Street Exchanges

Hank waited impatiently in the drizzling rain for the taxi to arrive; he carefully gripped his battered suitcase, protective of its secrets. Hank Brandywine guarded the suitcase with his life.

A taxi drove by; the driver slowed, took a good look at the man clutching a suitcase against his chest, and pulled away fast, drifting back into traffic.

That was the fourth taxi to change their direction upon seeing Hank. There would be no ride tonight. Hank Brandywine was the kind of a guy, those drivers avoided, and women never took a second look.

Hank wasn’t pretty; he wasn’t even presentable with his slept in clothes, his unkempt hair, and soaking wet from hours in the drizzling rain. He looked more like a homeless beggar than the CEO of a powerful corporation, but then that is what he wanted. To be incognito, unnoticed, and hopefully ignored.

A taxi would have made the trip to the Radisson easier. He grumbled as he began walking. Fellow pedestrians moved away from him as he walked the six blocks to the hotel.

Hank was getting offended. It was one thing for the taxis to avoid him, what was up with the average guy on the street? Hank lifted his arm, and smelled his pits. Did he stink too?

It was probably Ed Stafford’s clothes. Before leaving the office he went to the basement, where the cleaning staff hung out. There he borrowed Ed’s clothes, and an old suitcase he saw thrown in the corner.

Ed Stafford was no problem; he was thrilled to change with Mr. Brandywine. It wasn’t like Ed would ever own a black cashmere, three-button, vent in the back, Marco Corelli suit.

Hank grinned thinking about old Ed standing there, admiring himself in that pathetically cracked mirror on the basement wall. Ed Stafford was sleeking down the lines of the suit with his grubby fingernails as if, he could really walk into the Cellar Bar on W. 40th, and pass for an executive.

As soon as he entered he’d be found out, even with Hank’s suit on. There was no way Ed Stafford would be able to hide his breeding, or the rest of him that stuck out from the suit, his un-manicured nails, his goofy smirking, or his-.

Hank Brandywine stopped dead. He looked down at his shoes. Italian leather. He had made a fatal mistake; he forgot to change shoes with Ed Stafford. How could he have made such a miscalculation? It wasn’t like him.

Hank quickly backed up against a store window, his suitcase pressed against his chest. The rain was still misting through the night air, shining against the street, and reflecting the flashing stoplights. He looked about, checking the doorways across the street, shadows just past him on either side, anywhere they might be hiding. His heart beat heavily against the suitcase.

Maybe, Hank had made more than a mistake about his shoes. Maybe, Hank Brandywine should not have tried to deliver on his own. A messenger speeding through traffic on his bicycle would have been a better choice of delivery than he. The doubts flooded his mind. Hank had to make a decision.

He was vulnerable, standing on the street pressed against a window advertising bras, and thongs, with Italian leather shoes sticking out like neon signs blaring, here I am.

Yes, it’s me, Hank Brandywine, the CEO of the Martinex Corporation holding the evidence that will prove the DEA knew of the President’s addiction long before the March 31st tragedy.
But, what could he do? Take his shoes off, leave them there on the doorstep and hurry along sock footed to the hotel? No. That would be even worse of an indictment.

Hank needed a cover. He needed a woman to walk with him. A casual couple strolling along, perhaps heading for a bus, or the subway for a weekend trip, that would be convincing. Hank hurried toward the corner. He ducked inside a local market, and inquired about the phone.

Good. In the back of the store, that is where a phone should be, where he could watch the front door, and escape out the rear, if need be. Hank deposited the coins, and then wondered who to call? He hung the phone back in the cradle.

A woman shopper moved close to his location. Hank watched her. A typical housewife, red hair, about thirty, she carried a tote basket putting in bread, milk, a pint of Ben and Jerry. Single.
Hank approached her.

“Excuse me,” Hank said.

The woman turned. She wore a black cloth coat with a blue stripe scarf around the neck. She appeared startled, but not frightened.

“Excuse me, please don’t be frightened. I assure you, I am not a street bum,” Hank spoke fast. He had to convince her there was no threat before she developed the idea on her own. “See my shoes?”

Nice touch. Point out the positive.

“I was hit over the head, and when I awoke my clothes were switched to these rags.”

A lie. But it was working, the woman stepped closer, she was not frightened. Hank could see she was inspecting his manicured hands, he held them out for her to have a good look.

“Oh, my, are you alright?” The woman asked.

“Yes, yes, I believe so, but I must get to my hotel, the Radisson Mid-Town. There I can get the proper help I need. I wonder- would you be so kind as to walk with me?”

“Walk with you? Why?” The woman backed off.

“Because,” Hank hesitated, searching for a reasonable explanation. “They hit me on the head, and I am having trouble with dizziness. I tried to call my niece at the hotel, but there is no answer to the room.”

“Oh, you poor man,” the woman said. She stepped forward and offered her arm for Hank to balance himself. “Perhaps we should call for an ambulance?”

“Well, I would, but you know how long they take to answer a call, and the hotel is just two streets away. I can have the hotel doctor attend to my needs long before an EMT arrives.”

“Well, that is true,” the woman said. “Of course, of course, I will help you. Please lean on me, if you need. I’ll get you there.”

Hank Brandywine marveled at his luck. Here was a kind soul, willing to help a stranger. He was amazed. Hank decided he would reward her. He imagined the surprise look on the woman’s face when he compensated her for her bravery.

They walked toward the door. Hank leaned slightly on her arm to add validity to his story. The woman carefully guided him through the door, and out on the street. She held his arm with one hand, reached into her dangling shoulder purse for her cuffs.

Hank Brandywine was ushered into a black van on the corner of a well-lit street in mid-town never to be seen again.

A young man in his twenties walked into the store as Hank, and the woman left. He also wanted to use the phone. He was surprised to find a battered suitcase setting against the wall, under the pay phone. Inside there was a note.

Deliver to the Radisson Hotel Midtown
Ask for Randy at the front desk
REWARD will be generous