by T. K. Lukas
“She’s been in Alpine a few days now. I just thought maybe you’d seen her around town, or something.” Anton gave her the friendly smile he used when trying to establish comradery as he pointed to her name badge. “Bonnie Kirkpatrick. That’s a nice name. Are you Irish?”
“The clan Kirkpatrick is Scottish,” she replied with a proud air, pulling herself up to her five feet nine-and-a-half-inch height. “Sorry, I don’t recognize your friend.” Friend, my ass, she thought to herself, wondering what shenanigans these three were up to, especially this one with the creepy grin.
“She may have met a man who flew in on a Beech Baron earlier this evening. Red with black markings. Tail number November Seven Three Three Romeo Bravo. Do you remember if that plane landed here?”
“I remember every plane that lands on my shift. Three Romeo Bravo landed, refueled, and then took off again at eighteen hundred hours, on the dot.” Her short reply and suspicious eyes did not match the pleasant smile she wore. The words, “she may have met a man here earlier” told her everything she needed to know. This man asking nosy questions was probably a jilted lover stalking his ex. Or, maybe he was a hired private eye working for the ex. Either way, she wanted nothing to do with this.
“Did you see the passenger or notice who picked him up?” Anton asked as Juan and Fredo joined him at the counter. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”
“The pilot came in briefly. No one else was with him.” She wouldn’t lose sleep from telling a little white lie; the pilot was alone when he came in. What business of theirs was it that even from a distance, she could plainly see Rex, the big black dog that belonged to the man she recognized as Markus Yeager, who was with some lady she didn’t recognize. They greeted a male passenger and his service dog. If she’d learned one thing in her sixty-three and a half years, it was to keep her nose out of other people’s business. Keeping her eyes and ears open, well, that was another matter.
“Did he file a flight plan or mention where he was headed?”
“No. He used the facilities, filled his coffee mug, and departed VFR as soon as his plane was refueled. Sorry I can’t help you.” She offered another pleasant smile as she pointed toward the pilot’s lounge. “I just brewed a fresh pot. Help yourselves.”
“Thank you.” Anton motioned for the other two to follow him to the lounge.
“You think she’s lying?” asked Juan as he poured coffee into three Styrofoam cups.
“Keep your voice down.” Anton blew away the steam rising from the cup before sipping. “Maybe, but why? Could be that the passenger stayed on the plane. Could be that the lady didn’t see him get off the plane and he left without her noticing. Her nose was stuck in a book when we came into the building.”
Fredo, leafing through a magazine he’d picked up from the coffee table, said, “I think we should have our buddy Bruno run another check on that tail number and see if it’s landed somewhere, or if the pilot filed an in-route flight plan.”
“I’ll do the thinking, Fredo,” snapped Anton. “But that’s a good idea. I’ll call Boss and see if that’s what he wants us to do. Push that door closed, Juan.”
The phone conversation with El Cuchillo was mostly one sided, with Anton listening, nodding, and replying “yes sir” numerous times. While he was put on hold for several long minutes, he refilled his coffee cup and paced the room before stopping at the picture window looking out onto the runway. As he often did to engage his mind, he searched for something to count. Counting things, like the number of floor tiles in a toilet stall, or the number of beads on a Rosary helped him focus. He decided to count the number of times the green and white lights of the airport’s rotating beacon flashed across the night sky. Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, he waited for information on the Beech Baron. Eventually, he gave a final “yes sir” before clicking off his cellphone.
“Okay, Three Romeo Bravo landed back at Meacham Field two hours ago. It returned without a passenger, according to a contact Bruno has at the hangar where that plane parks. Boss is ordering the Citation to return to Meacham Field, but we’ll stay here as long as it takes, looking around, asking questions, seeing what we can find out. He’s convinced Trevor and Sidney are here. We just have to find them.”
“Once the mission is complete, what’ll we do?” asked Fredo.
“We’ll go to Disney Land, dumb ass.” Anton flashed his favorite grin.
*****
Bonnie Kirkpatrick’s final chore of her swing shift was to call a taxi for the three men and to give them information about hotels in Alpine. She recommended the Best Western or the Hampton Inn because the popular boutique hotels were booked for the upcoming holiday. She knew this, she explained to them, because she’d made similar inquiries for numerous other travelers flying in for Thanksgiving or for the opening of deer hunting season. She shivered, thinking about hunting season and what these three men might be pursuing. She didn’t like the feel of this, one bit.
*****
The next morning, Anton awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his bed. He wasn’t sure if it was a subconscious thought or a dream, but in his mind, he heard the lady at the FBO counter speaking to him, whispering in his ear the sequence of events from the previous evening. He visualized Three Romeo Bravo landing and taxiing to the FBO, the pilot getting out and going inside to take a piss, filling his coffee mug, coming back out and departing again—after refueling.
Anton threw his pillow across the room at the other bed, hitting Juan in the face. “Wake up, dummy. Give Fredo a jab in the ribs and wake him up too.” Anton was already out of bed and pulling on his jeans.
Juan stuffed the extra pillow under his head and yanked the blanket off Fredo who’d been hogging it all night. “What’s up?”
“Not you. Get your lazy ass out of bed. We’re going back to the airport.”
“We’re leaving? I thought Boss said to stay until we found those two.” Juan looked perplexed.
Anton ignored the remark and continued dressing. Explaining higher order thinking to Juan and Fredo was becoming tiresome. If it were up to him, he’d be doing this job solo. Then, it wouldn’t be long before El Cuchillo promoted him. He’d rise through the ranks from falcon, to hitman, to lieutenant in record time. These two boneheads would forever be falcons—capable only of street work.
“I’m leaving without you two if you’re not ready in five minutes,” Anton said over his shoulder. He checked the polish on the toes of his boots and frowned, rubbing away a smudge before pulling them on. A black leather blazer matched his black belt and boots. Assessing his image in the full-length mirror, he was pleased with the reflection smirking back at him.
Turning quickly, he left without another word. Say something once, why say it again? Those two better wise up and understand that he meant business. Once outside the room, he paused and pressed his ear to the closed door, smiling when he heard them jumping and fumbling around for their clothes, cursing at each other to get out of the way. He strolled down the hallway and out to the parking lot, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his well-starched jeans.
The rental car would have to do—it was a subcompact, the only thing available in this one-horse-town. He’d have preferred a long black Cadillac like the one Winston let him drive. On a bright note, at least this miniature roller had dark tinted windows.
By the time he’d started the engine, adjusted the seat, and checked his hair in the visor mirror, Juan and Fredo were running to the car, fighting over who’d have to ride in the back. Juan, the shorter of the two, lost the argument.
“So, why’re we going back to the airport?” asked Fredo, squeezing into the front seat.
“Both of you buckle up. I don’t want to be stopped by a cop for a lousy seatbelt violation.” Anton knew the rules—always comply with even the most minor motor vehicle laws. Never give the police an opportunity to stop you and ask nosy questions. “And if you must know, I want to talk to whoever refueled Three Romeo Bravo last nig
ht. Maybe he saw something.”
“Yeah. Good thinking, Boss.” Fredo nodded in agreement.
Anton started to correct him. Only a lieutenant should be called “Boss.” However, he let it slide, liking the sound of the word and all it implied. He might as well get used to hearing it. Driving to the airport in silent contemplation, he counted the number of road signs and mile markers along the way.
*****
As he pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the avgas building, Anton scanned the tarmac and the taxiways, looking for a fuel truck, or for any movement at all. By its appearance, the airport seemed shut down, with no one in sight. Overhead, not a single plane circled in the published “left turn to base leg” landing pattern. No propellers whirred to life doing run-ups on the tarmac. A few vehicles sat empty in both the FBO and the avgas parking lots. He looked at his watch and cursed this sleepy little town and the two people who were the cause of him being here. He’d rather be back in Fort Worth with his Lola. Or, Ramona. Even Benita would do.
“It’s eight forty-five already. What time does this shithole come alive?” He got out of the car and started toward the building, Juan and Fredo on his heels.
The slight, bald man behind the counter set his newspaper aside as the three men strolled in. “Buenos dias. Can I help you?”
Anton gave him a friendly smile. “Si, Señor. Good morning. I believe you can. I’m looking for whoever was on duty yesterday evening around six. He might have refueled a Beech Baron.”
Putting his paper down, the man, whose nametag read Carlos Ortiz, Service Manager, asked in a concerned voice, “Was there a problem? Something happen to that plane?”
“There was no problem, Mr. Ortiz. It’s just that my friend flew in yesterday on that Baron, and when he got off the plane, he dropped his watch. He said it happened about the time the plane was being refueled. It’s a pretty expensive watch. He’s hoping that your guy might have seen it and picked it up. For safekeeping, of course.”
“That would have been Wesley on duty then. He’s over picking up a truck from the mechanic’s shop. He didn’t mention anything to me about a watch.” Ortiz thumbed over his shoulder, indicating the hangar behind the avgas building.
“Do you mind if we go talk to him?”
“He should be back any minute. Make yourself at home. There’s plenty of coffee.”
“Muchas gracias, but we’re kind of in a hurry. My friend’s nervous about finding his watch. I’m sure you understand.” Anton headed for the door.
“De nada. I understand.” Ortiz sat down and picked up the sports section of the newspaper. “Tell Wesley I better not find out he pocketed your amigo’s watch. Of course, if he’s like his padre, he’s already visited the pawn shop.” He snorted a short burst of air through his nose before raising the paper, not seeing the dismissive look Anton shot his way.
Strolling to the south side of the building and toward the mechanic’s hangar, Anton played out in his mind a few scenarios of what to say to this Wesley character, but he had to think quickly. The avgas truck was pulling out of the hangar and headed their way. As the truck approached, Anton held up his hand and stepped in front of the vehicle.
A stout, dark haired young man stuck his head out of the window. “It’s a good thing my foot didn’t miss the brake pedal.” He wore sunglasses, despite the gray, overcast sky.
Anton stepped to the side of the truck. “You must be Wesley. Your boss said you’d be coming from the mechanic’s. How you doing?” He stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture.
After giving the proffered hand a long stare, Wesley shook it. His grip tightened in an unspoken challenge. Releasing the man’s hand in a dramatic fashion, he propped his elbow on the open window frame and said with a thick drawl, “I’m Wesley. What of it?”
The vibe this guy was giving off—his confrontational posturing—didn’t sit well with Anton. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, grasping that this might be an expensive morning. Guys like Wesley didn’t give anything away for free. They always expected a tip or some reward, even if they were returning a lost dog to its rightful owner, a dog they probably stole in the first place. He’d bet this guy had a bumper sticker that read, “Either gas, cash, or ass – no free rides.”
Friendliness and flattery wouldn’t work on this turd. Anton decided to cut through the bullshit and get right to the point, but he wouldn’t play all his cards at once by offering money up front. He’d make the kid ask for it.
“You refueled a red and black Beech Baron yesterday evening around six o’clock. I’m after some information about the male passenger who came in on that flight. You got anything you can tell me about who got off that plane?”
“A red Beech Baron with black Maltese crosses both sides of the tail, black and gold stripes down the fuselage? November something Romeo Bravo, the Romeo Bravo most likely standing for ‘Red Baron?’”
“That would be the one.”
“Never saw it.” Wesley smirked. He put the truck in gear and slowly pulled away, rolling a few feet before Anton slapped the side of the door with his palm.
“All right, smartass. Stop the fucking truck. Let’s talk.” Anton kept pace alongside as it continued to roll.
After letting the truck coast along a few yards, Wesley braked to a halt, shoving the gearshift into park. “If I tell you what I saw, it’ll cost you.”
“I expected you wouldn’t give it away. What’s your price?”
“I don’t believe that’s how it works.” Wesley took off his sunglasses and tossed them onto the dashboard. “I reckon you ought to tell me what it’s worth to you.”
Anton gritted his teeth and pulled out his wallet. He hated dealing with jerk-wads like this one. He held up three one hundred dollar bills. “Tell me who, if anyone, got off that plane, and these Ben Franklins go home with you.”
“Not enough.” Wesley shook his head, unflinching under the man’s cold stare.
Anton added two more. “Five’s it, buddy. Take it or leave it. Maybe someone else saw something who’d like to talk to me for free.”
Wesley held out his hand and then stuffed the money into his jacket pocket. “A dude with only one leg—well, he had one of those fake, metal things on the other—got off the plane. He had a yellow lab guide dog with him.”
Trevor. Anton experienced a familiar surge of adrenaline, like he always felt when closing in on a target. “Did you see where he went, or maybe who picked him up?”
“That first five hundred covered your first request for information, which was who got off that plane? Remember?”
“I remember.” What a fool, to test me. He pulled out five more bills. “Tell me what else you saw, and I mean everything you saw, or I’ll take my money back, after I’ve slit your gringo throat.” His eyes hardened, his smile slowly stretching from ear to ear, exposing gleaming, gold-capped molars.
Wesley hesitated a moment before shoving the other five hundred in his pocket. “No need for the threats, man. I’ll tell you. Two people walked out to the plane as I was refueling it. The dude is a guy I know. My ex-girlfriend keeps her horse out at his stables. His name’s Markus Yeager. He doesn’t go anywhere without this big black wolf-looking dog tagging along. Yeager was with a chick I didn’t recognize.”
Anton pulled a photograph from his breast pocket. “Did she look like this?”
Wesley studied the photo for a moment. “I don’t think so. It was getting dark, so I didn’t get a good look at her. But the chick last night had long blond hair, not red like this woman here. That much I saw. That’s all I got, man. I need to get back to work.”
“Not so fast. This Yeager character—is his place close by?”
Wesley paused, as if calculating whether or not he should ask for more money for this third piece of information. He opted for not. “It’s maybe ten miles or so from here, but I don’t know the exact address. It’s called Yeager Stables and Hunting Lodge.”
“Can you draw me a map?”
“I reckon.”
Anton handed him the photograph of Sidney. “Just draw it on the back of this.”
Wesley did his best at scratching out a map, his tongue working in his cheek as he drew. Handing it back, he pointed to the road that ran in front of the stables. “This road’s not marked, and I don’t think it even has a name. But if you go a little farther, this road here turns into an old cattle trail that’ll take you to the back of his property. My old man and my uncle discovered this hidden trail, and they use it to hunt back in there—unobserved, if you know what I mean. I’m talking trophy antlers.” He held his hands out in a wide span, his eyes twinkling.
“Very good, Wesley. You did very good. And for that, I’m rewarding you. Here’s another five hundred dollars for doing one more thing. And I expect you to do this one more thing very good, too.” He counted off five more bills and held them out.
Wesley grasped onto the money but Anton kept a tight hold, not releasing the bills. “What else? I don’t know anything more to tell you.”
“It’s not what you’ll tell me, it’s what you’ll tell everyone else, which is nothing. Not even your boss, who’s watching out the window as we speak. Don’t ask me why, but just tell Mr. Ortiz that you never saw a watch that my friend supposedly lost on the tarmac.”
“What do you mean, I never saw—”
“I said don’t ask.”
“Okay. Got it. I never saw a watch.” Wesley tugged on the bills, a relieved expression washing across his face when Anton released the money. He had pocketed more in five minutes than he made in a month working part-time at the avgas hangar.
Snapping his fingers, Anton motioned for Juan and Fredo to join him as he turned and hurried to the rental car. If Trevor was here, surely the bitch was, too. The initial rush of adrenaline he’d felt when it was confirmed his target had gotten off the plane was soon replaced by a calming sensation. He expected the calmness. Moving into that realm was an accomplished practice. He would not allow nerves to interfere. He never let that first surge of excitement get in the way of completing a job. He reached into his pocket and fondled the cool, soothing beads on his Rosary.
