Before the man spotted me, I hurried back to the women’s bathroom to think a minute. Not the most comfortable of places—they are built to get travelers in and out as quickly as possible—but I settled into a stall, figuring I had maybe ten minutes before the restroom attendant / cleaning lady would knock on the door to see if I was dead or shooting up.
How the hell had he found me? I had been so damned careful.
Then it hit me, and I slapped my forehead so hard the other ladies must have thought I fell off the bowl.
The GPS! How could I have been so freaking stupid? It was like a built-in tracking device. Are the cops barricading the place right now?
I was sweating and had to control myself from shaking.
Do not bring attention to yourself.
After eight minutes I walked out—sauntered actually, or attempted to—and scanned the building. There was only one cop—a highway patrol officer—and he didn’t seem to be in the mood to catch a killer. He was adjusting his fly as he walked out of the men’s room and headed, I swear, to the Dunkin’ Donuts counter.
I had to get out, and the car was no longer an option.
At a kiosk, a woman in a fake Canadian Mounties uniform was selling bus tickets to the Niagara Falls area. Why they would have a bus operator in a travel stop for cars, I didn’t know. Then I realized that there was a casino up in the Niagara Falls area. I seemed to recall from a news story I’d once done that this casino was operated by the Seneca tribe (or as they were called in the newsroom, “casino-owning Americans”). Seniors probably drove here, parked their cars, and then mustered up for day trips spent squandering their Social Security checks on the slots.
The good: There was a way out.
The better: I had my satchel with my computer, my passport, and the phone with me. I had just bought some essentials. This could work.
The bad: Oh, money. Right. Damn.
“How much are the tickets?” I asked the Mountie ticket lady.
“New York or Canadian?” the woman asked perkily.
“Huh?”
“New York or Canadian side of the Falls,” she then said.
“Oh, Canadian. For sure.”
“Do you have proof?”
“I need to show you proof to buy the ticket?”
“Not for me, dear, but you’re crossing borders. The officers at the border sure need proof! You don’t want them to think you’re a fugitive from justice, do you?” She giggled as though this were the first time she’d made that joke.
“Oh, yes, of course. I mean, no. And how much are they?”
“Seventy round-trip—or twenty if you buy twenty-five in casino chips. The bus stops at the casino on the way in and the way out.”
Fifty bucks would wipe me out!
“Oh, great … but I need to get some cash first,” I said, knowing for sure I’d get traced with Sadowski’s ATM, but I had six hours and maybe I could dodge the Feds, or whoever the hell was on my tail, and the German for that long. I said my fourth prayer in two days.
I stuck the card in the ATM and a request for my password popped up, of course. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The fake Mountie was watching me.
What? You never saw a woman with clown hair who was down to her last Danish? I smiled and waved like an idiot.
I pulled the card out and noticed it wasn’t even in Sadowski’s name. It was in the name of “Alazais Roussel.” What the hell?
I flipped it over and saw that written on a piece of Scotch tape on the back were the numbers 42 15 0 13 45 0.
It was worth a shot. I put the card in again, pulled it out, and punched in the numbers. Immediately, the machine responded with the words “cash withdrawal?”
You bet your ass.
I punched in $300, an amount I thought was safe, and those green beauties came flying out. It was like hitting lotto. What the hell! I did it again and got another $200.
I went back to the Mountie’s kiosk and bought a round-trip casino special—no sense in calling attention to myself with a one-way ticket.
“The next bus is in twenty minutes. In front,” she grinned.
Since I couldn’t go outside and risk being spotted by the German, I walked around and bought a horrifying pink hoodie with rhinestones in the shape of a horse, some equally terrible fake Indian moccasins, and some knock-off Ray Bans, which will be in style until the next coming—maybe even the one after the next coming. I went back into the bathroom, put on the sweatshirt, the moccasins, and the glasses, and put my leather jacket, T-shirts, and toiletries into the carry-on.
Ten minutes until I could blow that joint. I paced and studied wall maps and uninteresting local history lessons printed up in big plastic reproductions of 1790s-era documents—anything to keep my face to the wall.