Bad Penny

by John D. Brown

  About a half a mile ahead, an SUV was pulled off to the shoulder in the other lane, pointed their way. It was white. It looked like it had a light rack on the roof.

  Frank’s blood began pumping. “Good night,” he said.

  “What?” Sam asked. Then he saw the SUV.

  It was too late for them to pull off to the side of the road. Frank threw himself to the floor between the front seats and crawled to the middle aisle.

  “Is it a cop?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, boy,” Sam said.

  A second passed, then another. Plenty of time to travel that distance at the speed they were going.

  Sam started to laugh.

  “What?” Frank asked.

  “Department of transportation,” Sam said.

  Relief washed through Frank, but he stayed where he was.

  About two minutes later Sam said, “I think you can get up.”

  Frank popped his head up and looked back at an empty road. “How much farther until we get to this Korea guy?”

  “He’s just this side of Lander. I give it about ten minutes.”

  Frank stayed in the middle seat and scanned the road. They skirted round the tip of the Wind Rivers and found a lot more green on this side. There were a lot more hills and bends too. And every corner they went around, every rise they topped, his heart thumped, waiting to see a cop. Periodically, he looked behind, knowing he was going to see flashing red and blue.

  They entered irrigated country. Instead of sagebrush, fields of late-season meadow grass ran up to the hills, hundreds of acres of them, all ready to be cut. Farm houses dotted the valley. Sam kept trying to make a call. At last he got service and his phone dialed.

  A few rings later, Korea picked up.

  “Just passed the Wamsley’s place,” Sam said.

  A tinny voice replied, “We’re in the shed.”

  “And Yolanda?” Sam asked.

  “She’s under the knife,” Korea said. “I hope you’ve said your prayers today.”

  “Tell me she’ll fly.”

  Korea just laughed and ended the call.

  Sam looked over at Frank. “We’ll be fine. Really.”

  They were going to go up in a plane held together with bubble gum and baling wire.

  Off to their right, a farm boy rode a four-wheeler over a field of mown meadow hay. Two scruffy black and white border collies chased after him; they were stretched out, running at a full gallop, looking like they were having the time of their lives. “When I get reincarnated,” Frank said, “I want to come back as a farm dog.”

  “We’re not going to need reincarnation.”

  “I’m just putting in my order,” Frank said.

  About a minute later they came to a dirt road that shot off from the state route and led to a house and cluster of barns and other buildings about a half a mile off the road. Sam slowed and turned onto the road.

  The ranch looked like most of those in Wyoming. Wide fields to grow hay and alfalfa for winter feed. Some corrals and a barn. Not too many animals—the cattle would still be up in their summer range. There were two large sheds—one for tractors and other vehicles. Another was clearly a small airplane shed made out of corrugated tin and fiberglass. Beyond the buildings stood a pole with an orange wind sock flapping in the wind.

  They drove into the yard, scattering some chickens and two peacocks. They passed a small stack of old hay bales, a hay wagon with tires that looked like they belonged on an old Ford pickup. The house was an old red brick thing with huge wooden butterflies decorating the gable. A dog rose up from the yard to come greet them.

  The wind sock stood at the end of a dirt runway that had been leveled in the middle of the sagebrush. It was covered with bits of small desert grass and scrubby weeds. Sam drove round to the airplane shed. The door was open, the airplane inside. It was an old Cessna 182, with the wing on top and fixed landing gear underneath. One of the wheels was missing its cover. The plane was white with a yellow cowling from the prop to the windshield and a brown stripe running the length of the fuselage—the colors for the University of Wyoming Cowboys.

  Standing in front of the plane were two men, riveting a sheet of aluminum onto the wing.

  The men were in their early forties. The skinny scraggly one wore a cowboy hat and looked like he’d been baking about a hundred years in the sun. The big guy looked like he might have killed a few people in his day. He wore bib overalls and boots. His goatee was a grungy mess. There was a tattoo on one meaty arm. What was it with Mormons and ex-cons?

  “Did he just get out of supermax?” Frank asked.

  “Who?”

  “Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “He’s a teddy bear.”

  “Right,” Frank said.

  Sam parked the van and they both got out. The Mafia hit man with the rivet gun finished and inspected his work. The skinny piece of leather shrugged, clearly not knowing if their wing repair would hold.

  “So where’s Korea?” Frank asked.

  “Right there,” Sam said. “Brother Korea’s the big one. The other one is Brother Young.”

  “Those two are Mormons?”

  “Card carrying.”

  “I didn’t think Mormons came in that variety.”

  “What kind of varieties did you think there were?”

  “I figured you had your basic cookie-baking type and then the guys wearing suits on bicycles.”

  “Well, now you can add the Brother Korea and Brother Young types to your collection.”

  Frank grunted.

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Sam said.

  A few hours ago Frank had been trying to convince Ms. Mary of Cowboy Donut of that very thing. Now he wasn’t too sure. Either way, he supposed the Church authorities were happy these two were way up here in Lander where they were out of the public eye. See them come knocking on your door with a Bible, and you’d be liable to get your gun.

  “He doesn’t look too Asian,” Frank said.

  “Why would he be Asian?”

  “Well, I thought Korea . . .”

  “No, not Korea, the country. It’s Pinto Correia, with a C. Correia,” he said, rolling his r’s. “He’s Portuguese.”

  “Italian mafia Portuguese?”

  “His family are all dairy farmers in California.”

  “At least that’s what he told you.” This guy was surely some mobster in the witness protection program.

  “I helped him with his genealogy. His people came from the Azores islands.”

  “Right,” Frank said. He was sure the Marshalls had done a real bang up job on this guy’s backstory.

  He looked down at his phone. No call or text from Kim, nothing from Tony. It was 4:07 p.m., about an hour and a half since he’d gotten the call from Ed. That was ninety minutes of travel time for Ed. The circle was widening. Ed could be 120 miles from Rock Springs in any direction. Three times 120 squared—what was that? He brought up his phone, did the math. 45,000 square miles, give or take. Every minute widened that radius by another mile or so. Another hour and the circle would encompass—he did a little more math—an additional 80,000 square miles.

  They needed to get in the air. Any longer and this was going to be searching for a hair in a haystack. Frank said, “Tony’s waiting. Whatever kind of Mormon thing you got going up here, as long as that plane flies and these two don’t carry garrotes, I’m good. Let’s go talk to yonder brethren.”

  Frank and Sam walked toward the airplane shed. A big golden retriever trotted out from behind the house and barked. Sam called out to him by name, and Henry the dog switched to happy tail-wagging shimmy mode. “Come on,” Sam said, and the dog ran up to him for an old friend pet and scratch.

  “You’d think you’re some long lost uncle,” Correia said.

  Sam gave Henry one last pat, then stood. “Pinto,” he said and held up his hand for a homey hand shake.

  But the supermax guy was a hugger. As was the baked cowboy. There were back slaps and m
an hugs all around. A real love fest. Then Sam introduced Frank.

  Yonder brethren were cordial and shook hands. And Frank swore he’d met this Pinto fella in a bar somewhere as a bouncer.

  Pinto turned to Sam. “So what’s with the 911?”

  Sam filled them in on the details, running through them like he might a balance sheet, not missing a thing. Henry stood the whole time with the men, nosing a hand every now and again for some happy scratching. When Sam finished, Pinto said to Frank, “Where’s your sister?”

  Frank held up his phone. “Not responding.”

  “You sure you don’t want to call the cops?”

  “Oh, I’ll call them. But not just yet. Dimes to doughnuts Ed has already convinced Tony he has his mother. So if I sic the cops on them, the girl won’t say anything because she’s illegal, and Tony, thinking his mom’s life is on the line, will swear up and down he and Ed are long-time friends, and that he and I had an argument or it’s a misunderstanding or whatever. And then what’s the cop going to do?”

  “They’ve got protocol for suspected kidnappings.”

  “They’re going to let him go. And Ed will know we called the cops and begin to think about liabilities and all those lonely Wyoming roads stretching out miles and miles into nowhere. No, Ed and I need a little one-on-one.”

  “How do you know they haven’t switched cars?” Heber asked.

  “If they steal a car, somebody reports it. Then the cops would be looking for them for sure. That doesn’t reduce their risk.”

  Pinto nodded. “So let’s say we do find them. What then? Buzzing around in the air won’t do you one lick of good. We’ll just follow them until the plane runs out of gas.”

  “I know,” Frank said. “This operation requires someone on the ground.”

  “I can drive,” Sam volunteered.

  “Naw,” Pinto said. “Two sets of eyes are better than one. You and Frank both know what you’re looking for. You both should be in the plane.” He looked over at Heber.

  Heber nodded. “It’s way too windy for this cowboy’s stomach anyway. You guys go up in Pinto’s tin can; I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “Use the minivan,” Sam said.

  Heber said, “This is going to cost you a plate of those pink frosted cookies.”

  “I’ll throw in some sprinkles,” Sam said.

  Heber’s weathered face cracked a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

  Was Sam slipping something weird into the cookies? Is that what was going on? Like narcotics on postage stamps, except the Mormons were putting it in the cookies? Frank said, “I think a support vehicle is a good idea. But Heber’s going to fall behind. Way behind.”

  “Depends on where we find them,” Pinto said, “if we find them.”

  “Even if Heber’s right there,” Frank said, “I don’t want you guys getting involved.”

  “So what are you going to do? Parachute in and cling to the roof of the car? This ain’t James Bond.”

  “Of course not. So we spot them and fly on ahead. You drop me off, and I take it from there. No reason for you to be involved past that point.”

  Pinto nodded. “That could work.” The other two seemed to agree. “Of course, if these guys are as bad as you say they are, you going to need a gun.”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t have a gun. Can’t. One of those rights I forfeited when I decided to join the felon club.”

  “You got a stick?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Frank said.

  “One mind, any weapon, is that it?” Pinto asked.

  Frank shrugged. “Basically.”

  “Yeah,” Pinto said, clearly not buying it. In fact, Frank was picking up a bit of general wariness and suspicion from Pinto about the whole situation. He was obviously still assessing whether or not he could trust this ex-con Sam had dragged up to his front door.

  Pinto looked over at Heber. Heber shrugged. Something was decided between the two of them without any words being spoken, and then Pinto said, “You need anything?”

  “I’m good to go,” Heber said and patted his pocket.

  Pinto nodded. “I’m not. Wait here a minute.”

  He walked over to his garage, opened the small swinging door beside the main rolling door, and walked inside. A few moments later he came back out, holding two extra semi-automatic magazines, and shut the door behind him. He slipped the magazines into one of his copious bib overall pockets. Frank looked to see where Pinto’s holster was, but whatever he was carrying, it was well hidden under the yards of fabric required to cover the big man.

  When he returned, Frank said, “Sam’s got a pair of binoculars in the van. We’re going to need another pair.”

  “Already have one in the plane.”

  “Then let me get Sam’s atlas.”

  “Already on it,” Sam said. He hurried back to the van and fetched the binoculars and the atlas.

  Frank looked at the time on his phone. 4:16. Another nine minutes had ticked by. He looked at Pinto and Heber. “Burning daylight.”

  “Roger that,” Pinto said.

  Sam handed his keys and a credit card to Heber. “For gas,” he said.

  Heber took the keys and card.

  “I appreciate your help in this matter,” Frank said.

  “Well, we haven’t done anything yet,” Pinto said. “We’ll see if you’re thankful come nightfall.”

  “Okay,” Sam said.

  “All right,” Heber said.

  “Ladies,” Pinto said, “let’s see if Yolanda’s in the mood to fly.”

  8

  Yolanda

  PINTO MOTIONED AT the Cessna and said, “Each of you take a strut.”

  The Cessna 182 had one wing that crossed over the top. Under each side of the wing, a strut connected to the fuselage. Frank took one strut, Heber the other. There were words painted on the cowling behind the propeller in a cursive script; they said, “Reach For the Sky.”

  Frank thought they could be motivational. Or they could be referring to a good old-fashioned Western holdup.

  Pinto went to the front and lifted up the end of a red tow bar. It looked like the long skinny version one of those old push mowers, except instead of holding rolling blades, its two-fingered claw held the nose gear just above the wheel covering. Pinto threw a lever to lock the claw in place, then grabbed the handle with both hands and leaned back.

  Yolanda moved forward. Frank and Heber helped a little, pushing on the struts, but Pinto did all the work. He pulled the plane out onto the wide gravel drive and faced her toward the dirt runway past the house and barns, then threw the tow bar in the plane behind the back seat. Pinto pointed at Sam. “You ride shotgun. Frank, why don’t you sit in the back, a bit kitty-corner to even us out.”

  Frank went around to the passenger’s side door and noticed the section of aluminum Pinto and Heber had been riveting on when he’d first rolled into the yard. Gum and baling wire. “What happened here?” he said.

  “Buzzard,” Pinto said. “Should have seen him. He was a big old boy. A gust brought him right up into me.” Pinto shook his head. “What kind of idiot hits a buzzard?”

  “Is it going to hold?”

  “I certainly hope so,” he said.

  Frank pictured the wing coming off and them falling from the sky, but he climbed into the back seat anyway. Pinto took his position behind the wheel in a seat that was adjusted lower than the passenger’s seat and scooted farther back to accommodate the man’s height. When he settled in, the leg of his overall hitched up a bit to reveal a portion of an ankle holster. So Pinto was a leg man. Or maybe that was just the backup. You could hide a whole lot of ordinance in those overalls.

  Sam took the seat in front of Frank. Then there was a flurry of action, and Henry jumped in, climbed over Sam, and took a sitting position in the back seat next to Frank.

  Frank looked over at Henry. Henry looked back. He was sitting prim and polite. But then he couldn’t contain his excitement. He grinne
d, shivered with joyful expectation, and thumped a happy tail. All that was probably Woofish for “dude, we’re in a plane!” Then Henry quieted again and focused forward like he was just one of the guys.

  “We taking the dog?” Frank asked.

  “No reason to leave him here to be bored,” Pinto said. “He usually sits up front.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. He’d known about teams that had K-9s attached. Heck, there’d been a Belgian Malinois named Cairo with the SEALs that had dropped in on Osama Bin Laden at his Pakistani compound. Cairo had gone in completely suited up: protective vest, Doggles (goggles for canines), and an ear piece. Henry didn’t look like one of those serious dogs with mad warrior skills. He looked more like a party dog. Like if they went down, he’d do it saying “duuuude” in his own happy dialect.

  Outside the plane, Heber gave them a two-fingered wave and headed for the van. Up front, Pinto checked his controls. The plane was immaculate inside. It smelled clean and pretty, almost as if a woman had been in here. Up front, a toy fairy with lacy wings hung from the ceiling. She was dressed in a green leaf outfit with the top of an acorn for a hat.

  “Nice fairy,” Frank said.

  “Isn’t she,” Pinto replied.

  Frank could not figure this man out. Affixed to the wall above the passenger’s door was a small framed photo of a pretty woman. She was Black. She had a fine smile and luminous eyes. Maybe Pinto hung the fairy for her. Maybe it was her fairy to begin with. Or maybe Pinto just had a weird side.

  Pinto’s checklist was laminated and inserted into a holder that kept it right in front of him. He primed the engine with three pumps, turned his beacon on, then turned the ignition. The motor kicked to life. Sounded like a lower pitched lawn mower. He radioed out a call and fiddled with a few more knobs and ran up the rpms. “Here we go,” he said.

  Behind them, Heber started up the van and rolled out of the yard.

  Pinto pushed in the throttle, the whine of the propeller climbed, and the plane started to move through the yard toward the dirt and weed runway. The wind was blowing the grass out in the fields, rolling it like waves. The windsock flapped, showing the wind was coming from the west.