Four Nines Fine (Book 7 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)
by JC Simmons
Copyright 2012 by JC Simmons
Smashwords Edition
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PUBLISHED BY NIGHTTIME PRESS LLC
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Copyright © 2012 by JC Simmons
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Check out all ten books in
The Jay Leicester Mysteries Series:
Blind
Overlook
Icy
Blue Descent
The
Electra File
Popping
the Shine
Four
Nines Fine
The
Underground Lady
Akel
Dama
The
Candela of Cancri
Now available at Amazon.com and the other usual outlets
(Book 7 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series)
By JC Simmons
***
PROLOGUE
The crosshairs in the scope of the high-powered sniper rifle moved back and forth over the man in the overcoat walking next to the stoop-shouldered old woman. Six hundred yards away and higher up the slope in the foothills of the Andes Mountains near Bogota, Colombia, the shooter propped his arm on an ice-covered limb of a tree, resting the rifle in a gloved hand. The temperature was below freezing, and he had tamped out a place in the deep snow to stand. The cold did not bother him, his thoughts only on the target.
He did not want to hit the man in the head; he wanted the victim to be able to think after the bullet ripped through his body, to be aware that he was dying.
The shooter took the glove off his right hand and placed a finger lightly on the trigger. He set the crosshairs exactly where he wanted, and breathed easily. Slowly squeezing the trigger, he sensed an orgasmic feeling that approached or was better than sex. When the rifle fired, it surprised him. If done correctly, it should be a surprise.
He watched as the man flinched at the impact and went down to both knees. As he toppled over into the snow, the shooter observed the old woman put her hand to her mouth in an unheard scream.
The man covered his tracks under the tree, and walked away thinking of how he would dispose of the rifle.
Chapter One
It was one of those August days in the south, hot, humid, and hazy. Temperatures hovered near three digits, and one gave thanks to Mr. Willis Haviland Carrier and his US pat. # 808897. In the field east of the cottage, out at the tree line, crows wheeled in short, erratic circles resembling black fluid paint-smears on an artist's wet canvas, their piercing caws irritating.
The big Siamese cat named B.W., not for his black and white color but after the Black Watch flight program of the military, curled up in my lap and silently cursed me for having his testicles removed when he was a kitten. He placed his wide paw on every page of the novel I was reading, an obvious fan of Mr. Faulkner's Light in August. However, he turned up his nose at the cold glass of Dom Perignon champagne I sipped as we followed Joe Christmas and Lena Grove around Jefferson, Mississippi. Tomorrow we would bushhog grass and hunt mice; today we stayed cool and read.
The phone rang, interrupting the violent death of Joanna Burden, irritating B.W. who cried angrily and jumped down leaving claw marks on my thigh from which tiny drops of blood oozed. "Leicester."
"Can you still fly a DC-3? Please do not tell me that if someone will start the engines, you can fly anything. I've heard that enough, thank you."
"Guy Robbins. How you doing, old son? My boat still afloat?"
"Picaroon is seaworthy. Continental International Insurance has been trying to get in touch with you. Seems they cannot collect the million dollars they have invested in said airplane and would like for you to return it to their jurisdiction."
"Where is the DC-3?"
"Mexico, I think. I don't have the details. They tried your office in Jackson, but got no answer, so they called me. Seems you stay isolated more and more in that rural area you call a farm."
"It's the only place I feel at home outside of where I was born. It's where I'm meant to be. I call it God's country, and here one has to believe in God. Who else teaches the homing pigeon to fly as they do, who gives the coyote his craftiness, or a hunting dog his nose? Give them this number and say hello to Mildred for me."
"Will do."
"It's true, you know."
"What?"
"If someone will figure out how to start the engines, I can fly it."
"Goodbye, Leicester."
***
C.I.I. did call. They insisted on a face to face meeting in their office in Jackson, the state capital, the next morning at nine a.m.
B.W. refused to have anything else to do with me since interrupting his reading. My mind was now on recovering a Douglas DC-3, not on the brilliant masterwork of Mr. Bill, so we left mill worker Byron Bunch in his search for love and went to look up the aircraft flight manual for a quick refresher course. It had been over a year since I'd been at the controls of one of those fine flying machines. I put the copy of Light in August in the bookcase with the glass doors. It held a good collection of first editions, a thirty-year labor of love. A man used to be known by his books, now it's his DVD collection and computers and ram and hard drive speed and capacity and whether you are on dialup or high speed Internet connection. Rather sad, I thought.
Sipping the champagne and watching the tiny bubbles race to the top of the flute while thumbing through the manual, I thought about Guy Robbins. An attorney on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, he and I grew up together, were roommates in college. We both played linebacker on the football team. He was the better all-a-round athlete, though I was the quicker and stronger. After college Guy opted for law school, I for the NFL. Now, when it takes me fifteen minutes to get out of bed in the morning, I wish law school had been my choice.
After two years with the Baltimore Colts, a knee injury sent me to my second love, aviation. Southern Airways, a regional carrier based in Atlanta, Georgia, hired me as a co-pilot flying Martin 404s. I was crew-based in New Orleans, Louisiana, and made Captain in three years. My route of flight was to Atlanta via Gulfport, Pascagoula, Hattiesburg, Laurel, Meridian, Mississippi, and Birmingham, Alabama. With an hour layover in Atlanta, we would return through the same cities. You could type-rate a co-pilot in one trip. It did make true airmen out of fledgling aviators.
After twenty years of flying the line, during which I grew unable to accept the growing inane government bureaucracy, I took an early retirement and opened an aviation-consulting firm. Recovering aircraft for companies is a big part of my business. It has always amazed me how people will buy things with not the slightest intention of paying for them. I sometimes wish my conscience would allow me that fault. Other aspects of my business consist of setting up flight departments for companies, ensuring they purchase the aircraft best suited for their needs, hiring the flight crew, and seeing they get trained to current standards. Established flight departments will have me audit the entire operation and make recommendations for upgrades or changes. Chief Pilots with troublesome crewmembers involved with illegal drugs or alcohol will ask for help. Getting those pilots into successful rehab programs and seeing them return to flying status has always been a source of pride for me.
There was one company with a chief Pilot whose morals were so corrupt, his womanizing so wanton, that he was shot at one winter day at an airport in Iowa by an irate husband. The shooter missed the man, but put a 30.06 caliber bullet hole in a six million dollar corporate jet. After a month of investigating the pilot's habits and reporting my findings to the CEO, he was fired. Another Chief Pilot was taking kickbacks from almost everything the flight department purchased. When they bought a new jet, he demanded a hundred thousand-dollar finders' fee from the salesman. I personally handed him the check, and he was stupid enough to sign a receipt, all caught on video. Then there is some undercover work for the government that I can't or won't discuss; though, it mostly involves the international drug trade or terrorism.
My business has grown over the last ten years, thanks a lot to Guy Robbins, but I am still a one-man operation. A hard individual to get along with, I suffer fools badly, so it's better to work alone.
***
I kept a bi-wing Stearman at the local airport, but I decided to drive rather than fly to the capital, as there were some errands that I needed to run and a car would be necessary. I left B.W. enough food and water and made him promise to be on the alert for coyotes that love to snack on feral cats. Although, I did watch through a riflescope one morning as he slapped a young female coyote so hard on the nose that blood spurted two feet, and she tucked her tail and ran off. B.W. strutted back toward the cottage with a pleased expression. He is a tough old boy, but I still worried about his running these woods.
***
Continental International Insurance operated from a five story building on Pascagoula Street just south of city hall. I took the elevator to the top floor. The cute blond receptionist whose nameplate identified her as Vickey Moralis asked me to please have a seat. Mr. Jones and Mr. Vandiver were expecting me. It would be just a few minutes.
The waiting area was spacious and well appointed, though not extravagant. This was an insurance company that operated on a global scale. Their stock portfolio alone was rumored to be at over a billion dollars, and their reserve at two billion, but they were run by an unassuming board that preferred a small town atmosphere. I had worked for them previously on a rather complicated matter concerning a fleet of Boeing 737s and a startup low cost carrier that went belly up. We were able to secure all nine aircraft and get them flown to a storage facility in Tucson, Arizona, to await disposition. The C.I.I. man I worked with on that operation was B.C. Jones, the man I waited to see this morning. I did not know Vandiver.
At precisely nine a.m., Miss Vickey ushered me into B.C.'s office. It was a huge corner location with a panoramic view of south Jackson and the Pearl River. The furniture matched the waiting area. The chairs were functional and comfortable, though did not appear to be expensive. The only unique thing was B.C.'s desk, a magnificent, hand-carved solid piece of black walnut with four legs delicately shaped like elephant heads complete with ivory tusks and curved intricately detailed trunks. There was not a sheet of paper, file folder, pen set, or anything else, not even a lamp on the desktop. This, to me, showed a man who tended to business.
B.C. rose from behind the elephants, came around, and greeted me warmly. He was a short, stocky man in his fifties with coal black hair combed straight back over his head. He exuded wealth and physical fitness, but not in an overbearing or garish way. His clothes were conservative, though tailor-made. His only fault was two packs of Pall Mall cigarettes a day, a vice that would kill him before he reached the age of sixty. Everyone has his or her own brand of poison. He introduced me to Dave Vandiver.
He was almost the direct opposite of B.C. He was my height and age with a ruddy complexion and light-green penetrating eyes. Slim built, he had big powerful hands with numerous calluses, probably from working out regularly with freestanding weights. He did not appear to be a man who would do manual labor. His suit was hand-tailored and in the four thousand dollar range. If the cuff links he wore were real diamonds, then he was also a bigger egoist than I guessed.
"Jay, we appreciate you coming on such short notice."
"Not a problem. What's the story on the DC-3?"
B.C. looked at Vandiver who crossed his legs revealing tasseled Gucci loafers. "The aircraft is on the ramp at Ciudad Victoria, Mexico. We want it brought back to the U.S. as soon as practical."
"I don't understand why C.I.I. has an aircraft with a resale value of three hundred thousand dollars insured for one million? My fee of six percent of the insured value, plus expenses means you are going to end up with over one point one million in a plane worth a third of that amount."
Vandiver shot me a look that said much. "You are hired to get the plane out of Mexico without creating an international incident, not to question our financial investments."
Getting up, I leaned over Vandiver's Gucci loafers, putting my face inches from his. "Then get yourself another whipping boy. I don't do anything unless I know everything about what I'm getting myself and my people into." Standing erect, I headed for the door. "Sorry, B.C., I don't work this way."
B.C. came from behind the desk. "Wait, Jay. Dave's simply on edge about this as it involves not only the insurance company, but also the death of a family member.
Please sit. We will lay it all out for you."
Vandiver stood, extended a hand. "I meant no disrespect. I apologize. I wasn't thinking."
Shaking his hand, I sat back down. The hand was clammy and cold, like a man afraid of life. B.C. handed me a folder with the name Tamaulipas written across the top. I knew the name well. Ciudad Victoria is the capital city of that Mexican State.
Back in the 70s, I fished the huge reservoir north of Victoria for Bullhead Bass. When the reservoir was created, a whole town was abandoned and sacrificed, which resulted in it being completely under water. One could fish directly over a church or a school. Sometimes when the water level was low, one could read the names of storefronts or restaurants. It always seemed rather eerie to me, troublesome in some sort of macabre way. We would fly down twice a year and spend a week at a fish camp on the eastern shore of the lake. I knew the airport well and, but for the Grace of God, would have been killed on my first approach into there. The skies were overcast, and we were in the clouds all the way from our customs entry airport at Reynosa. We knew the weather at Ciudad Victoria forecast a fifteen hundred-foot ceiling with good visibility, so we let down a few miles north until we descended below the overcast. What we didn't know was that there were ten thousand-foot mountains just south of the airport. We were young, reckless, ill prepared to fly in Mexican airspace, and had no excuses. Having survived, we learned much.
B.C. pointed to the folder. "Read the file thoroughly. Vickey will escort you to a conference room where you will not be disturbed. When you are finished, let her know, and we will meet with you again and answer any questions. Take your time."
Vickey took me to a windowless room with a huge inlaid table constructed of twenty-four different kinds of wood, (I counted them,) and polished so that one got the impression it was inches deep.
"Would you care for something, Mr. Leicester? Coffee, tea?"
"Coffee with honey, if you have it?"
"We have honey, Tupelo honey, as a matter of fact."
"Wonderful. Moralis… I played football in college with a Joe Moralis from here in Jackson. Any relation?"
"My father's name is Joe. He was an All-American at Southeastern as a defensive-back. Jay Leicester, yes, that rings a bell. There was a photograph of you and my father and another man in your football uniforms that sat on my father's desk. What was the other man's name…Guy something?"
"Robbins, Guy Robbins. It's a small world. How is your dad? Still ornery as always?"
"He died two years ago, Mr. Leicester. Pancreatic cancer."
"I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"My mom tried to find you and Mr. Robbins when he died, but you both were out of the country. I'll be back with your coffee."
Throwing the file folder on the conference table, I sat down heavily in one of the plush chairs. Joe Moralis, dead. It was hard to believe, and Vickey his daughter. A sudden sadness swept over me. Too many of my friends were dying. It wasn't that my own mortality was brought to bear, I didn't know what it was…maybe seeing Vickey and realizing how old I'm getting. I was old enough to be her father.
She brought me the coffee and honey. "Let me know when you wish to meet with Mr. Jones and Mr. Vandiver, or if you need anything else." She paused a moment at the door and looked at me. Her eyes were not hers alone but were also those of her father's, deep-set, of a similar color, and with the same simmering intelligence. It's strange that the quality of the mind behind the eyes can be conveyed through them. I knew that I could never look at her without seeing Joe Moralis in her eyes. She turned and left without saying anything.
The file contained the usual insurance forms along with documentation of the Douglas DC-3 and an estimate of its current value from an aviation audit firm of which I was unfamiliar. For the dollar amount they placed on the DC-3, it must be plated throughout with platinum. The history of the aircraft was spelled out. It was an ex-military C-47, manufactured in 1941, and had remained in the states as a trainer. After the War it was assigned to an Air-Guard unit in Corpus Christi, Texas. In the 1970s it was declared surplus and sold to the Starflite Corporation, then headquartered in Miami, Florida, now near San Antonio, Texas. Starflite kept the DC-3, using it for type-rating civilian pilots until selling it to the Mexican government. It was immediately flown to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, where Basler Aviation "remanufactured" the fuselage, installed modern flight instruments, radios, and fresh engines. It was then delivered to the Governor of the State of Tamaulipas, Mexico. From there things became a little vague, there was no mention of who did the interior or where it was done. Nothing showed as to why C.I.I. insured the aircraft instead of a firm in Mexico. Making a note, that would be one of the questions to ask B.C. After another hour going over the file, I went in search of Vickey.
I found her at her desk. When she glanced up, her face was a beguiling conglomeration of features. She took your breath away and filled you with warmth just because of her proximity.
"Yes, Mr. Leicester?"
"Please, call me Jay. Is your mother doing okay since your dad died?"
"I still live at home with my mom. We are doing fine. Do you know her?"
"No, I didn't know Joe got married."
"She said dad talked about you and Mr.…Robbins all the time. You three must have been quite the college 'hunks?"
My face began to flush. "Could you tell Mr. Jones I'd like to see him, now?"
"He'll meet you back in the conference room in five minutes."
Soon B.C. and Vandiver came in and sat down.
"So, what do you think, Jay?"
"Who owns the current title to the airplane?"
Vandiver looked at me. "I do."
This surprised me. "Why you?"
B.C. held up a hand toward Vandiver. "I'll explain. Jay, the Governor of Tamaulipas was Dave's brother-in-law. He was married to his sister."
"Was implies what?"
"He was killed a month ago under suspicious circumstances. It's still under investigation and no, the airplane is not part of that investigation."
"My sister is back in the states."
"I thought the aircraft was sold to the Mexican Government? Why are you holding the title?"
"You have to understand, the State of Tamaulipas is a poor part of Mexico. They couldn't afford to supply an airplane for the Governor."
"So C.I.I. bought a DC-3, had it overhauled, insured it, and delivered it to your sister's husband so she could have something to fly around in to impress her friends?"
The anger in Vandiver's face was so intense I thought he might take a swing at me.
B.C. spoke quickly. "It's more complicated than that, Jay. Governor Haro Lopez Ceredia Bosconia was one of the few honest politicians in all of Mexico. He was a truly good man, and one of the few not to yield to the drug lords. He could have made millions from the bribes if he so chose. Since he was married to Dave's sister, we thought a gesture like the aircraft was a way to show our appreciation for his veracity and give him some form of prestige among other governors and local politicians. It wasn't solely unselfish. As a result of the gift, C.I.I. was allowed to compete fairly with Mexican insurance companies. It's been lucrative for us. We simply want our investment, the airplane, back."
"B.C., please don't take this the wrong way, but was this whole DC-3 thing approved by your board of directors?"
Vandiver stood, "You s.o.b., what are you implying?"
"Sit down, Dave. It's a fair question. Yes, Jay, it was approved by the entire board. You can see the minutes if you wish."
"Not necessary, I'll take your word for it. Why didn't you get the current flight crew to fly it back for you? Why hire me to do it?"
B.C. and Vandiver glanced at one another. "We understand that the crew is…no longer available."
"Can you assure me this airplane is not involved in a murder investigation?"
"We can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that neither the Government of Mexico nor any police authorities are interested in the plane." B.C. stood, walked around the long table and stood beside where I sat. "I must tell you there is a rumor the aircraft is being guarded, or watched, by some armed men. We have no idea who, why, or what possible interest they could have in it."
"From where was the last trip flown?"
"My brother-in-law had traveled to Bogota, Colombia, to visit his mother who lives there. That's where he was killed. They brought the body back on board the aircraft. My sister had not made the trip with him."
"The cocaine capital of the world, the Cali and Medelline cartels…You think maybe drugs were aboard the DC-3 when it returned? That would answer why armed men are guarding it. Are you sure Governor Bosconia was not involved with anything illegal?"
"We know the Feds searched the plane with drug sniffing dogs when it returned. Nothing was found. I told you, my brother-in-law was an honest man."
"This changes everything, B.C. I'll get your airplane out of Mexico, but I'm going to need a couple of extra men. The cost just went up considerably."
"We trust you, Jay. Whatever you need. When can you leave?"
"Today is Wednesday. I'll be in Ciudad Victoria by Saturday morning and, depending on what we run into, your DC-3 should be on the ground in Jackson at Hawkins Field by Monday afternoon."
"That sounds fine. Is there anything we can do for you right now?"
"I'll need ten thousand in cash, a C.I.I. credit card good in Mexico, and the keys to the airplane. There are some errands I have to run, some phone calls to make. Have the money ready at two p.m."
"We are ahead of you, Mr. Leicester," Vandiver said, producing a manila envelope. "There's fifteen thousand, a credit card, and the key to the door of the airplane in the package. Just sign this receipt."
I signed for the items. "By the way, who installed the interior in the DC-3?"
Vandiver looked at me oddly. "It was done in McAllen, Texas. Why?"
"Just curious. It wasn't mentioned in the file."
"Keep in touch by phone, Jay. Vickey will give you my weekend numbers. Be careful."
Picking up the envelope, I started out the door. Stopping, I said, "Vandiver, are those real diamond cufflinks?"
"Yes," he said, raising his left wrist up and rubbing the stone. "Four carats each, perfect blue whites. A gift from my wife. Why?"
"Just admiring them, that's all. Good day, gentlemen."
Stopping by Vickey's desk, she handed me a list of phone numbers for both B.C. and Vandiver.
"Have a good trip, Mr. Leicester… Jay."
"Let me ask you something, Vickey. What do you think of Vandiver?"
She looked around the room to be sure no one was listening. "Conceited, arrogant, good-looking as all hell, but loyal to his wife to a fault. Not an easy man to work for. I'm friends with his personal secretary; she loves her job, though. She says he is very considerate of her and never makes her work late. I guess he's okay."
"Do you know who he married?"
"Melissa Edwards, Ambassador Adam Edwards' daughter."
"That explains a lot, thanks." Adam Edwards, from Indianola, Mississippi, is one of the wealthiest men in the South and a former governor. Vandiver married well.
In the parking lot, I opened the car door, threw the envelope on the seat, and stood for a moment. I could hear the city, a deep steady sound, familiar yet remote, evocative and strange. It was a feeling of both threat and promise. I suddenly felt suspended from a spider's web, stuck fast, afraid to flinch for awareness that this movement would be translated out through a hundred invisible threads, bringing untold horror.
It was time to head for God's country.
Chapter Two
Following the tail end of a typical summer thunderstorm, I arrived back at the cottage just after twilight. B.W. was curled up in one of the chairs on the porch. Somewhere nearby a Pileated Woodpecker squawked five notes as if in distress, then ceased. I stood for a moment under the trees and could smell the fresh resinous odor of the pines, and it reminded me of when I was a child. A gust of wind blew creating a sound that seemed to come from a distance, faint though quite clear, sonorous waves at once austere and rich, swelling and falling in the quiet summer darkness like a harmonic tide. Up through the branches the stars began to show as they always had and always will, those unaltered constellations that reaffirm my faith in God. Wild turkey foraged for food within feet of the porch, and deer came and went like smoky apparitions and left delicate tracks in the sandy soil. Coyotes, sly and invisible, roamed in packs feeding on the small animals. It was a place I wanted to be, needed to be. Then I heard the insistently repeated calls of a whip-poor-will, that rarely seen winged creature with a twilight sound that introduces us to the coming dark that we forget during the day.
"Come on, B.W., let's get something to eat and make some phone calls. We have to find someone to look after the joint and you for a few days." He stretched lazily to his full length that made him appear the size of a small panther, then jumped down, and followed me inside. We dined on fresh sourdough bread bought today from the Broad Street Bakery, cold, smoked, tuna steaks, and a bottle of 1998 Russian River Winery Zinfandel, made from late picked grapes. The wine was so big and fruity, dry and tannic that it overpowered even the smoked fish. It was one to remember.
There were only two men that I could trust to help me recover the DC-3. They were Hebrone Opshinsky and Andrew "Smash" Bullard. First, I had to get B.W. settled.
My nearest neighbor, a mile to the north of my cottage, is Rose English. She's the one who gave me B.W., insisting that I take him, even though she knew that I was a dog person. "He will teach you a lot," she had said. My German shepherd, a faithful companion of twelve years, had recently died, so I accepted the tiny kitten. I have learned many things about felines during the three years since he came into my life.
The first time I met Rose, she was scolding a cat. I'd driven over to introduce myself, and she ignored me until she finished. Her speech was worthy of note as she ascribed intelligence and a power of understanding her words to the animal, then astoundingly linked them both with a lineal descent from bears, wolves, and deer, something I thought more clearly described the woman than the cat. She had a face of womanly simplicity and frankness and gave me a wide grin of welcome.
Rose was in her mid-sixties, and had lived alone on her small farm all of her life. She was a neat, highly intelligent woman, stocky built with not an ounce of fat on her body. She was not still beautiful, (age does that to a person,) but the beauty she had been was still visible. Never married, she said men were good for only one thing, and when she needed that she had damn little trouble finding one to accommodate her; otherwise, she preferred to be left alone. I have no idea why she took a liking to me, maybe it was because we were both loners by nature, or that I was simply a neighbor. We would sit for hours on my porch saying little. She meant her silence to be taken for modesty, not mystery. From her I learned that the truly mysterious never behave mysteriously. It was a valuable lesson.
She answered the phone on the first ring and said she'd be delighted to take care of B.W. and see to the place. I promised to drop B.W. off on my way out early in the morning. She already had a set of keys to the cottage.
On a hunch, I dialed Spider's Bar in Biloxi, Mississippi, one of the few establishments unchanged by the burgeoning new gambling industry on the once quiet, though destitute gulf coast.
Norma, an old friend answered, "Hello sweetheart, how's my favorite bar owner?"
"Jay Leicester, you s.o.b. Where are you?"
"Up at the cottage. When you coming to see me?"
"You bastard. The last time you ran off and left me sitting out in the middle of those woods with a ball-less tom cat and a witch for a neighbor so you could go rescue some drunk pilot trying to take off with a load of innocent passengers."
Laughing, I said, "That was two years ago, and think of the lives you may have saved."
"I'm just yanking your chain, Jay. I understood and forgave you completely, though I was disappointed. So, what's up?"
"You seen Smash or Hebrone?"
"Hang on a minute…"
A voice came on the line. "The wolf welcomes you, anytime."
"Hebrone, how you doing?"
"Cut the small talk, Leicester."
"Okay. You and Smash, DC-3 out of Mexico to JAN. Pick you up at Mac's noon demain."
"We'll be there."
The line went dead.
Retrieving my Meridian, Mississippi, phone directory, I thought that there was only one Hebrone Opshinsky and, for that matter, only one Andrew "Smash" Bullard. In the Yellow Pages listed under "Aircraft charter, rental, and leasing" was a small ad that read simply, SANDER'S FLYING SERVICE – 24 hour jet service – Key Field, Meridian – 485-7600.
An out of breath woman answered the phone on the tenth ring. "Yes?"
"Annie Sanders, I'll bet you and Earl are playing tennis?"
"Jay, how you doing? Long time no see."
"Need to get to Brownsville via Gulfport tomorrow. Y'all got anything available?"
"You call, we haul. We'll get you there. Let me get Earl. He's a set down and behind four love in the second, so he's probably ready to quit."
"Hello, Leicester. Boy, have I got a deal for you. How many people?"
"Me out of Meridian, pickup two in Gulfport, then direct to Brownsville and drop us off."
"That will work. I've got something new to show you, a surprise, and since we'll be doing some crew-training, the cost will be cut in half."
"You are a good man, Captain Sanders. See you in the morning."
Cutting the end off one of my Charlemagne cigars, I poured a snifter of Martel cognac and went out on the porch, leaving B.W. on the inside. He would, if the opportunity presented itself, run off and stay out all night, and around here that could easily get him killed. Pulling a chair up to the south corner of the porch so that I could prop my feet up on a cedar post, I saw lightning flicker from the top of a huge thunderstorm in the southeastern sky looking like the feathers of an American Goldfinch in a birdbath. Suddenly all around me was a hush, a simulated deafness, and noise was sound remembered instead of sound itself. I found the silence strange; it seemed to occupy all empty space, as if humanity, the whole of humanity, had disappeared. The moon lifted through the trees and cast an eerie shadow. The silence continued except for those low inexplicable sounds that seemed to come with the moonlight, like whisperings and footsteps, which no one who has spent the night alone will be at a loss to understand.
Immediately off to my right there was a soft plop on the ground as if someone had dropped a pillow. From the dim light of the cottage I could see two bright eyes. They stared at me, and then I could make out the body and short tail. It was a bobcat that had jumped from the roof of the porch. It slowly moved off down the hill and disappeared into the shadows. I was glad B.W. was inside. Now it was time for me to get some sleep.
***
Rose was waiting when B.W. and I got to her place. She took the big cat into her arms and he began purring instantly. A streak of jealously poured over me.
"If things go well, I should be back Monday night."
"Where do I have to go to retrieve the body if you get killed?" she asked, handing me a package wrapped in butcher paper and a thermos of coffee.
"Ciudad Victoria, Mexico. We are going to pick up an airplane and fly it back to Jackson."
"We?"
"Smash and Hebrone."
"Well, at least I know you are in good hands. Please be careful. I would miss you."
"Thanks, do we hug now?"
"Piss off, Leicester. There are fresh biscuits and country-fried ham in there, and the coffee has that stupid honey you like. Enjoy them on the way to wherever you are going." She turned and walked away. B.W. watched me with those yellow cat eyes until they rounded a corner of the house. He had not inherited the blue eyes of the pure Siamese.
The biscuits, ham, and fresh coffee were wonderful on the forty-minute drive from Union to the Meridian, Mississippi, airport. Interstate Twenty crosses the north end of the runway at Key Field. Several Boeing 707s lined the ramp at the Air Guard base that operated an air-refueling wing some government bean counter is always trying to close down. There is also a Naval Flight Training station working out of the Meridian area. My cottage lies directly under a MOA (military operating area) flight sector, and it is always fun to watch the dog fights of the young aviators and listen to the whine of the turbo-jet engines.
Another important thing about the Meridian Airport is that no one seems to remember the tremendous accomplishments of Al and Fred Key in the field of aviation. They were able, in a borrowed Curtis Robin airplane named "OLE MISS," to stay aloft nonstop for 27 days and nights circling over Meridian. That is 653 hours and 34 minutes, and if it were in a straight line, it would be more than twice around the globe. The date was July 1, 1935, and it would be 1973 before man would stay aloft longer and that in a NASA Skylab. It is a record that still stands for that class of aircraft.
Turning into the parking lot of Sander's Aviation, I could see the "surprise" Earl had to show me. Sitting on the ramp was one of the new VLJs (Very light jets) that were taking the charter industry by storm. The idea emanated from an ex-Microsoft mogul by the name of Vern Raburn who wanted to manufacture a small twin-engine jet for under a million dollars. He was so successful with the design that several other companies jumped on the bandwagon. Even Cessna is building one they named Mustang, that is currently undergoing certification.
Having followed Raburn's 'Eclipse 500' with interest, I recognized it as the aircraft on the ramp. It has a unique, though conventional, profile.
"Jay, I guess you saw," Earl said, greeting me warmly. "Come on, let me give you the walk-around."
We went out to the Eclipse where a young pilot was doing a preflight. It is a small, though luxurious six-place, twin-turbofan that still, even after inflation and materials brought the cost to over a million and a half dollars, is cheaper than most of today's turboprop aircraft. The Eclipse 500 cruises at 375 knots at a 41,000-foot ceiling with a range of about 1,300 nautical miles with good reserves. It was certified for single-pilot operations, (something I abhor,) but saves money for the operator. I was anxious to see it perform.
Earl introduced me to the young pilot, Roy Blue, who I later learned graduated from the Florida Flight Academy and came straight to work for Sander's Aviation. The opportunity to fly the latest in aviation technology, plus being tutored by a man I consider to be one of the finest pilots I've ever had the pleasure to share a cockpit with would have impressed anyone.
"We both have completed training on the Eclipse in Denver at United's training center. Because of my experience, they designated me a check or mentor pilot for the aircraft. I'll have to fly with Roy for a hundred hours before he can be cleared for single-pilot operations, but it is a wise thing the company is doing due to the jet being so affordable. Remember the Lear thing?"
"Yeah, during the first year of production, they lost fifteen or so airplanes due to accidents by inexperienced pilots."
After the walk-around, Earl showed me the interior. This was one of the LX Editions with five seats. The cockpit layout was even more spectacular. It had a futuristic design with standard features found on much larger aircraft costing millions more. Instead of having control yokes, it had sidestick controllers. I have never flown an aircraft equipped with them. The Airbus Industries commercial jets are the only ones I've ever seen with the controllers. Earl pointed out what he considered the most important feature of the '500', and that was the streamlined glass cockpit displays that show one picture of what the aircraft is doing instead of many little pieces of data that must be assimilated and correlated by the pilot. This impressed me, and made the single pilot philosophy a little less dangerous.
"So, if you're ready, we'll head to Gulfport. We are full of fuel and will still be under gross weight. By the time we get to the coast, we will have burned off enough so that we can accommodate the two extra passengers and still have enough to make Brownsville with good reserves. Why don't you climb into the left seat and I'll give you some dual instruction."
Delighted with the offer to fly this new aircraft, I accepted. The two Pratt and Whitney PW610F engines generating nine hundred pounds of thrust each spooled up quickly with nominal temperatures, and we taxied down to the departure end of the north runway. Lining up with the centerline, I pushed the power levers to maximum thrust and let the Auto-throttles take over. The Eclipse 500 accelerated swiftly down the runway, and at ninety-four knots indicated on the electronic airspeed indicator, I gave the sidestick a gentle tug and the aircraft rotated and climbed rapidly above the pine forest and farmland of central Mississippi. The rate of climb indicator showed three thousand feet per minute. We leveled at eighteen thousand feet, set cruise power, and accelerated to three hundred and seventy-five knots, which works out to near four hundred and thirty miles per hour. I was impressed and thought about how different the old venerable Douglas DC-3 is to fly compared to this.
The weather was clear with unlimited visibility today, and the shoreline of the Mississippi coast was visible almost as soon as we reached cruising altitude. Abeam Hattiesburg, we were cleared down to two thousand feet and given a heading to intercept the instrument landing system to Runway One Three at Gulfport.
"Pull the power back to flight idle and slow to two hundred eighty-five knots," Earl said with a smile. "I'll show you a neat feature incorporated into the '500." He lifted a speed-brake handle next to the thrust levers when we had slowed, and the main gear came down ten degrees, increasing drag for a faster descent. "An ingenuous idea that is a lot less expensive than a full-blown speed-brake system, and it works." Again, I was impressed.
The little jet handled well at low speeds. We crossed the threshold at eighty-five knots, and I let the airplane fly itself onto the runway, the trailing-link landing gear touching down gently making me look good. I thought that the very stable slow-handling characteristics and landing qualities would bode well for the pilot/owners moving up from piston and turboprop aircraft.
We taxied to MacDonald Aviation and were met by a tall, thin man who guided us to a parking space directly in front of the FBO. As we shut down the engines, Dewitt "Mac" MacDonald broke into a wide grin when he recognized Earl and me. Mac had forgotten more about aviation and airplanes than either of us would ever learn. He had, in fact, been our mentor when we were fledglings still trying to spread our wings. His daily litany to us was that we would never be airmen and were sent to earth solely to bend his airplanes and cause him immense agony.
"Jay Leicester and Earl Sanders, what a surprise." He pointed to Roy, who was thoroughly engrossed in wiping a spot of oil from the rear of an engine on his new charge. "I'm glad there was someone aboard to help you two find the airport; otherwise, you most likely would have landed in Cuba, much to the chagrin of Mr. Castro."
"Hello to you, too, old friend."
"Well, Earl, I know this bird don't belong to Jay, so you must have bought yourself a new charter aircraft. I've read about these VLJs. Good luck with it, and let me know if it makes you any money. I may have to buy a couple to ferry these Keesler Air Force boys around."
"I think it'll do good, Mac. Come on, I'll give you the nickel tour while Leicester gathers up his passengers."
"Oh, he won't have any trouble finding them. Both are inside pestering the hell out of the front desk receptionist like two old dogs in heat."
Inside the FBO, Smash and Hebrone were leaning on the counter engaged in a flirtatious conversation with a young blond woman who was handling them with professional aplomb, although delighted with the attention.
"Hebrone, I expect this kind of behavior from Smash, but I thought you had matured enough to know better."
"Hello, Leicester. I'm just here keeping Smash from getting into trouble."
"Lees…ter, come meet my new friend, Janice. We got enough room in that little plane for her? She's never been to Mexico."
"Janice, my apologies for these morons. Let's go men, Pancho Villa awaits. Viva la Mexico."
Out on the ramp Roy was going over the '500' like it was a newborn baby. I was pleased to see him so meticulous. When Earl spotted Smash, his brow furrowed. He was concerned with the weight.
"Smash, what did you weigh this morning?" I knew that he weighed himself daily, kept in peak condition.
"Two ninety one. What did you weigh?"
"Less than that, but then I'm in a lot better shape."
Smash snorted and flexed his biceps, which were huge.
Earl did some quick calculations in his head, and said to no one in particular, "We're okay." I did the same estimate of our combined weights and came up with one thousand and sixty-one pounds of people.
Earl looked at me. "We'll be below gross weight, but barely. We burned off enough fuel on the way down. Jay, you and I up front, your friends in the middle, and Roy, you sit in the back."
"Nice little toy you got here, Lees…ter. You ain't gonna be the pilot are you?"
"Yes, I am. Now, get aboard."
"Ah, God help us all."
Hebrone said little, but he cornered Roy, who gave him a walk-around. He was as impressed as I had been.
Houston Center allowed us an unrestricted climb to thirty-five thousand feet, which we reached nineteen minutes after takeoff. Again, the Eclipse 500 performed brilliantly. We were given a heading direct to Brownsville and ten minutes after level off at thirty-five thousand we asked for and received a clearance up to the 500's max-certified altitude of forty-one thousand. Earl wanted to see if it would get there fully loaded like we were. Not a problem, and the fuel flows were almost non-existent.
It is five hundred and twenty nautical miles from Gulfport to Brownsville and we landed one hour and thirty minutes after takeoff. Shutting down the engines at Southmost Aviation, Earl pointed out that we had forty-five minutes of fuel remaining in the tanks. My thoughts were that he had himself a moneymaker in the Eclipse 500 VLJ.
As Earl and Roy refueled and re-filed a flight plan, we said our good-byes. He promised to bill me for the flight, although he never did, explaining that he wrote it off as a training exercise.
Smash, Hebrone, and I headed for the Holiday Inn out north of town where I'd made reservations. Had I known what lay ahead of us, I would have re-boarded the VLJ and flown back to good old Mississippi, back to the cottage in the woods and a Siamese cat named B.W.
Chapter Three
The motel was on the Expressway minutes from downtown Brownsville. The FBO provided a courtesy van to take us there, and after we checked in, I told Hebrone and Smash to come to my room for a meeting.
Smash was the first to show.
"Come on in and have a seat. How you doing?"
"I'm happier than a baby at the breast, Lees…ter."
He is six foot three, black, bald, and toothless, though he now sported a six thousand dollar set of dentures. As of this morning, I learned he weighed two hundred and ninety-one pounds. He was heavy-molded, with a broad face expressing impenetrable stupidity and entire self-confidence. He had a kind of stubborn fidelity, an insensibility to danger, and a kind of instinct or sagacity, which sometimes led him to make right decisions where better heads than his were at a loss. He could fight and was deadly with either pistol or rifle and so successful with women that I sometimes sought his counsel.
An outstanding athlete, he was booted from the NFL because of his temper. Black rages would pour over him from frustration at losing, teammates he perceived were not performing up to par, or coaches who were making the wrong calls. When this occurred, he was uncontrollable. He managed to stay for four years with six different teams.
Smash is still on probation from an aggravated assault charge that resulted in a man's death. Knowing we shared a background in professional football, Guy Robbins asked if I would help him by giving him work. I agreed only after reading the psychiatric profile which determined that he wasn’t insane and didn't have brain chemistry problems, but just needed to learn to control his temper. Over the years we have become friends. He has worked many cases with me without any temper tantrums. His only fault is that he is loyal to the degree that sometimes it threatens his own life. Eudora Welty once wrote in The Optimist's Daughter that "The mystery in how little we know of other people is no greater than the mystery of how much…" This describes Andrew 'Smash' Bullard perfectly.
Hebrone Opshinsky walked into the room without knocking. "You should keep the door locked, Leicester."
"Nobody knows I'm in Brownsville."
"It's a bad habit."
"I had him covered, 'Shinsky."
Hebrone looked hard at him. Smash's smile faded, and he dropped his eyes. Hebrone was the one man he truly admired. They had been friends for as long as we had known each other.
Hebrone and I were the same age. He'd served two tours in-country during the Vietnam War. One day he was slicing the throats of North Vietnamese soldiers, then forty-eight hours later he was walking the streets of New Orleans, Louisiana, a civilian. He had trouble acclimating back into a normal society. There was trouble with drugs and a few run-ins with police. In time, he cleaned up, moved to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and worked around the docks until being hired at a research lab on Cat Island. That's where we met. He saved my life. It would not be the last time that would happen.
Hebrone lived aboard an old sportfisherman boat anchored out in the Mississippi Sound near the Biloxi Yacht Club with a full-blooded wolf named Savage. His live-in girlfriend of ten years, who I had the great pleasure to have known, had died with cancer two years ago. It was a rough time for him. He and Savage spent several months at my cottage in the woods suffering the loss. Finally, at peace, they went back to the boat.
I asked him once why he lived aboard. He said that one should always live in a place where you must use your sixth sense all the time, or you might lose it.
His stock in trade was the dark side of human nature. He was more interested in shadow than sunlight, he never trusted virtue, and he had observed that people were never so happy as when they were betraying a trust.
He was an expert with any weapon, but for his job in 'Nam, gunfire was regarded as the sound of inexcusable failure. The mission back then was to slip in and slip out, leaving no one the wiser. The VC wasn't supposed to find out what you'd done to him until it was too late, if ever.
In war Hebrone Opshinsky was trained to kill, trained to survive. He was the best of the best. He is unusual; he can kill anyone without regret. Most of the people he killed never knew he was in the same room with them. He was given assignments that were off the books. Sometimes he went too far. He refuses to talk about them. He can sense things most people cannot, can see things we don't see or choose to ignore. It (the hunter) is ingrained so deep in his personality it is impossible to reverse. He is a killing machine. He is the way he is because our government wanted him that way, needed men like him. We had to have them, the other side in the war had them.
I spent hours talking to him about the war. It took a long time to build a trust. After that he told me many things. He said that from time to time, nerves would fail a man. That can be a good thing. You recognize that it's a gift, to trust that instinct. It's not lack of courage, but something rarer, almost elegant. You learn to trust your mind. Something doesn't feel right, you believe that. He said that sometimes they would run out of painkillers. You were without self in those times, lost among the screaming. You held on to anything that seemed sane--an odor, a color, a taste. We do this so the children will feel confident and safe during the night, he said.
Opshinsky sat down calmly at the small table. "So lay it out, Leicester."
Walking over, I locked the door. Smash smiled but said nothing. "Continental Insurance wants us to pick up a DC-3 in Ciudad Victoria and fly it back to Jackson. The aircraft was on loan, so to speak, to Governor Bosconia of Tamaulipas. He was assassinated while visiting his mother in Bogota, Columbia. At the moment, I don't know why he was killed, only that he'd flown the DC-3 to Colombia, and his body was returned to Mexico on board the aircraft. He was married to the sister of one of C.I.I.'s executives, who just happens to hold the 'Certificate of Title' to the airplane. Seems it was a quid-quo-pro deal with Bosconia."
"So C.I.I. could operate in Mexico?"
"Yes."
"If he was in Colombia, drugs or the cartels gotta be involved."
"Seems not. The aircraft was cleared, and the Governor has proved to be one of those rare honest men. The only rub is someone, (and we don't know who,) is keeping an eye on the DC-3. Rumor is they are heavily armed."
"Ah, I wondered why Smash was along."
"I'm glad to know you wonder about me, 'Shinsky."
"When's the last time you flew a DC-3, Hebrone?"
"It's been over a year, but I'm probably more current than you."
He was right. Hebrone used his GI Bill to take flying lessons. He got serious about it, earned his Airline Transport Rating, and was hired by a local freight hauler feeding FedEx from New Orleans using DC-3s. He made Captain in less than a year. The company went out of business due to too many regulation violations, and Hebrone went back to work for the research lab on Cat Island. I think Hebrone's old wolf, Savage, missed the flying more than he did. After making captain, Hebrone took Savage along on every flight, much to the chagrin of his copilots.
"So, we got legal right to take the aircraft? We don't have to steal it?"
"I've got the paperwork, and even a key to the airstair door. We just have to figure out who else is interested in the DC-3 and why."
"How we gonna get to Ciudad Victoria?" Smash asked.
"I'm going to work on that this afternoon. Why don't you and Hebrone go downtown, close to the crossing, work the bars, see if there is any talk about Bosconia?"
"I know a couple of places here. I'll go alone. People I want to talk to don't like blacks. No offense, Smash."
"None taken."
"You talking about La Eme?"
"I am."
"Good idea. Smash, you can work with me."
Hebrone stood, looked up at the ceiling. "I'm off, then."
"Leave word at the front desk if you need us. I think they have 'voice mail' on the phones in the rooms, also. We'll check both. Be careful."
Hebrone looked at me with an eerie smile, and nodded. "I always am."
After Hebrone left, Smash went to the sliding glass doors, looked out at the pool where several children were enjoying their youth. "What's this La Eme, Lees…ter?"
"The Mexican Mafia."
"So what's their beef with us 'black' folks? We ain't never done nothing to the Mexicans, as I can recall."
"It's a long story, Smash."
"I got the rest of my life to hear it."
Sitting down in the seat Hebrone vacated, I watched the children. "Their origin did not begin in Mexico, but in the Los Angeles prison system back in the fifties. Initially formed as a Hispanic prison gang for protection against other inmates and the prison staff, it grew rapidly into a criminal organization involved in extortion, narcotics trafficking, and murder both inside and outside the prison walls. The Mexican Mafia Creed reads: 'A member is to share all and everything. To have one leader or boss for all members and swear their lives to the group with the understanding that death is the failure to comply with the codes of the group. Once accepted into the group, he cannot drop out.' They are generally considered a "blood in, blood out" organization, meaning one must kill to join, and one must be killed to leave."
"They sound like a fun bunch of boys, but blacks, Lees…ter, what they don't like about blacks?"
"Well, with a set of rules governing its members, La Eme has become a fundamental criminal enterprise established for the sole purpose of committing criminal activities in furtherance of the organization's goals. Some of the gang's activities include expanding its control of drug/heroin trafficking, drug rip-offs, prostitution, business robberies, contract murders, gambling, debt collection, extortion, and other illicit activities. Most of their criminal activities focused on victimizing black and Caucasian people while leaving Mexican people alone. However, that's not the true reason they don't like people of African descent."
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