He patted his cheeks and tried to coax them to stay. His face over the clerical collar turned from ash gray to reddish gray. He was thinking about crying.

Shit.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t like to hurt people. I’m not into that at all. Why don’t you just cooperate?”

“It’s in my baggage.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I tell you it’s in my baggage.”

“I don’t believe you, I don’t believe you’d let this off your person.”

“I don’t care what you believe, it’s in my baggage, I checked my baggage already and it’s already been taken out to the plane.”

“If you’re telling the truth…”

“I am!”

“If you’re telling the truth, get out your rosary.”

“You said…”

“I said I’m not into hurting people. I’m not. It won’t hurt, Father, it’ll just be black. All of a sudden. Real black.”

“But, please, please, listen to me, I checked the bags… the stuff’s in my bags and that’s the truth, I’m sorry, Christ knows I’d give it to you and be done but I’m sorry.”

I let the automatic peek out from under the draped raincoat. “Is that still the truth?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head no.

“Where?” I said.

He started to take off his coat.

I brought the gun up and said, “Watch it, Father!”

“No, no! Wait!” He eased out of the coat and handed it toward me. Offered it. “It’s the coat. The lining. In the lining.”

“Get it out of the lining.”

“You, you said you’d let me catch my plane. I’m gonna miss my plane.”

“Maybe. Get it out the lining.”

“It’s sown in, uh, under, I mean…”

“Rip it out.”

He did. He tugged free the lining and reached inside the gutted coat and pulled out two plastic bags, stapled at their tops, a lump of white powder in each.

Inside my head, I shit my pants.