“Are you Roger Clark?”

“Yes…”

“Doctor Roger Clark of Los Angeles, California?”

“Yes…”

The other was checking a picture and a sheet of paper. “Caucasian male, age twenty-eight, five feet ten inches, medium build—”

“I’m Roger Clark, but I don’t understand—”

“Please come with us,” the other police officer said. He smiled. “You’re just the man we’ve been looking for.”

“I am?” He came out of the booth reluctantly. “But why?”

“You’re pretty famous, Dr. Clark. You know that, of course. Pretty darned famous.”

They steered him down the corridor, one on each side.

“We’ve all been looking for you, you’re just the man we wanted to see.”

“I am?”

He must have looked alarmed, because the other man smiled reassuringly and said, “Just routine. We need your help, that’s all.”

“Help?”

“That’s right. Just routine.”

“Routine what?”

“We’ll explain all that,” the man said.

As they walked, Clark began to wonder. Somehow, they didn’t seem like cops. They were too pleasant or something; it wasn’t right. They were moving him quite rapidly down the corridor; up ahead he saw the departure gates, a flight lounge, bar…

He stopped.

“Wait!”

They paused, and turned to look at him. There was something pitying in their expressions, and something hesitant and careful. They smiled.

“Come along, Doctor.”

“Everything will be fine, Doctor.”

They took his elbows, leading him forward.

“You’re not cops,” Clark said.

“Sure we are,” one said.

“What else would we be, Doctor?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, “but I know you’re not cops. You’re impostors.”

The two men exchanged glances.

One said, “That’s all right, Doctor.”

“Everything will be fine.”

Clark began to struggle in their grip, but they held him tightly.

“Now, don’t make a scene, Roger. Just come along quietly.”

“Don’t be foolish, Roger. Just take it easy now.”

He struggled more fiercely; people stopped to look, to watch as he went, wriggling and twisting between the two men.

“There’s no point in that, Roger,” one man said soothingly.

“Just stay calm, Roger. Everything will be fine.”

Abruptly, he stopped struggling. He relaxed and walked quietly between them. He had a plan.

“Much better, Roger.”

“Much more comfortable, Doctor.”

Ahead, clearly visible, standing by the entrance to the flight lounge, was a cop.

A real cop in a blue uniform, nightstick swinging idly in his left hand.

A cop.

Clark allowed himself to be led forward, and he said nothing until he was nearly abreast of the cop. And then he fought and shouted, “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped! Help, police!”

He felt foolish, but he was frightened, frightened and cold in the grip of the two men. The cop in blue looked over strangely. “What’s happening here?” he said to the two men.

One replied, “We’re taking him in, Sam.”

The cop in blue nodded. “Okay, lieutenant.” He looked closely at Clark. “Say, is this…?”

“Right, Sam. It’s Roger Clark.”

“No kidding,” Sam said, pushing his blue cap back on his head. “You found him here, huh? In Miami airport! Well, isn’t that something.”