Fink's with a belly full of steak and chips washed down with shots of Wild Turkey and Heineken chasers. The place was empty-all the others were scrambling to write up the Gvura riot thing. Far as he was concerned, that was the same old stuff, be stale by sunrise. He was enjoying the solitude, easing down his fifth chaser and fading into a nice summer high, when he felt his elbows in the vise-grip, saw the gray sleeve hook around his neck and flash the badge in his face.
'What the-' He tried to turn around. A big, warm hand clamped around him and held his head still, exerting pressure behind the ears and keeping him staring straight ahead. Another hand took hold of his belt and pushed forward, preventing him from backing off the barstool.
He looked for the bartender, someone to witness what was going on. Gone.
'Police. Come with us,' said a dry voice.
'Now wait one sec-' He was lifted off the stool, all booze-limp, marched out the door to a waiting car with its motor idling.
As they dragged him, he tried to clear his head, zero in on details.
The car: white Ford Escort four-door. No chance to look at the plates. The driver was shielding his face with a newspaper.
The rear door opened. He was eased in, next to a young guy. Good-looking. Tan. Bearded. Skintight red polo shirt, tight designer jeans. Angry face.
'Seat belt,' said Dry Voice, and he got in, too, sandwiching Wilbur and slamming the door shut. Wilbur examined him: an older one, limp gray suit, glasses, pale face, beak-nosed and thin-lipped. Semitic version of the guy in 'American Gothic.' Something about him made Wilbur's stomach queasy.
He fought to suppress his fear, telling himself: No problem, this is a democracy. No Tontons Macoute/Savak types here, unless? they weren't policemen. All he'd seen of the badge was a flash of metal-cops in a democracy weren't supposed to behave like this.
Nasty thoughts flashed through his mind. Israeli mafia. Or some crazy Arab group-even though neither of the two in the back looked like Arabs. Maybe Gvura crazies getting back at him for the riot.
A fourth man came around from the rear of the car and got in front, next to the driver. Bushy black hair, big and broad-had to be the one who'd grabbed his neck. Black polo shirt. Huge, hunched shoulders-weight lifter's shoulders. The seat creaked when he moved.
'What the hell is going on?'
'Seat belt,' repeated Dry Voice, and when Wilbur hesitated, both he and Handsome reached over and fastened the belt themselves, yanking it tight over his midriff.
The driver put the Escort in gear. Kinky-haired, modified Afro with a yarmulke bobby-pinned to the crown. Crocheted black yarmulke with red roses around the border. Band of dark skin showing above a white shirt collar-a black Jew?
Kinky backed out HaHistadrut Street, onto King George, drove north, shot the amber light at the Yafo intersection and continued on Straus, weaving in and out of traffic like some joyrider.
Straight out of a second-rate foreign film, thought Wilbur. French or Italian. Only this was real and he was scared shitless.
The Escort hurtled along atbreakneck speed until coming to a red light at Malkhei Yisrael, at which point Kinky hooked into an alley so narrow its stone walls threatened to scrape the sides of the car. Kinky maintained his pace, dodging potholes and rubbish.
Wilbur's fingernails dug into his knees. His tailbone was taking a beating, though most of the impact was absorbed by the bodies of Handsome and Dry Voice, compressing him shoulder to shoulder. They stared ahead, paying no attention to him, as if he were too insignificant to deal with. Smelling of cologne and sweat. Dry Voice kept one hand in his jacket.
Very subtle.
The alley hairpinned. Kinky kept speeding.
Wilbur stared at the floor in order to keep from heaving.
They emerged on Yehesqel, turned on Shmuel Hanavi, and Wilbur thought: They are police. Taking me to National Headquarters on French Hill.
Outrageous.
He permitted himself to get angry, began selecting the precise wording of his official protest.
Then the Escort bypassed the police compound and continued north and he felt the fear rise again in his gut, stronger, mingling with booze-tinged nausea.
'I demand to-' Croaking. Sounding like a wimp.
'Quiet,' said Dry Voice, meaning it.
Kinky kept up the speed. They zipped through the northern suburbs, passed Ramot Eshkol, and the city stopped looking citylike.
Goddamned desert. Empty stretches that preceded the Ramot. Then the northern heights themselves.
Ramot A.
Ramot B.
Wilbur forced himself to keep concentrating on the details, keeping his mind on the story that would come out of all this. The story he was going to shove down these bastards' throats: Reporter abducted; State Department protests. International scandal. Exclusive story by Mark A. Wilbur. TV interviews, talk shows. Dinner at the White House. No problem selling this screenplay? who'd be right to play him? Redford? Too flat
On the story, off reality.
