Sigsbee Deep

WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS, the banner across the concourse read, and Mozelle smiled, careful not to let the smile light on any of the male faces turned toward her as she approached. Not that she didn't like men, that she didn't like being appreciated for her good looks, but the old fears seemed impossible to discard. To be nondescript in an airport was always something to strive for when carrying drugs into the country. But she didn't do that anymore, she admonished herself.

"Passengers departing for the continuation of American flight 349, bound for Minneapolis, Minnesota are now being checked in. Please present your ticket at the counter at gate 19B," the voice on the speaker announced in that dull, bored, mechanical manner. She wondered what the person behind the voice looked like, the thought as quickly slipping away as her footsteps on the terrazzo.

The concourse merged into the main terminal and she followed the signs toward the luggage claim area, glancing over her shoulder nonchalantly, her green eyes scanning the

faces behind her without expression or apparent interest, her gaze never locking on anyone. If she was being trailed, she couldn't pick him out. She followed the crowd to where the conveyor belts were disgorging suitcases, back-packs, and taped-together boxes.

Her spine tingled. It sure as hell wasn't the first time she'd stood waiting for luggage in an airport. This time, she had nothing to worry about, she knew that, but still she felt panicky. The jumble of additions to the luggage collection on the belt increased and the crowd stepped forward in unison. She looked again at the luggage stubs, then joined them, miming the numbers as she did so. Brown, Luis Vitton. There they were, just unique enough to prevent a mix-up.

She forged her way through the line and reached for the handle of the first, instantly checking to make sure the number was right--it was--then reached for the other. The suited man next to her reacted at the same moment, his arm longer, and he snatched the matching suitcase from the line.

"This one yours, too, little lady?" he asked heartily, flashing a pudgy smile.

"Yes, thank you," she managed curtly with a bland smile, but checked the number to be sure. Neither were heavy, thank God; just the barest necessities for a week's visit and a passel of presents for Linda and her mom. She moved toward the exit where a rent-a-cop was checking to verify ownership. He waved her through, then turned for the next one in line-the man who'd helped retrieve her bag.

Tires squealed as a cab pulled to the curb before her, the driver hustling around to put her luggage in the trunk. She slid into the back seat as the trunk lid slammed into place and the driver jumped behind the steering wheel.

He rested his right arm on the seat-back, then twisted around and nestled his chin on the arm, his chocolate features round and full of wrinkles, eyes as green as hers, teeth ivory-white.

"Welcome to the Big Easy!" he said in a deep voice laced with a Cajun accent. "Whar you wan' go at in this here town, Miss?"

"Sheraton. The one downtown."

"Goood place," he nodded, as if it needed his approval, then spun around, shifted into

gear, and moved into the traffic. "Tourist?"

She didn't answer him. She wasn't looking for a bosom buddy, just a damned ride to the hotel. She looked up to see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, then gazed out the window. Just what she needed: an uppity cab driver. Traffic along the freeway was sparse as they made their way from the airport toward the city on the eastern horizon, but he stayed in the right lane reserved for the slow traffic and seemed overly interested on the traffic following. Mozie's cheek twitched. Something . . .

"You here for a long while or jus' a short visit?" he tried, and again she refused to be drawn into conversation. They went a mile in silence, then:

"You sure ain't a friendly one, Miss Mozelle York."

At the sound of her name, her eyes snapped from the flat, drab landscape and onto his

reflected smile in the mirror.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded. "Who are you?" Now it was her turn to go

unanswered. The cab was moving too fast to think about jumping out, people all around her in

those other cars with not a hint that she was a virtual prisoner right there in the big middle of

them in broad daylight.

"I don't have a lot of time, Mozelle, so I'm going to talk and you're going to listen." The accent was gone and so was the smile. His eyes in the mirror were like dual barrels of a shotgun: menacing.

"You're the property of one David Montemayor, a Colombian national who deals in international commodities: namely, cocaine. You were born and raised in Breau Bridge, Louisiana, where your mother still resides. In fact, she's raising your three-year-old daughter, Linda. Your rap sheet is a list of petty s--- from shoplifting to possession. Two years ago, you went to Colombia on behalf of a man named George Larouche, known fondly as Georgie by his cell mates, who at the time had illusions of grandeur about becoming the drug magnate of the swamp country.

"You made three trips with a false-bottomed bag full of coke for Georgie before he was busted in Lake Charles on an outstanding warrant, leaving you in Colombia without a destination. Montemayor got all goose-pimply about your plight and took you in. You've been living with him now for just over a year.

"We let you get through customs with the coke on those earlier trips, though we made our case and got a sealed indictment against you each time, then popped poor old Georgie on the warrant and left you in David's care. You're a smart girl, Miss York; you can figure what comes next."

"Screw you," she shouted hysterically. "I haven't done anything wrong. If I had, you'd have my ass in the back of a police car right this minute. Pull over to the side. I want out of here: Now!"

"I gotta tell you, Mozelle, that you're making a serious mistake. You see, there happens to be a little bag of very serious s--- in the bottom of one of your fancy bags. We don't even need those indictments. If you don't listen to reason, you go down."

"There's not a damned thing in my luggage, slug."

"Maybe there wasn't when you checked through customs in Miami, honey, but there sure as hell is now; enough to ensure that the next time you see that little girl of yours, she's gonna be graduating from high school." He let that soak in, then--his voice changing to concern--"I don't want that to happen, Mozelle. What I do want is to put David Montemayor in a U.S. Federal prison." Another silence, then: "Now, here's the drill: you go on about your business. Go see Linda and your mama, kick back and relax, then go on back to Colombia, just like you planned. We've got people inside the organization, already--that's how we knew about your vacation --so don't even think about telling Montemayor about our little talk. When we need you, you'l