The Traveler

BOONE ESCORTED RICHARDSON back to the SUV. He received two more phone calls, said “yes” to each person, then switched off the cell.

“What are we going to do?” asked Richardson.

“Next stop is the Chan Chan Room.”

Limousines and black town cars were double parked outside the club entrance on Fifty-third Street. Held behind a velvet rope, a crowd of people waited for the bouncers to search them with hand-held metal detectors. The women standing in line wore short dresses or flimsy skirts with slits up the side.

Boone drove past the crowd, then stopped beside a sedan parked halfway down the block. Two men got out of the car and walked up to Boone’s side window. One of the men was a short African American wearing an expensive suede car coat. His partner was white and as big as a football lineman. He wore an army surplus jacket and looked like he wanted to pick up a few pedestrians and throw them down on the street.

The black man grinned. “Hey, Boone. It’s been a while.” He nodded at Dr. Richardson. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Dr. Richardson, this is Detective Mitchell and his partner, Detective Krause.”

“We got your message, drove here, and talked to the club bouncers.” Krause had a deep, growly voice. “They say this Romero guy came in an hour ago.”

“You two go around to the fire door,” Mitchell said. “We’ll bring him out.”

Boone rolled up the window and drove down the street. He parked two blocks away from the club, then reached under the front seat and found a black leather glove. “You come with me, Doctor. Mr. Romero might have some information.”

Richardson followed Boone to an alleyway at the rear exit of the Chan Chan Room. A rhythmic, thumping music pushed through the steel fire door. A few minutes later the door popped open and Detective Krause threw a skinny Puerto Rican man onto the asphalt. Still looking cheerful, Detective Mitchell strolled over to the man and kicked him in the stomach.

“Gentlemen, we’d like you to meet Pius Romero. He was sitting in the VIP room drinking something fruity with a little umbrella. Now that’s not fair, is it? Krause and I are dedicated public servants and we never get invited to the VIP room.”

Pius Romero lay on the asphalt, gasping for breath. Boone pulled on the black leather glove. He gazed at Romero as if the young man was an empty cardboard box. “Listen carefully, Pius. We’re not here to arrest you, but I want some information. If you lie about anything, my friends will track you down and give you a great deal of pain. Do you understand that? Show me that you understand.”

Pius sat up and touched his scraped elbow. “I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”

“Who supplies your 3B3?”

The name of the drug made the young man sit up a little straighter.

“Never heard of it.”

“You sold it to several people. Who sold it to you?”

Pius scrambled to his feet and tried to run away, but Boone caught him. He threw the drug dealer against the wall and began slapping him with his right hand. The leather glove made a smacking sound every time it hit Romero’s face. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.

Dr. Richardson knew this violence was real-very real-but he didn’t feel attached to what was happening. It was like he was one step back from what was going on, watching a movie on a television screen. As the beating continued, he glanced at the two detectives. Mitchell was smiling while Krause nodded like a basketball fan who had just seen a perfect three-point shot.

Boone’s voice was calm and reasonable. “I’ve broken your nose, Pius. Now I’m going to strike upward and crush the nasal turbinate bones beneath your eyes. These bones will never heal successfully. Not like a leg or arm. You’re going to feel pain for the rest of your life.”

Pius Romero raised his hands like a child. “What do you want?” He whimpered. “Names? I’ll give you names. I’ll give you everything…”

***

AROUND TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, they found the address near JFK airport in Jamaica, Queens. The man who manufactured 3B3 lived in a white clapboard house with aluminum lawn chairs chained to his porch. It was a quiet, working-class neighborhood, the kind of place where people swept their sidewalks and placed concrete statues of the Virgin Mary on their tiny front lawns. Boone parked his SUV and told Dr. Richardson to get out. They walked over to the detectives sitting in their car.

“You want help?” Mitchell asked.

“Stay here. Dr. Richardson and I are going to go inside. If there’s trouble, I’ll call you on my cell phone.”

The sense of detachment that had protected Richardson when Boone was beating Pius Romero had disappeared during the ride out to Queens. The neurologist felt tired and scared. He wanted to run away from the three men, but he knew that would be useless. Shivering from the cold, he followed Boone across the street. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

Boone stood on the sidewalk and gazed up at a light coming from a third-floor window. “I don’t know. First I have to assess the problem.”

“I hate violence, Mr. Boone.”

“So do I.”