Shoot the Moon by Joseph T. Klempner Page B

with the United ticketing area, then heads to American. . . .
    Goodman hears the first announcement for his flight at twenty minutes to twelve. From the fact that there are passengers waiting to get on as standbys, he figures he was lucky to get a ticket when he did.
    He listens for the announcement that they’re boarding his row before getting on line. When he was married and traveling with Shirley, she always said it didn’t matter, and insisted that they line up as soon as the very first announcement was made, the one for travelers with small children, or those requiring special assistance. But, without his wife’s bravery, Goodman’s afraid they might catch him boarding before his row’s been called, so he waits his turn.
    Finally, at quarter of twelve, they announce that everyone can board, and Goodman takes his place at the rear of the line, the smaller of his two duffel bags tucked under his arm like a football.
    It’s ten minutes to twelve by the time Cuervas works his way to the Delta gates, just in time to see Mr. Rolled-Up Jeans handing his boarding pass to a ticket taker at gate 22 and disappearing from view. Immediately, Cuervas runs to the counter, pushes past several people waiting for standby seats, and gets the attention of a man behind the counter.
    “I gotta get on that flight!” he shouts.
    “Sorry, sir,” the man tells him. “That flight’s actually over sold.”
    “You’re actually an asshole!” is all Cuervas can think to say.
    People turn to stare at him. After a moment, he walks off, but not before taking a look at the sign above the door through which the guy disappeared: GATE 22 FLIGHT 562 NEW YORK-JFK.

Michael Goodman sits looking out the window of the plane, watching the Florida coastline recede beneath him into the distance, and wondering exactly what it is he’s doing.
    He has lived on this planet for a shade over forty years, and his entire life has been conventional to the point of absolute boredom. Or so it seems to him. For as long as he can remember, he has gotten up in the morning, showered, shaved, and gone to school or to work. He has a wife and a daughter. Had a wife. He has a studio apartment he rents, debts he owes, and cards made out of plastic that somehow manage to get him to the next crisis.
    Up until this moment, Goodman’s only link to the world of illicit drugs has been the two marijuana cigarettes he puffed unsatisfactorily years ago. He knows nobody who traffics in narcotics, and can’t even come up with anyone who he knows for sure even uses narcotics, though he has his suspicions about the McPherson’s teenage son, the one who wears the earring.
    Yet now he suddenly finds himself sitting in a plane, resting his feet on top of a duffel bag containing thousands of dollars’ worth of narcotics, while stapled to his ticket is a claim check for another duffel bag containing twice as much. He has absolutely no clue as to what he can do with the white powder inside those duffel bags in order to convert it somehow into money. And yet he knows that that’s precisely what he’s going to try to do.
    * * *
    Unable to get onto the same plane as Mr. Softee, Raul Cuervas toys with the idea of getting a ticket on the next available flight, but there are no nonstops to JFK for another hour, which means he’ll miss the guy at the other end. He heads to a bank of pay phones, feeling as if he’s about to enter a confessional booth. Only difference is, he knows Mister Fuentes isn’t going to be satisfied with telling him to say five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers.
    It takes him twelve minutes and three phone calls before he finally gets to speak with Johnnie Delgado and explain things. Then he holds on for Mister Fuentes. But when next he hears a voice, it’s still that of Johnnie Delgado.
    “ El viejo is so pissed off, he won’t talk to you,” Delgado tells him.
    “Tell him I’m real sorry,” Cuervas says. “Tell him I make it up to him, however I