Becky was exactly where Gilbert expected her to be, parked in front of her computer engaged in Facebook. ‘He said she said’ for the electronically inclined.
“Time to go,” he said softly.
“I’m not going,” Becky said without taking her eyes from the screen.
Gilbert didn’t argue. All the books said not to argue. Instead, he stepped forward and flicked the red power button on the surge protector. The computer screen winked and then went dark.
Becky jumped to her feet. “This is so gay,” she shouted.
“Don’t use that word like that.”
“It’s just a word,” she insisted.
“I’m sorry,” Gilbert said.
Becky grabbed her backpack and slung it angrily across her shoulder.
“Yeah. That’s right. Sorry is definitely what you are,” she said as she flounced from the room.
Gilbert sighed and turned out the lights.
Jackson Craig thanked the flight crew for the uneventful ride and stepped out into the balmy California night. Maybe sixty-five degrees. The sky as clear as it got around here. For just a moment, he imagined he could smell the ocean. Amused by his sudden fit of whimsy, he cast a glance toward the bottom of the jetway. As he’d expected, a size fifty-six welcoming committee was standing at attention at the bottom of the metal stairs, gazing up at Jackson Craig with a baleful stare.
Craig smoothed his suit around himself and started down. The welcome wagon had a big round bullet head, a thick neck and a blue suit half a size too small. He introduced himself as Special Agent Todd Blackledge and offered a hand. Craig nodded a cursory greeting and filled the proffered paw with his suitcase.
They worked their way through LAX in silence, bypassing U.S. Customs, out the underground door to the VIP parking area where a female LAPD Auxiliary officer kept a watchful eye on a creeping line of luxury vehicles.
Force of habit swept Craig’s eyes in a wide arc. At the far left of the area, three gleaming SUV’s idled along the curb, their dark, tinted windows screaming security. Craig looked around, hoping the armada was intended for someone else but knowing in his heart that it wasn’t. His superiors weren’t taking any chances.
At the far end of the ramp, a sudden flash of color caught his eye. A boy was working his way down the line of cars and limos. Mixed race. Latino and something, maybe Chinese. Red hoodie sweatshirt, Dodgers baseball cap sideways on his head. Holding up his oversized shorts with one hand and hawking newspapers with the other. Leaning in car windows, hollering from the sidewalk, the kid was a whirling dervish of a salesman, never stopping, talking trash as he waddled from car to car.
“Tomorrow’s news today,” he yelled. “LA Times.”
A hand appeared from one of the limos. He put a paper in it. The hand disappeared inside and then reappeared holding a bill.
“Thanks ma’am. I ‘preciate it. Very nice of ya,” And then he moved on.
“Uh oh.”
Craig looked over his shoulder. The LAPD Auxiliary Officer was staring into the distance and moving his way. “It’s Paul the Pendejo,” she said in a low voice.
He followed the line of her eyes until his came to rest on an overweight airport security guard lumbering down the sidewalk in their direction.
“A problem?” Craig inquired.
“This here’s technically a security area.” She raised and eyebrow. “Ain’t no reason for it but you know, wouldn’t want nobody hasslin’ the rich folks.” Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Marvin ain’t supposed to be pedalin’ his papers in here,” she said. “He and Captain Beefheart there been goin’ ‘round and ‘round about it.”
The kid was oblivious to the approaching threat. He sold several more papers and pocketed several more bills. The line of cars began to crawl forward like a centipede. Half a dozen segments slipped out over the exit ramp and disappeared. Another six appeared at the end of the line and began to inch forward.
The kid redoubled his efforts, moving faster now, handing out papers and pocketing money. As he neared the end of the line, he looked up and made eye contact with Jackson Craig. “Paper, mister?” he asked.
“You’ve got company,” Craig said.
The boy looked over his shoulder. “Damn,” he said. But by that time it was too late; the guard was upon him. The guard belly bumped Marvin, sending him flying, fanning the bundle of newspapers out over the sidewalk like playing cards.
“Whaddid’ I tell you,” the big guy shouted down at the boy.
“Hey,” the kid said from the ground. “I got brothers and sisters to feed. Don’t be getting all brittle on me here dawg. I ain’t hurtin nothin.”
The guard was unmoved. “This time you’re coming with me, you little son of a bitch,” he yelled.
“I ain’t the son o’ nobody,” Marvin protested. He struggled to his feet. “And I sure as hell ain’t goin no place wit yo fat ass. Now get offa my damn papers.”
The guard started for Marvin. Craig inserted a restraining hand between them. A dull echo sounded as his palm collided with the guard’s sternum. The guy stopped dead, rocking on his heels as if he’d run into a brick wall. He stood for a brief, angry moment, scowling down at the palm pressed against his chest and then grabbed the offending hand as if to wrest it from his shirt-front and cast it aside.
Never happened. Reflexively, the guard jerked his hands back, as if he’d suddenly realized he was holding a molten ingot. He bounced his eyes up and down a couple of times, moving from the hand on his chest to the man at the end of the sleeve.
Jackson Craig smiled. “Perhaps we can find an area of accommodation.”
“Sir,” Craig heard Blackledge’s warning and then the sound of his suitcase hitting the ground. In the next second, he heard the sound of shoes scraping concrete and the unmistakable snick of weapons being cocked and readied.
The guard was close enough for Craig to make out the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. His eyes were the size of silver dollars. His mouth hung open like a loading ramp. “Whoa, whoa,” the guy chanted.
Marvin was the same way, staring back over Craig’s shoulder as if he’d seen an apparition. Craig snuck a peek. The SUV’s doors had been flung open. Fanned out on the pavement behind him, five Secret Service Security personnel had assumed combat positions. Three pointing standard issue Sig Sauer 9 mil automatics, two more armed with more exotic P556 machine pistols.
“Is there a problem?” Craig asked the guard.
Paul the Pendejo raised his arms above his head. “I’m not armed,” he shouted. “I’m not armed.”
When Jackson Craig reached into his jacket, the terrified guard nearly levitated out of his brogans. Craig flipped open his Secret Service ID, held it close under the man’s nose and then repeated the question.
“No problem. None at all,” the guy assured, shaking his head vigorously to emphasize the point.
Craig turned to Blackledge. “Things are under control,” he said.
“Sir? I have orders to…”
“Call off the dogs,” Jackson Craig said. “I need to have a word with this gentleman.” When Blackledge failed to move, Craig said. “I’ll meet you in the car.”
Special Agent Blackledge reluctantly holstered his weapon and walked off.
Craig threw a paternal arm around the guard’s shoulder. He leaned in close to the man, close enough to smell onions. “I was wondering if I could prevail upon you to do us both a big favor?” Craig asked in a hushed, conspiratorial tone of voice.
“Anything.”
“We would appreciate it if Marvin were allowed to conduct business in the garage here.” Craig pretended to check the area. “I can’t discuss why of course, but let’s just say we have our reasons.”
His shoatish little eyes nearly disappeared. “You mean…”
“We would be much appreciative.”
“Sure. No problem. I can work that out.”
“We won’t forget this,” Craig promised. He reached out and grabbed the man by the arm. Craig’s gaze was steely, his jaw set. “This is strictly off the record, of course.”
“Of course,” the guard assured.
“Alright, carry on then,” Craig said.
The guard took a couple tentative steps and then began to hurry, arms pumping like an Olympic speed walker, head on a swivel as he huffed and puffed back out the front of the loading ramp, grateful to be alive.
Marvin had retrieved his bundle of newspapers. “You got some kind of phat ass clout man,” he said with a gold-toothed smile.
“I don’t think the ‘get out of jail free’ card is going to last very long,” Craig said.
“Doan matter,” Marvin assured him. “I be back in here no matter what.” He swept a hand over his underground realm. “This place is dope man. I make more money in three hours in here than I could make in a week out on some damn street corner.” He reached a hand into his pockets and pulled out a small roll of bills. “Don’t none of these players give me a buck for the paper.” He waved the wad in the air. “Nothin but fives and tens and once in a while a twenty.”
“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” Craig reckoned.
“You on top o that,” Marvin said, pocketing his roll. “I got people counting on me. I got mouths to feed.”
Craig clapped him on the arm and strode back to the waiting Lincoln.
“Let’s roll,” Craig said. “The city of angels awaits.”
Blackledge was still red in the face. “I would appreciate it, sir…”
Craig knew where things were heading. Security lecture. He cut him off at the pass. “You know what W.C. Fields said?” he asked.
“Who?”
“He said a man ought to smile first thing every morning and get it over with.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Let’s go.”
Craig fastened his safety belt, settled back in the leather seat and watched as the spidery legs of LAX’s rooftop restaurant crawled by the Lincoln’s window. He sat silently for several minutes as the driver ramped his way out of the airport and followed the green and white signs toward West Los Angeles.
“Where are they putting us up these days?” Craig asked as they turned west onto La Cienega Boulevard with the chase cars arrayed behind them like a fighter squadron.
“The Hyatt Regency sir.” The young man sounded tentative as if Craig was supposed to guess what the problem might be.
“But what?” Craig prodded.
The driver didn’t hesitate. “I have orders to take you directly to the office, sir.”
The news was hardly surprising. He’d had no illusions about what was going to happen as soon as he arrived in LA. Hopping aboard a company plane and flying three thousand miles without orders made it a good bet the brass was going to wonder what was going on.
Craig just sat in the backseat and stared out the window as a seemingly endless cavalcade of billiard parlors, body shops and bodegas slid by, until, finally, after what seemed like hours, they emerged onto a miracle mile of auto dealerships, tire kickers at two a.m., searchlights sweeping the sky, pennants flapping, all sparkling streamers and twirling signs under a dirty winter moon.
When he next turned his attention forward, he found the driver’s eyes glued to the rear view mirror, paying more attention to the radio in his ear than to the road ahead. Caught by Craig’s gaze, the young man shifted his attention back to the brightly lit street.
“I don’t generally rate this sort of security detail. Any idea why I suddenly require all the attention?” Craig tried.
“No idea, sir.”
“Probably best you watch the road then son,” Craig said with a grin. “My sense of irony would be severely tested were I to die in LA traffic.”
“Yes, sir.”
They rode the last few miles in silence, the Lincoln leading the caravan along South Figueroa, using remote control on the traffic lights until the driver slipped across the deserted sidewalk and used his Secret Service ID to open the underground parking garage. One by one their security entourage peeled off and disappeared into the LA night. The garage was nearly empty. He swept his eyes along the north wall where half a dozen identical Lincoln Towncars were backed in, gleaming under the amber lights like crouching beasts.
For whatever reason, the sight of a pair of small California state flags mounted above the headlights on the nearest Lincoln kick-started Craig’s mind. He took the door from the driver’s hand and slowly pushed it closed, then opened it and repeated the action. Despite upgraded hinges and some first-class engineering, there was no mistaking that the door was far heavier than normal. The sigh he’d been stifling all day escaped his chest. “Bullet-proof?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said.
“Why don’t you take my bag over to the Regency.”
“My orders are to wait, sir,” Blackledge said.
Craig nodded. “Of course.”
Daniel Rosen met Jackson Craig in the carpeted hall outside his office. He stood in the open doorway with his hands in his pockets.
“It’s been quite a while since you graced our shores,” he said
.
Craig smiled. “Five years next month,” he said.
Rosen stuck out his hand, Craig took it. His grip was firm and dry. Rosen used his other hand to cradle Craig’s elbow in a fraternal manner.
“Come in. Come in,” Rosen said, gesturing toward the half-open doorway.
Jackson Craig stepped into the room. Rosen’s office was top of the line civil servant, big teak desk, Berber carpet, several sets of official looking flags, an entire wall covered by congratulatory plaques, another adorned with pictures of Rosen shaking hands with every dignitary in the industrialized world, past and present.
“Won’t you look what the cat drug in,” Bobby Duggan drawled.
Craig laughed and covered his heart with his hand. He looked over at Dan Rosen, “Oscar Wilde was right,” he said. “A friend is one who stabs you in the front.”
Jackson Craig and Bobby Duggan had connected nearly twenty years ago, sweating out twelve weeks of training together and then both having the good fortune to be assigned to the Los Angeles Field Office as Special Agents in Training.
Despite the contrived conviviality, the air in the room was thick with tension.Rosen produced a practiced smile. Duggan, as was his habit, sought to leaven the situation with a homily and a drawl. He held up a hand in mock testament. “As my sainted mother so often said....”