Circling the Runway (Jake Diamond Mysteries Book 4)

by J. L. Abramo

  FOUR: Move Chevy Tahoe to the back part of the lot under the maple that tended to shit sap on cars all day long. No one ever wanted to drive a sap-speckled car. It was another reason I put the Winstons in the glove box.

  Madeline lifted her head from my shoulder and tried to smile. Then she burst into tears. I walked her to the table and sat her down. 7:47.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her face in her hands. “I just don’t know. I feel like this is it. Like this kid is coming out of me today. I’m so tired.” She slumped forward and rested her head on her forearms. “I am not up to this today. My back hurts. And why didn’t we find out the sex?”

  Because you didn’t want to. You said it was a good thing to be surprised. You said we wanted to experience the wonder of birth like they did in the old days. “We just didn’t,” I said. I ran a hand over her hair and kissed the top of her head. Then I pulled the filters from the cupboard, poured water in the coffee pot, and spilled coffee beans on the floor. 7:50.

  Madeline looked at the beans. “I can’t clean that up. I can’t bend down and clean that up.” She sniffled and started crying again.

  “You don’t have to, babe. I’ve got it.”

  “Those are expensive beans, too.”

  FIVE: Close shop doors at 5:00 p.m. and wait for instructions. At some point this evening, I would receive directions to the envelope containing a debit card and access to an account with my money. It was safer than cash and smarter, and I had done it a few times before already. This time was big, though. This was the last one, the one that would set us up forever.

  I swept up the beans and tossed them in the trash. 7:52. I was late. There was no way I’d make it there in time.

  I buttered the toast and spread peanut butter on it. Then I set it in front of Madeline and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be right back.”

  I knew I should offer to stay with her, to sit and hold her hand and stroke her hair and reassure her. If she only knew that this was all for her. I stepped out onto the front stoop and auto dialed Brent’s cell.

  There was fumbling as he picked up and a frazzled, “Yeah.”

  “You at the office?”

  I heard him clear his throat. “In the car in the Starbuck’s drive-through. Want anything?”

  “Need you to open.”

  “Sure.”

  “No. Listen. I need to you to open. This is important.”

  I listened as Brent ordered a Venti Caramel Macchiato and then came back on the line. “You sure you don’t want something?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right. Open the lot. Got it.”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen to me, Brent. There’s a Chevy Tahoe near the front. I need you to jockey it to the back under the maple tree. Got it?”

  “Chevy. Maple. Tahoe. That’s a shitty tree. What do you got against that car?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Just do it. Don’t fuck up. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I could almost hear Brent shrug through the phone. I had no idea what was worse. Having Madeline pissed at me or trusting the car arrangements to Brent. It’s like asking how do you want to die? Fire or drawn and quartered?

  2

  BRENT

  What the hell was up his ass? Clyde used to be such a great boss. I guessed it was the kid that had him on edge recently. I mean, I took the job because the hours were good, the pressure was low and the policy on smoking was lax.

  I watched all those Hertz and Enterprise jerks running around in their matching shirts and scripted sales pitches and I thanked sweet Jesus that wasn’t me. Still never thought I’d be renting cars out at the airport. Beats digging ditches, as my dad always said.

  I tried to understand what Clyde was going through though. A baby. That’s heavy. And him being a business owner. Entrepreneur. Sole breadwinner. I know I’m not ready for that yet.

  I kept feeling like something had been up for a while now, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He would get all sweaty about once a month, giving orders on certain cars like this Tahoe now. When he told me his wife was pregnant I put two and two together. Lately, seemed like they added up to five.

  Not my business, though. We were friends, sure, but his life was his and my life was mine. To each his own, as my mom used to say. They said a lot of stuff, my parents.

  I opened the rental counter only five minutes late. Not bad for me. I’d almost finished refilling the brochure holders and the maps to Colonial Williamsburg, when the first customers of the day came in.

  A family on vacation, cranky from the flight which must have left wherever they came from while it was still dark outside. I’d be cranky, too. A mom with short, sensible hair and twenty extra pounds around the middle. A dad with a bald top and a ring of sad looking wisps circling the rim of his skull. He toted about eighty extra pounds around his belt line. Eight a.m. and already sweating like a hog.

  They pulled enough bags for a two-week trip and two kids who looked like puberty had run them down in the street driving a Sherman tank. A boy and a girl. They looked to be in the midst of a contest for which one could grow the most pimples. A dead tie so far, from what I could see.

  “Morning. How can I help you?” I said. First one of the day gets my special “helpful guy” treatment.

  Dad stepped in front of his depressing family and took charge. One look at him and I could tell the only time in his life he got to take charge of anything was with a pudgy, given-up wife and two kids destined to live out the rest of their lives waiting for their awkward phase to end. Congrats, Pops, you’re king of the royal family of kill-me-if-it-ever-happens-to-me.

  “We have a reservation. Griffin.”

  All business, this guy. Better than the chit chat of some jerk who got off an eight-hour flight and needed to vent about the shitty flight attendants and sub-standard food.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me pull up your reservation.”

  I typed his name into the computer and his page came on screen. Another good thing about being with a small, independent rental company is we can pretty much count all the rentals on two hands in a day. There’s never a lot of searching for lost files around here.

  “Here we go. Minivan, right?” As if I needed to look that up in the computer.

  “Yes. Minivan. For two weeks.” His wife fanned him with a folded up map. I hoped his face didn’t turn any redder or I’d start to worry about the old guy having a heart attack in the lobby. The two sad sack kids stared blankly, the boy mouth-breathing through thick braces.

  “That’s mileage included,” he sort of asked, sort of stated.

  “Yes. Mileage included.” I’m sure it made him feel like a real provider, a real hunter/gatherer to this family of Cro-Magnons.

  “Dad, I’m hungry,” the boy said.

  “Yeah, me too,” the girl followed up. Really? These lard-asses hungry? You don’t say.

  “We’ll get breakfast as soon as we’re out of here and on the road,” he said in that typical annoyed dad way. I bet he couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel so he could threaten them with the old, “If you don’t knock it off I’ll turn this car around and . . .” But if they were at an airport I doubted he was gonna drive them all the way home. Mileage or no mileage included.

  “Where y’all from?” I asked while the rental form printed.

  “Detroit,” he said, clipped and sharp to let me know that was all the information I would be getting out of him.

  I nodded. I figured I didn’t need to tell him what a shithole he lived in, so I left it there.

  “Here we are,” I said. I read him all the particulars; he declined the insurance. They all do. Anyone renting from us was a cheap bastard, so they all turned down the insurance. I got his info and offered to do the walk through of the van with him.

  “I think I know how a minivan works,” he said.

  “It’s more just to check for any damage to the vehicle so you won’t be liable upon r
eturn. And there may be a few things in the newer models you may not be familiar with.”

  “Da-a-a-ad,” the boy said, his impatience showing like the big red zit on his nose.

  “That’s fine, just tell me what spot it’s in and we’ll get going. We still have a drive ahead of us to get to the beach.”

  “I don’t know why you wouldn’t let my dad pick us up,” the wife said.

  “I’m not gonna rely on your parents to get us around. What if we want to take a day trip?” He didn’t hide his annoyance and I knew this was an argument that started back in Detroit.

  “What day trips are we gonna take, Sean?”

  “We at least want the freedom, Linda.” He spat out her name with such a fermented venom. That one word, her name, had been marinated in all the years of marriage and all the variations on this argument they’d ever had, which I took to be many.

  “You’re in space twenty-three,” I said, still in my early morning fake cheeriness. Besides, the Griffin family provided me with some great theater to start the day. The Fighting Griffins starring in Sad Suburban Vacation: A Tragedy.

  “Thanks,” he said and a bead of sweat broke loose from his empty forehead and ran down his nose to splash on my counter. If he saw it, he ignored it. The whole wheezing, squeaking mass of them turned as one and rolled out pushing, pulling and toting luggage almost as square as they were.

  I sat back down, wiped the drop of sweat away with a napkin and lit my first smoke of the day, thankful my life wasn’t as soul-crushing and shitty as that guy and his dumb-ass family. For me, right then behind the rental counter on a sunny Virginia day—payday no less—life was looking pretty good.

  3

  CLYDE

  Despite being late, despite the forgotten cigarettes and the ten minute wait at the Gas ’N Gulp to pick them up, despite Madeline’s tears, I smiled when I pulled into the lot. It was a scorcher of a day already. Jets were screaming a half mile away at the airport, and my lot was ready for renters.

  The lot had it all: compacts, sub-compacts, convertibles, SUVs, luxury sedans, mid-size sedans and coupes, luxury coupes, mini vans, and full size vans. I had been considering adding RV rentals as well, but it was likely to be a couple of years before I was feeling ambitious enough for that. I needed to do more homework on the demand, and with the kid soon to be born, I wasn’t eager to undertake any additional responsibility. Besides, I was spread a little too thin as it was.

  I didn’t look for the Tahoe under the maple. It was early and Brent would have parked it where I told him. He might be a grumbler, but he could be counted on to do what he was told. When I walked in, he stood at the twin filing cabinets in the front of the office, stuffing a rental agreement into a drawer.

  “Remember your alphabet,” I said. “A, B, C.”

  “Yeah. I got it.” He gave a half smile. He acted pissed, but he was really shitty when it came to filing stuff. I kept him around because, in addition to doing what he was told, he didn’t ask many questions and he didn’t seem too interested in what I did when I wasn’t standing right next to him. In fact, he seemed to try really hard to avoid me sometimes, which was just fine these days. The less we saw of one another, the better.

  “Anyone come in?”

  He gave me a gesture that was half shrug, half nod. “Family from Detroit. Gave’em a minivan.”

  I smiled. “Historic triangle, Busch Gardens, or Civil War memorials?”

  He shrugged and picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated he kept under the counter. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  I wanted to tell him to do something besides stand there, but the truth was we were a tight ship. We filed everything right away, kept things well-ordered, had a cleaning lady come in every night to spruce things up and keep the tiles their whitest.

  An airport shuttle pulled up and a couple stepped off, a woman in an Ally McBeal knock off suit and stiletto heels. The guy wore a dark suit and designer sunglasses and gave me one of those chin jerks that is supposed to be a nod. I head jerked back at him. “Good morning,” I said.

  “Need a sports car.” He smiled. The woman acted bored and drummed her fingers on the counter. I pegged them as business associates and bed partners. She wore a wedding ring. He didn’t. Not my business, but I always liked to speculate anyway.

  My cell phone pinged, so I gestured for Brent to take over and I stepped to the back to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s time. I told you it was going to be soon. I need you to come and get me.” Madeline was puffing out short breaths, the breathy huffs were loud in my ears.

  “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “I don’t know. Seven minutes? Five? Just get here.”

  I hung up and gestured for Brent to step away from the couple.

  “Madeline is in labor,” I said.

  “Cool. Congrats, man. Go on. I got it here.”

  “Yeah. Look. I need you to get that Tahoe to the right guy today. He’s a VIP and he wants that car.”

  “The one under the maple?”

  “Yeah. Look. Make sure he gets it.” I laid the Winstons on the counter. “Put these in the glove box.”

  “Fine.” He turned back to the couple.

  I grabbed his arm. “Brent, listen. It is very important that car goes to the right customer. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Geez. I got it. Tahoe. Tree shit. Right guy. Go. Have a baby. I’ve got work to do.”

  I stood there for a minute, wondering how angry Madeline would be if I waited until the Tahoe was off the lot before picking her up. Brent was back at the counter with the couple, his head bent over the paper forms I still hadn’t gotten around to computerizing yet. The Tahoe was where it was supposed to be, Brent would make sure the smokes were in the glove box, and Madeline was in labor. Shit.

  I walked back outside, climbed into my car, and drove toward home.

  4

  BRENT

  Clyde left in a hot panic. Can’t say I blame him. I can’t even believe he had space in his head for some special reservation when his wife is in labor, but I guess if it were my name on the business, I’d want everything to go right, too.

  Before the dust even settled from Clyde’s sprint out the door, the Griffin family came back. Same dumpy Midwestern foursome pulling their same beige luggage and their same fat asses. This couldn’t be good.

  “Mr. Griffin, you’re back,” I said, trying to be cheery before the shit storm I knew was coming my way.

  “That car you rented me,” he said. “It smells.” Then he added, “Bad,” in case I thought he’d come back to compliment us on the floral scent of our air fresheners. We don’t use air fresheners. You get what you get.

  “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “Smells like ass,” the boy said. His mother immediately shushed him with a small slap to the back of the head. I could see the embarrassment on her face for her son and her husband. I could imagine the argument in the van before turning around, her all, “It’s fine, just drive,” and him all, “I won’t pay for a car that smells like ass.”

  “We want a new one,” he said. He stuck out his chin, such as it was, and acted entitled. I took a deep breath, working hard to keep it together.

  “Of course. No problem.” I sounded less like a smiley glad hand and more like a waiter about to go back to the kitchen and spit in his food. I checked the roster of vehicles, of which there aren’t many on our lot. No more minivans. “I’m afraid, Mr. Griffin,” I started. I saw him already tense up, planning his rebuttal. “That was our last minivan.”

  “That’s not my problem.” His face glowed red and tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead all the way back across his dome. “The van you gave me smells like something died in the air conditioning unit and it’s obvious someone was smoking in there. We specifically asked for a non-smoking car.”

  He hadn’t, since that wasn’t one of our options, but the customer is always right. Often times a humongous dick, but a
lways right.

  “Well,” I said as I checked the list of cars. “I can give you a four door sedan.”

  “No, that won’t do. We need the storage. Can you not see the bags we have with us?”

  “Sean . . .,” his wife tried to calm him down, but not trying very hard in case he turned his anger on her. She knew the drill.

  “No, Linda, we won’t be treated like this. This is our vacation. I’m not driving around in a car that smells like a public toilet and I’m not driving around in some Japanese shoebox. We’re from goddamn Detroit for Christ sake.”

  “Kids, you come with me,” Linda said as she ushered the kids away from Daddy’s tantrum.

  I balled up my fists, let them loose again and tried talking myself out of using them on this jerk wad. I promised Clyde I wouldn’t have another incident like that again. The last guy I punched sued us. Almost won too, if he hadn’t been drunk. After that, Clyde installed the security camera, but I think that was as much to check up on me than any rude customers.

  “I want that one,” he said. He pointed a fat finger at the black Chevy Tahoe I hadn’t had a chance to move yet.

  “I do have an SUV you can have, Mr. Griffin. Let me just get it from around back and run it through the washer—”

  “I want that one.” God, throw a diaper on this guy and he’d be a three hundred pound baby.

  “That one is already reserved.”

  “Again, not my problem. You said you had another one, give it to them. I’ve already been delayed enough. I’m not going to sit around your shitty airport while you wash another stink bomb of a car when a perfectly good, clean one is right fucking there.”

  I saw the mom put a hand over one of each kid’s ears.

  I wanted to punch this guy more than I’ve ever wanted to punch someone before in my life, but not more than I wanted to keep my job, so fuck it. Let him have the damn thing. The sooner he left, the sooner I could wash up the other Tahoe and give Clyde’s special repeat customer guy a twin of the Tahoe outside.