"Never mind," I said. "We're almost to Monterrey. Don't attract attention. We have to check through Immigration there."

He straightened up in his seat. "Immigration?"

"Nothing serious," I said. "Just turn in our tourist cards and see about the tickets to Denver. . . But we'll have to act straight. . ."

"Why?" he asked.

I gave it some thought. Why, indeed? We were clean. Or almost almost clean, anyway. About an hour out of Merida we'd eaten another round of acid -- which left us with two more of those, plus four reds and the c.o.ke and the speed. The luck of the split had left me with the speed and the acid; Bloor had the c.o.ke and the reds. . . and by the time the clean, anyway. About an hour out of Merida we'd eaten another round of acid -- which left us with two more of those, plus four reds and the c.o.ke and the speed. The luck of the split had left me with the speed and the acid; Bloor had the c.o.ke and the reds. . . and by the time the ABROCHE SU CINTURON (FASTEN SEAT BELTS) ABROCHE SU CINTURON (FASTEN SEAT BELTS) sign flashed on above Monterrey, we'd agreed, more or less, that anything we hadn't eaten by the time we got to Texas would have to be flushed down the stainless-steel John in the plane's lavatory. sign flashed on above Monterrey, we'd agreed, more or less, that anything we hadn't eaten by the time we got to Texas would have to be flushed down the stainless-steel John in the plane's lavatory.

It had taken about 45 tortured minutes to reach this agreement, because by that time, neither one of us could speak clearly. I tried to whisper, through gritted teeth, but each time I succeeded in uttering a coherent sentence my voice seemed to echo around the cabin like I was mumbling into a bullhorn. At one point, I leaned over as close as possible to Bloor's ear and hissed: "Reds. . . how many?" But the sound of my own voice was such a shock that I recoiled in horror and tried to pretend I'd said nothing.

Was the stewardess staring? I couldn't be sure. Bloor had seemed not to notice -- but suddenly he was thrashing around in his seat and clawing frantically underneath himself with both hands. "What the f.u.c.k?" he was screaming.

"Quiet!" I snapped. "What's wrong wrong with you?" with you?"

He was jerking at his seat belt, still shouting. The stewardess ran down the aisle and unbuckled it for him. There was fear in her face as she backed off and watched him spring out of his seat. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you clumsy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he yelled.

I stared straight ahead. Jesus, I thought, he's blowing it, he can't handle the acid, I should have abandoned this crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d in Cozumel. I felt my teeth grinding as I tried to ignore his noise. . . then I glanced across and saw him groping between the seats and coming up with a smoldering cigarette b.u.t.t. "Look at this!" he shouted at me. He was holding the b.u.t.t in one hand and fondling the back of his thigh with the other. . .

"Burned a big hole in my pants," he was saying. "He just spit this dirty thing right down in my seat!"

"What?" I said, feeling in front of my mouth for the cigarette in my filter. . . but the filter was empty, and I suddenly understood. The fog in my brain suddenly cleared and I heard myself laughing. "I warned you about these G.o.dd.a.m.n Bonanzas!" I said. "They'll never stick in the filter!"

The stewardess was pushing him back down into his seat. "Fasten belts," she kept saying, "fasten belts."

I grabbed his arm and jerked downward, pulling him off balance and causing him to fall heavily onto the back of the seat. It gave way and collapsed on the legs of whoever was sitting behind us. The stewardess jerked it quickly back to the upright position, then reached down to fasten Bloor's seat belt. I saw his left arm snake out and settle affectionately around her shoulders.

Good G.o.d! I thought. This is it. I could see the headlines in tomorrow's News: News: "DRUG FRACAS ON AIRLINER NEAR MONTERREY: GRINGOS JAILED ON ARSON, a.s.sAULT CHARGES "DRUG FRACAS ON AIRLINER NEAR MONTERREY: GRINGOS JAILED ON ARSON, a.s.sAULT CHARGES."

But the stewardess only smiled and backed off a few steps, dismissing Bloor's crude advance with a slap at his arm and an icy professional smile. I tried to return it, but my face was not working properly. Her eyes narrowed. She was clearly more insulted by the demented grin I was trying now to fix on her than she was by Bloor's attempt to push her head down into his lap.

He smiled happily as she stalked away. "That'll teach you," he said. "You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n nightmare to travel with."

The acid was leveling out now. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was into the manic stage. No more of that jerky, paranoid whispering. He was feeling confident now; his face had settled into that glaze of brittle serenity you invariably see on the face of a veteran acid eater who knows that the first rush is past and now he can settle down for about six hours of real fun.

I was not quite there myself, but I knew it was coming -- and we still had about seven more hours and two plane changes between now and Denver. I knew the Immigration scene at Monterrey was only a formality -- just stand in line for a while with all the other gringos and not get hysterical when the cop at the gate asks for your tourist card.

We could ease through that one, I felt -- on the strength of long experience. Anybody who's still on the street after seven or eight years of public acid eating has learned to trust his adrenaline gland for getting through routine confrontations with officialdom -- traffic citations, bridge tolls, airline ticket counters. . .

And we had one of these coming up: getting our baggage off this plane and not losing it in the airport until we found out which flight would take us to San Antonio and Denver. Bloor was traveling light, with only two bags. But I had my normal heavy load: two huge leather suitcases, a canvas sea-bag and tape recorder with two portable speakers. If we were going to lose anything, I wanted to lose it north north of the border. of the border.

The Monterrey airport is a cool, bright little building, so immaculately clean and efficient that we were almost immediately lulled into a condition of grinning euphoria. Everything seemed to be working perfectly. No lost baggage, no sudden outbursts of wild jabbering at the Immigration desk, no cause for panic or fits of despair at the ticket counter. . . Our first-cla.s.s reservations had already been made and confirmed all the way to Denver. Bloor had been reluctant to blow 32 extra dollars "just to sit up front with the businessmen," but I felt it was necessary. "There's a lot more lat.i.tude for weird behavior in first cla.s.s." I told him. "The stewardesses back in the tourist section don't have as much experience, so they're more likely to freak out if they think they have a dangerous nut on their hands."

He glared at me. "Do I look like a dangerous nut?"

I shrugged. It was hard to focus on his face. We were standing in a corridor outside the souvenir shop. "You look like a serious dope addict," I said, finally. "Your hair's all wild, your eyes are glittering, your nose is all red and --" I suddenly noticed white powder on the top edge of his mustache. "You swine! You've been into the c.o.ke!"

He grinned blankly. "Why not? Just a little pick-me-up."

I nodded. "Yeah. Just wait till you start explaining yourself to the Customs agent in San Antonio with white powder drooling out of your nose." I laughed. "Have you ever seen those big bullet-nosed flashlights they use for rectal searches?" He was rubbing his nostrils vigorously. "Where's the drugstore? I'll get some of that Dristan nasal spray." He reached into his back pocket and I saw his face turn gray. "Jesus," he hissed. "I've lost my wallet!" He kept fumbling in his pockets but no wallet turned up. "Good G.o.d!" he moaned. "It's still on the plane!" His eyes flashed wildly around the airport. "Where's the gate?" he snapped. "The wallet must be under the seat."

I shook my head. "No, it's too late."

"What?"

"The plane. I saw it take off while you were in the rest room, snorting up the c.o.ke."

He thought for a moment, then uttered a loud, wavering howl. "My pa.s.sport! All my money! I have nothing! nothing! They'll never let me back into the country, with no I.D." They'll never let me back into the country, with no I.D."

I smiled. "Ridiculous. I'll vouch for you."

"s.h.i.t!" he said. "You're crazy! You look look crazy!" crazy!"

"Let's go find the bar," I said. "We have forty-five minutes."

"What?"

"The drunker you get, the less it'll bother you," I said. "The best thing, right now, is for you to get weeping, falling-down drunk. I'll swear you staggered in front of a moving plane on the runway in Merida and a jet engine sucked the coat right off your back and into its turbine." The whole thing seemed absurd. "Your wallet was in the coat, right? I was a witness. It was all I could do to keep your whole body whole body from being sucked into the turbine." from being sucked into the turbine."

I was laughing wildly now; the scene was very vivid. I could almost feel feel the terrible drag of the suction as we struggled to dig our heels into the hot asphalt runway. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the wail of a mariachi band above the roar of the engines, sucking us ever closer to the whirling blades. I could hear the wild screech of a stewardess as she watched helplessly. A Mexican soldier with a machine gun was trying to help us, but suddenly he was sucked away like a leaf in the wind. . . wild screams all around us, then a sickening the terrible drag of the suction as we struggled to dig our heels into the hot asphalt runway. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the wail of a mariachi band above the roar of the engines, sucking us ever closer to the whirling blades. I could hear the wild screech of a stewardess as she watched helplessly. A Mexican soldier with a machine gun was trying to help us, but suddenly he was sucked away like a leaf in the wind. . . wild screams all around us, then a sickening thump thump as he disappeared feetfirst into the black maw of the turbine. . . The engine seemed to stall momentarily, then spit a nasty shower of hamburger and bone splinters all over the runway. . . more screaming from behind us as Bloor's coat ripped away; I was holding him by one arm when another soldier with a machine gun began firing at the plane, first at the c.o.c.kpit and then at the murderous engine. . . which suddenly exploded, like a bomb going off right in front of us; the blast hurled us 200 feet across the tarmac and through a wire-mesh fence. . . as he disappeared feetfirst into the black maw of the turbine. . . The engine seemed to stall momentarily, then spit a nasty shower of hamburger and bone splinters all over the runway. . . more screaming from behind us as Bloor's coat ripped away; I was holding him by one arm when another soldier with a machine gun began firing at the plane, first at the c.o.c.kpit and then at the murderous engine. . . which suddenly exploded, like a bomb going off right in front of us; the blast hurled us 200 feet across the tarmac and through a wire-mesh fence. . .

Jesus! What a scene! A fantastic tale to lay on the Customs agent in San Antonio: "And then, officer, while we were lying there on the gra.s.s, too stunned to move, another another engine exploded! And then another! Huge b.a.l.l.s of fire! It was a miracle that we escaped with our lives. . . Yes, so you'll have to make some allowance for Mr. Bloor's unsteady condition right now. He was badly shaken, half-hysterical most of the afternoon. . . I want to get him back to Denver and put him under sedation. . ." engine exploded! And then another! Huge b.a.l.l.s of fire! It was a miracle that we escaped with our lives. . . Yes, so you'll have to make some allowance for Mr. Bloor's unsteady condition right now. He was badly shaken, half-hysterical most of the afternoon. . . I want to get him back to Denver and put him under sedation. . ."

I was so caught up in this terrible vision that I'd failed to notice Bloor down on his knees until I heard him shout. He'd spread the contents of his kit bag all over the floor of the corridor rummaging through the mess, and now he was smiling happily at the wallet in his hand.

"You found it." I said.

He nodded -- clutching it with both hands, as if it might leap out of his grip with the strength of a half-captured lizard and disappear across the crowded lobby. I looked around and saw that people were stopping to watch us. My mind was still whirling from the fiery hallucination that had seized me, but I was able to kneel down and help Bloor stuff his belongings back into the kit bag. "We're attracting a crowd." I muttered. "Let's get to the bar, where it's safe."

Moments later we were sitting at a table overlooking the runway, sipping margaritas and watching the ground crew load the 727 that would take us to San Antonio. My plan was to stay hunkered down in the bar until the last moment, then dash for the plane. Our luck had been excellent, so far, but that scene in the lobby had triggered a wave of paranoia in my head. I felt very conspicuous. Bloor's mannerisms were becoming more and more psychotic. He took one sip of his drink, then whacked it down onto the table and stared at me. "What is is this?" he snarled. this?" he snarled.

"A double margarita," I said, glancing over at the waitress to see if she had her eye on us.

She did, and Bloor waved at her.

"What do you want?" I whispered.

"Glaucoma," he said.

The waitress was on us before I could argue. Glaucoma is an extremely complicated mix of about nine unlikely ingredients that Bloor had learned from some randy old woman he met on the porch of the Bal-Hai. She'd taught the bartender there how to make it: very precise measurements of gin, tequila, Kahlua, crushed ice, fruit juices, lime rinds, spices -- all mixed to perfection in a tall frosted gla.s.s.

It is not the kind of drink you want to order in an airport bar with a head full of acid and a noticeable speech impediment; especially when you can't speak the local language and you just spilled the first drink you ordered all over the table.

But Bloor persisted. When the waitress abandoned all hope, he walked over to speak with the bartender. I slumped in my chair, keeping an eye on the plane and hoping it was almost ready to go. But they hadn't even loaded the baggage yet: departure time was still 20 minutes away -- plenty of time for some minor incident to mushroom into serious trouble. I watched Bloor talking to the bartender, pointing to various bottles behind the bar and occasionally using his fingers to indicate measurements. The bartender was nodding his head patiently.

Finally, Bloor came back to the table. "He's making it," he said. "I'll be back in a minute. I have business."

I ignored him. My mind was drifting again. Two days and nights without sleep plus a steady diet of mind-altering drugs and double margaritas were beginning to affect my alertness. I ordered another drink and stared out at the hot brown hills beyond the runway. The bar was comfortably air conditioned, but I could feel the warm sun through the window.

Why worry? I thought. We've survived the worst. All we have to do now is not miss that plane out there. Once we're across the border, the worst that can happen is a nightmarish f.u.c.k-around at Customs in San Antonio. Maybe even a night in jail, but what the h.e.l.l? A few misdemeanor charges -- public drunkenness, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest -- but nothing serious, no felony. All the evidence for that that would be eaten by the time we landed in Texas. would be eaten by the time we landed in Texas.

My only real worry was the chance that there might already be grand-larceny charges filed against us in Cozumel. We had, after all, jumped two hotel bills totaling about 15,000 pesos, in addition to leaving that half-destroyed Avis jeep in the airport parking lot -- another 15,000 pesos -- and we had spent the past four or five days in the constant company of a flagrant, big-volume drug runner whose every movement and contact, for all we knew, might have been watched or even photographed by Interpol agents.

Where was Frank now? Safe at home in California? Or jailed in Mexico City, swearing desperate ignorance about how all those cans of white powder got into his luggage? I could almost hear it: "You've got got to believe me, Captain! I went down to Cozumel to check on a land investment. I was sitting in a bar one night, minding my own business, when all of a sudden these two drunken acid freaks sat down next to me and said they worked for to believe me, Captain! I went down to Cozumel to check on a land investment. I was sitting in a bar one night, minding my own business, when all of a sudden these two drunken acid freaks sat down next to me and said they worked for P PLAYBOY. One of them had a handful of purple pills and I was stupid enough to eat one. The next thing I knew, they were using my hotel room as their headquarters. They never slept. I tried to keep an eye on them, but there were plenty of times while I was sleeping when they could have put almost anything in my luggage. . . What? Where are they now? Well. . . I can't say for sure, but I can give you the names of the hotels they were using." One of them had a handful of purple pills and I was stupid enough to eat one. The next thing I knew, they were using my hotel room as their headquarters. They never slept. I tried to keep an eye on them, but there were plenty of times while I was sleeping when they could have put almost anything in my luggage. . . What? Where are they now? Well. . . I can't say for sure, but I can give you the names of the hotels they were using."

Jesus! These terrible hallucinations! I tried to put them out of my mind as I finished my drink and called for another. A paranoid shudder jerked me out of my slump in the chair. I sat up and looked around. Where was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Bloor? How long had he been gone? I glanced out at the plane and saw the fuel truck still parked under the wing. But they were loading the baggage now. Ten more minutes.

I relaxed again, shoving a handful of pesos at the waitress to pay for our drinks, trying to smile at her. . . when suddenly the whole airport seemed to echo with the sound of my name being shouted over a thousand loud-speakers. . . then I heard Bloor's name. . . a harsh, heavily accented voice, bellowing along the corridors like the scream of a banshee. . . "Pa.s.sENGERS HUNTER THOMPSON AND YAIL BLOOR. REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE IMMIGRATION DESK. . ."

I was too stunned to move. "Mother of twelve b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" I whispered. "Did I actually hear hear that?" I gripped both arms of my chair and tried to concentrate. Was I hallucinating again? There was no way to be sure. . . that?" I gripped both arms of my chair and tried to concentrate. Was I hallucinating again? There was no way to be sure. . .

Then I heard the voice again, booming all over the airport: "WILL Pa.s.sENGERS HUNTER THOMPSON AND YAIL BLOOR REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE IMMIGRATION DESK. . ."

No! I thought. This is impossible! It had to be paranoid dementia. My fear of being nailed at the last moment had become so intense that I was hearing voices! The sun through the window had caused the acid to boil in my brain; a huge bubble of drugs had burst a weak vein in my frontal lobes.

Then I saw Bloor rushing into the bar. His eyes were wild, his hands were flapping crazily. "Did you hear that?" that?" he shouted. he shouted.

I stared at him. Well. . . I thought, we're f.u.c.ked. He heard it, too. . . or even if he hadn't, even if we're both both hallucinating, it means we've O.D.'d. . . totally out of control for the next six hours, crazed with fear and confusion, feeling our bodies disappear and our heads swell up like balloons, unable to even recognize each other. . . hallucinating, it means we've O.D.'d. . . totally out of control for the next six hours, crazed with fear and confusion, feeling our bodies disappear and our heads swell up like balloons, unable to even recognize each other. . .

"Wake up! G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" he yelled. "We have to make a run for the plane!"

I shrugged. "It's no use. They'll grab us at the gate."

He was frantically trying to zip up his kit bag. "Are you sure those were our our names they called? Are you names they called? Are you positive?" positive?"

I nodded, still not moving. Somewhere in the middle of my half-numb brain, the truth was beginning to stir. I was not not hallucinating; the nightmare was real. . . and I suddenly remembered the Striker PR man's talk about that all-powerful hallucinating; the nightmare was real. . . and I suddenly remembered the Striker PR man's talk about that all-powerful jefe jefe in Cozumel who had the fuel license. in Cozumel who had the fuel license.

Of course. A man with that kind of leverage would have connections all over Mexico: police, airlines, Immigration. It was madness to think we could cross him and get away with it. No doubt he controlled the Avis franchise, too. . . and he'd gone into action the minute his henchmen found that crippled jeep in the airport parking lot, with its windshield shattered and an 11-day bill unpaid. The phone lines had been humming 20,000 feet beneath us all the way to Monterrey. And now, with less than ten minutes to spare, they had ambushed us.

I stood up and slung the seabag over my shoulder just as the waitress brought Bloor's glaucoma. He looked at her, then lifted it off the tray and drank the whole thing in one gulp. "Gracias, gracias," "Gracias, gracias," he mumbled, handing her a 50-peso note. She started to make change, but he shook his head. he mumbled, handing her a 50-peso note. She started to make change, but he shook his head. "Nada, nada, "Nada, nada, keep the G.o.dd.a.m.n change." Then he pointed toward the kitchen. "Back door?" he said eagerly. keep the G.o.dd.a.m.n change." Then he pointed toward the kitchen. "Back door?" he said eagerly. " "Exito?" He nodded at the plane about 50 feet below us on the runway. I could see a few pa.s.sengers beginning to board. "Big hurry!" Bloor told her. He nodded at the plane about 50 feet below us on the runway. I could see a few pa.s.sengers beginning to board. "Big hurry!" Bloor told her. " "Importante!"

She looked puzzled, then pointed to the main entrance to the bar.

He stuttered helplessly for a moment, then began shouting: "Where's the G.o.dd.a.m.n back door back door to this place? We have to catch that plane to this place? We have to catch that plane now!" now!"

A long-delayed rush of adrenaline was beginning to clear my head. I grabbed his arm and lurched toward the main door. "Let's go," I said. "We'll run right past the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." My brain was still foggy, but the adrenaline had triggered a basic survival instinct. Our only hope was to run like doomed rats for the only available opening and hope for a miracle.

As we hurried down the corridor, I jerked one of the PRESS PRESS tags off my seabag and gave it to Bloor. "Start waving this at them when we hit the gate," I said, leaping sideways to avoid a covey of nuns in our way tags off my seabag and gave it to Bloor. "Start waving this at them when we hit the gate," I said, leaping sideways to avoid a covey of nuns in our way " "Pardonnez!" I shouted. I shouted. " "Prensa! Prensa! Mucho importante!"

Bloor picked up the cry as we approached the gate, running at full speed and shouting incoherently in garbled Spanish. The Immigration booth was just beyond the gla.s.s doors leading out to the runway. The stairway up to the plane was still full of pa.s.sengers, but the clock above the gate said exactly 11:20 -- departure time. Our only hope was to burst past the cops at the desk and dash aboard the plane just as the stewardess pulled the big silver door closed. . .

We had to slow down as we approached the gla.s.s doors, waving our tickets at the cops and yelling " "Prensa! Prensa!" at everybody in front of us. I was pouring sweat by this time and we were both gasping for breath. at everybody in front of us. I was pouring sweat by this time and we were both gasping for breath.

A small, muscular-looking cop in a white shirt and dark gla.s.ses moved out to head us off as we stumbled through the doors. "Senor Bloor? Bloor? Se Senor Thompson?" he asked sharply. Thompson?" he asked sharply.

The voice of doom.

I staggered to a halt and sagged against the desk, but Bloor's leather-soled Mod boots wouldn't hold on the marble floor and he skidded past me at full speed and crashed into a ten-foot potted palm, dropping his kit bag and mangling several branches that he grabbed to keep from falling.

"Senor Thompson? Thompson? Se Senor Bloor?" Our accuser had a one-track mind. One of his a.s.sistants had run over to help Bloor keep his feet. Another cop picked his kit bag off the floor and handed it to him. Bloor?" Our accuser had a one-track mind. One of his a.s.sistants had run over to help Bloor keep his feet. Another cop picked his kit bag off the floor and handed it to him.

I was too exhausted to do anything but nod my head meekly. The cop who'd called our names took the ticket out of my hand and glanced at it -- then quickly handed it back to me. "Ah-ha!" he said with a grin. "Se "Senor Thompson!" Then he looked at Bloor. "You are Thompson!" Then he looked at Bloor. "You are Se Senor Bloor?" Bloor?"

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right I am!" Bloor snapped. "What the h.e.l.l's going on here? This is a G.o.dd.a.m.n outrage -- all this wax on these floors! I almost got killed!"

The little cop grinned again. Was there something s.a.d.i.s.tic in his smile? I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter now. They had us on the gaff. I flashed on all the people I knew who'd been busted in Mexico; dopers who'd pushed their luck too far, gotten careless. No doubt we would find friends in prison; I could almost hear them hooting their cheerful greetings as we were led into the yard and turned loose.

This scene pa.s.sed through my head in milliseconds. Bloor's wild yells were still floating in the air as the cop began pushing me out the door toward the plane. "Hurry! Hurry!" he was saying. . . and behind me I heard his a.s.sistant prodding Bloor. "We were afraid you would miss the plane," he was saying. "We called on the P.A. system." He was grinning broadly now. "You almost missed the plane."

We were almost to San Antonio before I got a grip on myself. The adrenaline was still pumping violently through my head; the acid and booze and fatigue had been totally neutralized by that scene at the gate. My nerves were so jangled as the plane took off that I had to beg the stewardess for two Scotch and waters, which I used to down two of our four reds.

Bloor ate the other two, with the help of two b.l.o.o.d.y marys. His hands were trembling badly, his eyes were filled with blood. . . but as he came back to life, he began cursing "those dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on the P.A. system" who had caused him to panic and get rid of all the c.o.ke.

"Jesus!" he said quietly, "you can imagine what a horror that was! I was standing there at the urinal, with my joint in one hand and a c.o.ke spoon in the other -- jamming the stuff up my nose and trying to p.i.s.s at the same time -- when all of a f.u.c.king sudden it just exploded all around me! They have a speaker up there in the corner of that bathroom, and the whole place is tile tile!" He took a long hit on the drink. "s.h.i.t, I almost went crazy! It was like somebody had snuck up behind me and dropped a cherry bomb down the back of my shirt. All I could think of was getting rid of the c.o.ke. I threw it into one of the urinals and ran like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d for the bar." He laughed nervously. "h.e.l.l, I didn't even zip up my pants; I was running down the hall with my joint hanging out." He took a long hit on the drink. "s.h.i.t, I almost went crazy! It was like somebody had snuck up behind me and dropped a cherry bomb down the back of my shirt. All I could think of was getting rid of the c.o.ke. I threw it into one of the urinals and ran like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d for the bar." He laughed nervously. "h.e.l.l, I didn't even zip up my pants; I was running down the hall with my joint hanging out."

I smiled, remembering the sense of almost apocalyptic despair that seized me when I heard the first announcement.

"That's odd," I said. "It never even occurred to me to get rid of the drugs. I was thinking about all those hotel bills and that G.o.dd.a.m.n jeep. If they'd nailed us for that stuff, a few pills wouldn't make much difference."

He seemed to brood for a while. . . then he spoke, staring fixedly at the seat in front of him. "Well. . . I don't know about you. . . but I don't think I could stand stand another shock like that one. I had about 90 seconds of pure terror. I felt like my whole life had ended. Jesus! Standing at that urinal with a c.o.ke spoon up my nose and suddenly hearing my name on the speaker. . ." He moaned softly. "Now I know how Liddy must have felt when he saw those cops running into the Watergate. . . seeing his whole life fall apart, from a hot rod in the White House to a twenty-year jailbird in sixty seconds." another shock like that one. I had about 90 seconds of pure terror. I felt like my whole life had ended. Jesus! Standing at that urinal with a c.o.ke spoon up my nose and suddenly hearing my name on the speaker. . ." He moaned softly. "Now I know how Liddy must have felt when he saw those cops running into the Watergate. . . seeing his whole life fall apart, from a hot rod in the White House to a twenty-year jailbird in sixty seconds."

"f.u.c.k Liddy," I said. "It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." I laughed out loud. "Liddy was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who ran Operation Intercept -- remember that?"

Bloor nodded.

"What do you think would have happened if Gordon Liddy had been standing at the gate when we came crashing through?"

He smiled, sipping his drink.

"We'd be sitting in a Mexican jail right now," I said. "Just one one of these pills" -- I held up a purple acid tab -- "would have been enough to drive Liddy into a hate frenzy. He'd have had us locked up on suspicion of everything from hijacking to dope smuggling." of these pills" -- I held up a purple acid tab -- "would have been enough to drive Liddy into a hate frenzy. He'd have had us locked up on suspicion of everything from hijacking to dope smuggling."

He looked at the pill I was holding, then reached for it. "Let's finish these off," he said. "I can't stand this nervousness."

"You're right," I said, reaching into my pocket for the other one. "We're almost to San Antonio." I tossed the pill down my throat and called the stewardess for another drink.

"Is that it?" he asked. "Are we clean?"

I nodded. "Except for the speed."

"Get rid of it," he said. "We're almost there."

"Don't worry," I replied. "This acid will take hold just about the time we land. We should order more drinks." I unbuckled my seat belt and walked up the aisle to the lavatory, fully intending to flush the speed down the toilet. . . but when I got inside, with the door locked behind me, I stared down at the little b.u.g.g.e.rs resting so peacefully there in my palm. . . ten caps of pure-white amphetamine powder. . . and I thought: No, we might need need these, in case of another emergency. I remembered the dangerous lethargy that had gripped me in Monterrey. . . Then I looked down at my white-canvas basketball shoes and noticed how snugly the tongues fit under the laces. . . plenty of pressure down there, I thought, and plenty of room for ten pills. . . so I put all the speed in my shoes and went back to the seat. No point mentioning it to Bloor, I thought. these, in case of another emergency. I remembered the dangerous lethargy that had gripped me in Monterrey. . . Then I looked down at my white-canvas basketball shoes and noticed how snugly the tongues fit under the laces. . . plenty of pressure down there, I thought, and plenty of room for ten pills. . . so I put all the speed in my shoes and went back to the seat. No point mentioning it to Bloor, I thought. He's He's clean, and therefore totally innocent. It would only inhibit his capacity for righteous anger, I felt, if I told him about the speed I was still carrying. . . until we were safely through Customs and reeling blindly around the San Antonio airport; then he would thank me for it. clean, and therefore totally innocent. It would only inhibit his capacity for righteous anger, I felt, if I told him about the speed I was still carrying. . . until we were safely through Customs and reeling blindly around the San Antonio airport; then he would thank me for it.

San Antonio was a cakewalk; no trouble at all -- despite the fact that we virtually fell off the plane, badly twisted again, and by the time we got our bags onto the conveyor belt leading up to the tall black Customs agent, we were both laughing like fools at the trail of orange amphetamine pills strung out behind us on the floor of the tin-roofed Customs shed. I was arguing with the agent about how much import tax I would have to pay on the two bottles of prima prima tequila I was carrying when I noticed Bloor was almost doubled over with laughter right beside me. He had just paid a tax of $5.88 on his own tequila, and now he was cracking up while the agent fussed over tequila I was carrying when I noticed Bloor was almost doubled over with laughter right beside me. He had just paid a tax of $5.88 on his own tequila, and now he was cracking up while the agent fussed over my my tax. tax.

"What's the h.e.l.ls's wrong with you?" I snapped, glancing back at him. . . Then I noticed he was looking down at my feet, fighting so hard to control his laughter that he was having trouble keeping his balance.

I looked down. . . and there, about six inches from my right shoe, was a bright-orange Spansule. Another one was sitting on the black-rubber floor mat about two feet behind me. . . and two feet farther back was another. They looked as big as footb.a.l.l.s.