Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (32 page)

“Stanley,” I said turning to Roee. He nodded an agreement with me that things were becoming clear.

“Petey tells me he was murdered about a year ago,” the Captain added.

“That's right,” I said. “In a case that has never been solved.”

“Nor does anyone seem terribly eager to solve it,” Roee added.

“Why not? One of our own?”

“‘Our' has become a plastic concept at the agencies. Stanley was very much a Stand Alone. Useful during a certain period in our history. Increasingly an embarrassment to more modern sensibilities. Stanley wasn't murdered as much as he was executed.”

“Oh.”

It was becoming an intriguing story. Lydia had gotten caught up in it. “This is exciting,” she said.

“These are facts not for your amusement, Lydia, but for your edification.” I'm afraid I snapped a bit too harshly. I turned to the Captain before registering Lydia's reaction, and said, “Go on.”

“Petey tells me that you'll find this interesting: Stanley Sands was the man who ran a Maxwellton James when James was running guns down to Central America, and the man who afforded James protection for dealing the drugs he brought back up in exchange.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Petey told me to make sure I told you this too: This Max James took over the old Hearst airfield about a year and a half ago. State Senator Skinner sponsored and godfathered the deal. This was just before the first letter from the Underclass Avengers arrived.”

“Not surprising. For I'm sure Maxwellton James is the Underclass Avengers. Although, somewhat ironically so. Obviously he sent the letters to set up the proper paranoid atmosphere that allowed him to implement his plans. Just as obviously Joe Skinner owes some kind of allegiance to Max. Either financial or philosophical. Doesn't really matter which. The results are the same. He helped Max ‘storm' Hearst Castle. Without firing one arrow or battering with one ram. I think we'll eventually find that Max has unpacked his bags and sleeps there in the very bed once used by William Randolph Hearst himself. Once we get to know Max, that action will seem perfectly appropriate to his personality, but, be that as it may, were you able to get anything on the individual Rangers?”

“Oh, yeah, and a lovely bunch they are too.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

“Interesting number. Involved with James during the gun running-drug dealing?”

“Yeah, most of them.”

“But government commissions have been rare of late, I assume.”

“Dried up completely. Sands had been ordered about two years ago to cut them all off. The agencies were trying to cover up this part of their past, limit the bad press, and the embarrassment. Computer files, though, are computer files—somehow they never get erased. Sands, of course, insisted on their continuing usefulness, but, uh, as he himself was pegged as old hat, no one was willing to listen to him. Maxwellton James had pulled out of all this quite a while before. Once there were no guns to run to places he felt good about running them to. Then he quit the drug situation to concentrate, ostensibly, on his antique plane hobby. Then a little over a year and a half ago, while Sands was just sitting around finishing out his time before retirement, James contacted him with a proposition. Organize the old gang; give them the false identity of a super secret antiterrorist group within the government, and front the lending of that group to the State of California, as long as California would pick up their expenses. A price was negotiated; Sands arranged all the paperwork. As far as California knew, as far as they still know, those Rangers at Hearst Castle are Federal antiterrorist experts protecting their little cash cow castle.”

“And Maxwellton James got himself a twelve-man Palace Guard paid for by the State of California,” I said.

“So it seems.”

“Someone in the agencies has figured all this out, though, haven't they?” Roee asked.

“Yeah. Too much internal housecleaning going on to hide it. It was discovered right after Sands retired and just before his death. I guess he had threatened to write a book.”

“Damn dangerous things,” I said.

“What?”

“Books.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“No one on the Federal level has bothered to inform the State of California about any of this, right?” Roee asked, again displaying insight.

“That's right. I think they think of it as dirty laundry better left in the hamper. That's why there were so many encryption codes Petey had to work his way through. Oh, uh, by the way,” the Captain took a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me, “that's Petey's price for helping me out.”

I unfolded the paper and looked at the figure. Much like Petey himself, it was too loud. I smiled. “Petey has always been a bit of a fantasist.”

“Well, you know, he said the codes were very complex.”

“Yeah, and he probably broke them soon after they were first installed. Believe me the hardest work Petey did on this was to punch a button and read the screen. I think this figure is negotiable.” I slipped the paper into my coat pocket. “So give us the details on the twelve, Captain.”

“Well, they all seem to be well trained, paranoid mercenary fanatics on the egotrip that their efforts, no matter how illegal, not to say immoral, have the purifying goal of saving human civilization.”

“Which, on the surface, is not a bad goal,” I said.

“No, I suppose not,” said the Captain.

“But one fairly superfluous and open to corruption if human civilization is actually in no need of saving.”

“A debatable point,” Roee said.

“Is it?” I challenged.

“But,” Lydia asked, somewhat perplexed, “they're bad guys, right?”

“Oh yes, they're bad guys,” I said, “but then, aren't we all on occasion?”

“Fixxer!” Frustration had gotten to her.

“They have all, I assume, murdered; they lie incessantly; they have stolen; I'm sure they cheat at cards and with women; they have extorted, assaulted, agitated and hooked very young people on drugs, and it is more than likely that they no longer honor their mothers and fathers, if they ever did. If all this makes them bad guys in your book, Lydia, then they're bad guys. That is not germane to our actions, though. For us they are the enemy, good or bad, and we have elected to oppose them, and so we will. Effectively, I'm sure.” I turned back to the Captain. “What did you get on our George?”

“George Alonzo. He's what's known as a utility man, a human tool. Use him for the odd jobs. Always freelance. Done everything from simple rough stuff to hits, from protection services to surrogate avenging angel. Crazy, of course, but crafty. Bit of an artist in his way. He's considered creative.”

“Yes,“ I said rubbing my right eye, “I can attest to that.”

“Given the history you've explained, I assume he won't be in plain sight when you get up there.”

“That's what I expect too.”

“But he'll be around, you know that. Bit of a wild card.”

 
“Understood. Now, our turncoat? Have you got a candidate?”

“Yeah. Barnes. Sheila Barnes.”

“A woman?”

“Doesn't stop her from being a bad guy. Sheila Barnes was a Marine Sergeant dishonorably discharged for sexual harassment.”

“Lesbian?”

“Hell no. It was her very male Major, a Medal of Honor Vietnam Vet, who was the—uh—victim. I think she had overweening pride regarding the power of her pussy—Ah, sorry if that was too crude of a way to put it Miss Corfu.”

“That's okay. I have not a little pride in my own.”

“Ah—oh—okay. Well, anyway, a few good men were too few for Sheila Barnes. Came out disgruntled. Hooked up with this group, I suspect, to try to recapture that old fraternal feeling.”

“So what do we have on her to get her on our side?” Roee asked. “Murder? Extortion? Drug dealing?”

“No. Her children.”

“Children?” Lydia questioned.

“Well, the odds were against her, weren't they? Even with the Pill. She has two. A boy and a girl. They're both in a private boarding school in England. By all accounts, she's a good mother.”

“What are you suggesting?”

The Captain looked at me. It wasn't an easy look. “Have them kidnapped.”

“What!?” Lydia was outraged.

The Captain continued. “We would never hurt them, of course, but Sheila Barnes doesn't know that.”

There was pleading in Lydia's voice. “Nico, this is getting—”

There was a hardness in mine. “You know what we need this woman for. It's your scene. She's essential for its success, and her being a woman is perfect for it. I told you, my sweet Greek: Aren't we all on occasion.”

I turned to Roee. “Call Hamo. See if he would be willing to attend to this.”

~ * ~

The Captain detailed the ten others: They were all variations-on-the-theme of tough guy rationalizing a basic antisocial bent by claiming that the curve was just a detour to a better Society. After he had wrapped up we went into the dining room and enjoyed Roee's swordfish dinner. It was, of course, delicious, that hardly needs to be noted, but by noting it, I relive it. Satisfaction times one and a half.

~ * ~

At five AM the next morning Roee and I drove out to Chino to the Planes of the Past Air Museum to meet with Bagwell. This had been the first permanent air museum in the country. It was founded in 1957, only twelve years by the calendar since the end of World War II. In those bright days of Eisenhower-the-president-looking-like-a-gray-grandfatherly-small-town-banker in his suit, as opposed to Eisenhower-the-warrior in his medal-bedecked uniform, that last romantic war must have seemed ages ago. The planes that had helped win that war were probably scoffed at as museum pieces in the then ‘now' of the jet-age-becoming-the-rocket-age. Ed Bagwell didn't take it as insult, but as inspiration. So way out east of Los Angeles, just east of Pomona, right in the middle of dairy land, he started taking rusty old “tin birds” and restoring them to their former glory.

Our Bagwell was his son, a sibling to war birds. His expertise in them was beyond intelligence and had become instinctual.

It was a fast, early morning drive out the Pomona Freeway to the Chino Airport where the museum was located. An appropriate place. It had been one of the first training fields when the war broke out. The old barracks were still standing. We arrived just after six AM Petey had already arrived and was setting up his equipment. Bagwell was fascinated by the equipment but couldn't understand what it was all about. We took him aside and explained that we needed to fly his two Spitfires again today, but under particular conditions which we would simulate. He was shocked by our proposal and was on the verge of refusing when I opened a canvas bag I had been carrying. In it was two million dollars in cash. One million for each plane in the unlikely, we hoped, event of tragedy striking us, or, more to the point, of us striking tragedy.

Finally Bagwell agreed when we added that two and a half percent of the contents of the bag would be left as a donation to the air museum if all went well.

He and a crew got the Spitfires ready as we helped Petey adjust his satellite dish. Once contact was made, we changed into flight suits and helmets and climbed into the planes. Despite the insurance in the canvas bag, I could see Bagwell grit his teeth and grimace when Roee and I started taping the heavy black construction paper to the inside of the plane's bubble shaped canopies, cutting off all view of the outside world. We checked our special radio link with Petey. It was strong and clear. Then we both, completely blind, taxied onto the runway and took off into the early morning sky.

There were some nervous moments, but, on a whole, our trial flights were successful.

But then, of course, no one was shooting at us.

~ * ~

We were finished by ten o'clock. We thanked Bagwell and gave him the $50,000. I told him he should take some of it and have a complete physical. We may have done some damage to his heart. As we helped Petey pack up, he explained the arrangements he had secured. They all seemed fine. Then he gave us the package for Lydia, part of the special order of supplies Roee had put in. We opened it. Petey took out the particulars and explained the use of each one.

“You're sure this is going to work?” I demanded to know.

“Hey! What!? I developed it myself!”

“If it doesn't—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know! You'll slit my throat, reach down my gullet and yank out my heart!”

“I'll be angry enough to.”

“If it doesn't work, I'll give you the knife! Okay!?”

“Okay.”

We drove back to L.A. watching the clouds gather overhead, clouds predicted to bring light showers by that evening. We drove straight to the Bel-Air Hotel, parked on the little used side street where we kept the Porsche, and entered the grounds through a well-camouflaged gate, and our suite through the private garden entrance. I turned off the direction specific digital player that had been pumping out morning sounds of Henderson and Pinsker waking up; showering; making phone calls to the office in New York; ordering breakfast from room service and eating it; discussing the fact that we had no appointments that day, so it was, essentially a free day. Subterfuge aided and abetted by our confidants in the Hotel.