“This is madness, though. These drugs can be found anywhere. Let me take you somewhere else,” Osman suggested, sounding infinitely reasonable.
“Can’t.” I sighed. “This has to be quick-get in, get the drugs, get out. I know this town-I grew up here, that’s why they picked me for this job. Any place else I’d just get lost.” Mama Halima’s agents had seemed to think you could get AIDS drugs over the counter in any Duane Reade inNew York. As far as I knew, though, there was only one place I could be guaranteed of finding everything on the list. The fifth floor of the UN Secretariat Building, in the Medical Offices. And the Secretariat was right on the water.
Yusuf poured on a little steam as we turned northward and entered the main channel of theEast River. He steered right for the dark solid mass of theBrooklynBridge, still wrapped in mist. Osman rubbed at his clean-shaven face and looked like he was about to have a great idea any time now.
“I think I know,” he said, finally. “I think I know it now.”
I stared at him, expectantly.
“She wants the drugs to give them toother people. People whoare infected with AIDS. She is a very generous woman, Mama Halima.”
I just shrugged and moved to the bow of the trawler where some of the girls were clustered, pointing out the buildings we passed as if they were tourists looking for theEmpireState and theChryslerBuilding. I kept my eye on the shore, on the masses of pilings and docks that made up the South Street Seaport. They were abandoned, stripped clean of anything that might float. Here and there I could see people moving on the piers. Dead people, I knew, but in the mist I could pretend. Otherwise I would jump every time one of them moved.
This would all be over in a couple of hours, I told myself. Get in, get the drugs, get out. Then I could go back and see Sarah again. Start my life over somehow, I guess.
My abdomen kept hitching up, like I was sucking in my gut but I couldn’t relax the muscles.
The girls started chattering excitedly and I followed their eyes as they leaned out over the bow. It was nothing, just a yellow buoy. Someone had painted something on it black, a crude design I knew I recognized… oh, yeah. The international symbol for biohazards. Osman came up behind me and grabbed my bicep. He saw it too and yelled back for Yusuf to ease up on the throttle.
“It’s nothing,” I told him. “Just a warning. We already know this place is dangerous.”
He shook his head but didn’t say anything. I supposed he knew more about maritime signage than I did. He pointed at a shadow out on the water and told Yusuf to stop the propellers altogether.
“It’s nothing,” I said again. Maybe I was susceptible to denial myself. The trawler rolled north, quiet now, so quiet we could hear the water slapping against the hull. The shadow on the water started to resolve itself. It formed a line across the estuary, a dark smudge edged with tiny white breakers. There was some kind of big building on a pier that stuck way out and beyond that the water just changed texture. We drew steadily closer on momentum alone until Osman had to order the engines thrown into reverse. We were getting too close if it was some kind of obstruction. The smudge took shape as we coasted, turning into piles, heaps of something dumped in the water, lots of little things dumped in heaps.
Bodies.