“Wrong number, I guess.” Jeff shrugged.
The sidewalks were a bazaar of action with streams of people hurrying, waving at taxis amid sirens, horns. Steam plumes curled from the hot dog stands. People panhandled and street merchants argued with delivery truck drivers while motorists screamed at jaywalkers who blocked streets.
They were a world away from Laurel, Montana.
Their hotel, the Central Suites Inn, was on West Twenty-ninth Street in the two-hundred block, not far from Madison Square Garden. They checked into their twelfth-floor room. It was large with two double beds.
“I need to freshen up,” Sarah said.
“All right, Cole and I will unpack and get changed,” Jeff said. “Then we can go out for dinner and maybe walk to the Empire State Building.”
Cole claimed the bed nearest to the window. He unzipped his backpack at the foot of it and dumped its contents. T-shirts, shorts, a chocolate bar, a bag of potato chips, maps of New York, a hoodie and socks fell out. All of it was unfamiliar, especially the man’s shaving kit.
“Uh, Mom, Dad?” Cole said.
Sarah set her things down and surveyed the heap. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’s got the wrong bag.” She inspected the backpack. The luggage claim bar code was torn. The blue name tag was faded and smudged. “I thought you guys checked this?”
“It looks exactly like Cole’s bag.” Jeff looked it over.
“A little, but the zippers are different.”
“What are we going to do, Mom?” Cole said. “I need my stuff.”
“We’ll call the airline, don’t worry, honey.” Sarah pulled a printed page from her bag and went to the room’s desk. “See, I put this paper inside all our bags. It has our hotel and cell phone numbers, so whoever has your bag can call us.”
While Sarah and Jeff searched their airline tickets for a lost luggage number, Cole turned to the strange belongings. One item drew his interest.
A tiny plastic toy jet.
He pushed a small button on top of it, lights flashed and it made a jet engine sound. Cole loved it. He moved behind the curtains, pressed the toy against the window, taking it on a flight over Manhattan’s tall buildings.
“I can’t find a claim number on my part of the ticket,” Sarah said just as Jeff’s cell phone rang.
“Hey.” Jeff looked at the display before he answered. “It’s the same number that tried to call me when we were in the taxi.”
“Mr. Griffin? Jeff Griffin of Laurel, Montana?”
“Yes.”
“This is Hans Beck, I tried calling you earlier. I got your number from your backpack. I have it, there was a mix-up at the airport and I was hoping you’d have mine? It looks just like yours-it has some clothes, snacks, maps and my razor inside.”
“Yes, we have it.”
“Good, can we trade them as soon as possible? I am running late for a train. According to your information, you’re at the Central Suites that’s near Penn Station?”
“Yes, we can exchange the bags now if you like.” Jeff nodded to Sarah, who smiled with relief and indicated that she would take a quick shower. After a few more minutes Jeff had worked out the bag trade with the caller.
“Cole! Let’s go get your backpack, son!”
Startled by his dad, Cole, who’d been running the plane up and down the curtain, let the toy slip to the lower end as he pushed the curtain aside.
“Really?” Cole stepped from the window. “Now?”
“Yes, really, yes, now. So put all that stuff back in the bag. Everything and let’s go.” Jeff had unfolded a map on his bed and studied it. “The guy who’s got your backpack is going to meet us now, so move it!”
Overjoyed at getting his possessions back, Cole forgot about the plane and gathered all the items as fast as he could, shoving them hastily into the backpack while his dad glanced at the map.
This Hans Beck had a German-sounding accent. Maybe he was a student, Jeff thought as he and Cole walked toward Madison Square Garden with his backpack.
They were to meet in front of a diner on Thirty-third Street across from Penn Station. Beck said he was twenty-nine, five foot eleven with blond hair. Jeff gave a description of himself and Cole, noting they would also recognize each other by the backpacks.
About twenty minutes after Beck had called, they spotted him on the street at the appointed location. Beck’s hair was unkempt, his clothes disheveled. He was dragging anxiously on a cigarette, his face taut.
“Are you Hans Beck?”
Beck blew a stream of smoke skyward and nodded.
“Jeff and Cole Griffin.”
They traded handshakes, then backpacks.
Immediately Beck began rummaging through his.
“Everything’s in here, right?” Beck said, snapping his head around at the sound of car horns from the traffic.
“Sure. We didn’t take anything, if that’s what you mean,” Jeff said.
“No, no, man.” Beck focused on Cole, then winked. “Because you’re too young to use my electric razor, right?”
“That’s funny,” Cole said. “The airplane you have in there is cool.”
“What airplane? You looked inside?”
“Sorry.” Cole glanced at his dad, then at Beck. “It was when I thought it was my backpack. I saw the little toy plane.”
“Everything’s in there,” Jeff said.
“What? Okay. I’m really late.” Beck looked around to the street, closed the bag, then hoisted it onto his back. “Yes, I packed it so fast, I’m not sure what I put in there. Well, I have to split. Thanks.”
Beck disappeared into the crowds entering Penn Station. Jeff’s attention followed him with a ping of unease before he turned to Cole.
“Let’s get back to the hotel, son.”
3
Hans Beck gripped his backpack and pinballed through Penn Station.
For a fleeting moment he considered boarding a train, any train, and getting away.
Beck had lied to Jeff Griffin about having to catch a train. Instead, he had to meet his contact and complete this delivery.
He’d nearly blown this job.
How could he have been so stupid to have picked up the wrong bag? In his time as a courier he’d never screwed up like this. His customers were enraged. He’d never had contacts so intense. He didn’t know who they were, or what they were involved in.
He didn’t want to know.
When he’d given them the Griffin backpack in error, they took no comfort in his assurance he would retrieve the misplaced bag.
Well, he did it, just as he said he would.
