The Racketeer Page 0,81

in prison, where he had served a little over five years. He has no father, an alcoholic mother, and no education past the tenth grade, so his choice of vehicle will be interesting. As we talk, my plans are to make a mental note of everything I can possibly see - clothing, jewelry, watch, cell phone.

The traffic picks up as the lunch crowd rolls in. At 12:03, a sparkling-new silver Chevrolet Silverado half-ton pickup arrives, and I suspect it's Nathan Cooley. It is, and he parks on the other side of the lot. He glances around nervously as he walks to the front entrance.

It's been four years since I've seen him, and he appears to have changed little. Same weight, same blond shaggy hair, though he once shaved his head in prison. He looks twice at the Florida tags on my car, then goes inside. I take a deep breath, put the Panama hat on my head, and walk to the door. Be cool, you idiot, I mumble to myself as my bowels flip. This will take a steady hand and nerves of steel.

We meet inside the front foyer and exchange pleasantries. I remove the hat as we follow the hostess to a booth in the rear. Across the table, we face each other and talk about the weather. For a moment, I'm almost overwhelmed by my ruse. Nathan is talking to a stranger, while I'm talking to a kid I once knew quite well. He doesn't seem at all suspicious: no staring at my eyes or nose; no squinting, or raised eyebrows, or distant glances as he listens to my voice. And, thankfully, no "You kinda remind me of a guy I once knew." Nothing, so far.

I tell the waitress I really want a beer, a tall draft, and Nathan hesitates before saying, "The same." The success of this long-shot mission could well depend on alcohol. Nathan was raised in a culture of hard drinking and meth addiction. Then he spent five years in prison, clean and sober. I'm assuming he's back to his old habits now that he's out. The fact that he owns his own bar is a good indication.

For a hillbilly who was never taught how to dress, he looks okay. Washed jeans, a Coors Light golf shirt some salesman left at the bar, and combat boots. There is no jewelry and no watch, but he does have an incredibly ugly prison tattoo inside his left forearm. In short, Nathan is not flashing around money with his appearance.

The beer arrives and we tap glasses. "Tell me about this film," he says.

Out of habit, I nod, pause, tell myself to speak slowly, clearly, and as deeply as possible. "I've been making documentaries for ten years now, and this is the most exciting project I've seen."

"Look, Mr. Baldwin, what is a documentary film exactly? I watch some movies and all, but I don't think I've seen too many documentaries."

"Sure. They're typically small, independently produced films that you don't see in the big movie houses. They're not commercial. They're about real people, real problems, real issues, no big movie stars and all that. Really good stuff. The best win awards at film festivals and get some attention, but they're never going to make a lot of money. My company specializes in films that deal with the abuse of power, primarily by the federal government, but also by big corporations." I take a sip, tell myself to go slow. "Most are about an hour long. This one might run for ninety minutes, but we'll decide that later."

The waitress is back. I order a chicken sandwich, and Nathan wants a basket of wings.

"How'd you get into the bar business?" I ask.

He takes a gulp, smiles, says, "A friend. The guy who owned the bar was going under, not from the bar, but from other properties. Recession got him, I think. So he was trying to unload Bombay's. He was looking for some fool to take the deed and assume the debts, and I said what the hell. I'm only thirty, no job, no prospects, why not take a chance? So far, though, I'm making money. It's kinda fun. Lots of college girls hanging around."

"You're not married?"

"No. Don't know how much you know about me, Mr. Baldwin, but I just finished a five-year prison sentence. Thanks to the federal government, I ain't had too many dates recently; just now getting back in the game. Know what I mean?"

"Sure. The prison time arose