Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

The phone rang again.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Kinsolving? This is Simon Teach, how are you?"

  "Very well, thanks."

  "I'd just like to confirm a couple of reports I have from various sources. I've heard that Peter Martindale has settled your suit, is that correct?"

  "He's settled it on our terms," Sandy said.

  "For eighty-five thousand and a public admission of guilt?"

  "That's correct."

  "Good. The other report I have is that you and Mrs…the lady are getting married."

  "That's correct, too." What the hell, Sandy thought; why not have a little coverage? "And you're invited. The day after tomorrow at six, at what used to be the Larsen vineyard."

  "May I bring my photographer?"

  "If we can have copies of her shots."

  "I'll arrange it. See you then."

  Sandy hung up.

  "Who was that?" Cara asked.

  "Simon Teach."

  "You invited him?"

  "Why not? Do you mind?"

  "Well, he's a little oily, but I suppose it will be all right."

  "We'll get some photographs for our album, anyway. Sweetheart, everything finally seems to be going the way it's supposed to. Isn't it great?"

  "What about Peter?"

  "What about him? We've just rubbed his nose in it pretty badly. Maybe he's learned not to mess with us."

  Cara looked out the window at the view over the vineyard. "I hope you're right," she said.

  CHAPTER 50

  Simon Teach was not without gall, a characteristic which he regarded as essential to his chosen profession, so he felt no compunction whatever about telephoning Peter Martindale.

  "Peter, it's Simon, how are you?"

  "You have a nerve calling me, you little weasel, after what you've written about me."

  "Dear Peter, if you'd simply reread what I've written you'd see that it could have been much, much worse. Believe me, I have been very kind to you in the paper the past couple of weeks." There was a silence at the other end of the line that encouraged Simon to continue. "By the way, I thought your copy for the ad was brilliant; struck just the right tone."

  "Did you?"

  "Oh, yes; I don't think this nonsense is going to hurt your business in the least."

  "Well, Simon, I do hope you're right. Now, I'm off to L.A., and I have to make an eleven o'clock flight this morning, so what can I do for you?"

  "I don't suppose you're attending the nuptials this evening, are you?"

  "Simon, please don't be arch; it's unbecoming."

  "Sorry, Peter, it's just that my editor has demanded that I ask you for comment on the marriage of Sandy Kinsolving to your former wife."

  "Of course, be glad to comment. Got your pencil ready?"

  "I'm ready."

  "Please note this exactly as I speak it."

  "I won't misquote you, Peter."

  "Very well, here's my quote."

  Simon held the receiver away from his ear, but he could still hear the shouting clearly.

  "I wish the happy fucking couple every fucking happiness!!!" Then the voice moderated, "Have you got that, Simon?"

  "Yes, Peter, I have it."

  "Good, run it without the fuckings, will you?"

  "Of course, Peter."

  "'Bye. I'm off to L.A. for a couple of days."

  "What for, may I ask?"

  "I'm lecturing at the Arts Alliance."

  "Have a nice trip, Peter."

  "Oh, I will, believe you me."

  Shortly after 3:00 p.m. Elmer "Shorty" Barnum sat in a beatup leather chair in his tin shed office at Santa Monica Airport and worried. Shorty ran a jack-of-all-trades air service-air taxi, basic and advanced instruction, instrument instruction-whatever anybody wanted, and things were not good. His airport rent was due, he owed his maintenance man twelve hundred bucks, and he was a payment behind on his aircraft loan. What Shorty needed to get out from under was three or four charters that week, and the phone had not been ringing. The phone rang.

  "Barnum Flying Service, speak to me."

  "Mr. Barnum?"

  "Call me Shorty."

  "Shorty, my name is Prendergast. I understand you have a very nice Beech Baron with long range tanks for rent, is that correct?"

  "Depends on what your logbook looks like, and, of course, a check ride." Funny accent, not quite American; Canadian, maybe?

  "No, I want you to fly the airplane."

  "Then the answer is yes, I have such an airplane, and it's in top shape."

  "Are you available at around eight p.m. this evening for a flight to the San Francisco area and back?"

  "Yes sir, I am available."

  "What is your charge for such a trip?"

  "You coming back tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "Three-fifty an hour for me and the airplane; fifty bucks an hour for any waiting time."

  "I'm paying cash."

  "In that case, I can manage three twenty-five an hour, but the waiting time's the same." Shorty held his breath.

  "That will be satisfactory."

  "Fine. What airport are we going into? I'll need to file a flight plan."

  "Why?"

  "Let me explain. I normally fly under instrument flight rules-that way, if we run into some cloud we can legally fly through it, and the air traffic controllers will give us radar separation from other aircraft. It's easier than flying under visual flight rules, which is what we'd have to do if I don't file a flight plan."

  "Shorty, are you telling me that you're refusing to fly without a flight plan tonight?"

  "Well, I guess I can if I have to."

  "This is my party, so let's do it my way."

  "I don't guess you want me to fly low over the water and then drop a bag of something on some dirt strip, do you?"

  "Shorty, this is entirely legitimate, but it's also highly confidential; do I make myself understood?"

  "Mr. Prendergast, I'll see you at eight this evening. Bring money."

  "Fear not, Shorty."

  Guests began arriving shortly after six, and Sandy and Cara greeted them on the steps of the house. There was a bar set up on the front porch, and the vineyard's wines, old and new, were prominently displayed.

  It was some time after seven before the judge called for silence and began reading the marriage ceremony. Five minutes later, Sandy and Cara were man and wife, and her previous married name had been forever obliterated.

  At that moment, the desk clerk on duty at the Bel-Air Hotel looked up to see Peter Martindale walk into the lobby. She was surprised to see him, since his room was at the extreme north end of the hotel-he always requested that area-and he would normally have driven his car to that end and parked near his room.

  "Good evening," Martindale said.

  "Good evening, Mr. Martindale. I hope you've had a good day."

  "A tiring day, my dear," Martindale replied wearily "I'm just going to have a bite from room service and curl up with the TV. Would you please hold my calls? On no account do I wish to be disturbed."

  "Of course, Mr. Martindale."

  A little after eight, Shorty Barnum looked up to see a tall man wearing a black raincoat and a soft felt hat standing in the doorway of his office. He was also wearing what was almost certainly a false beard and a wig that protruded from under the hat. "You Mr. Prendergast?" Shorty asked.

  "I am."

  "I'd like to collect my estimated bill up front, if you don't mind," Shorty said. "We can adjust the final figure when we return."

  "Of course."

  "Let's see, say two hours up and two back; how long on the ground?"

  "An hour or so."

  "Okay, say thirteen hundred up front?"

  Prendergast pulled a chair up to Shorty's desk, produced an envelope and began counting out bills, mostly twenties and fifties. Shorty was now sure the beard and wig were phony. He'd been in business for a long time, but he'd never had a customer wearing a disguise.


  "How about fifteen hundred up front?" Prendergast asked.

  "Suit yourself," Shorty replied and reached for the stack of cash.

  But Prendergast laid a hand on the cash. "First, let's talk about some other conditions of this flight, shall we?"

  Shorty sat back in his chair. "Conditions?"

  "Do you have a Mode S transponder in your aircraft?"

  "Nope, it's Mode C."

  "So your aircraft registration number won't appear on an aircraft controller's screen until you tell it to him?"

  "That's right."

  Prendergast got up, walked to the window and looked out at the runway. "Pretty dark on this field, isn't it?"

  "Well, it ain't LAX," Shorty said.

  "Shorty, when you take off, you give your tail number to the tower, don't you?"

  "That's right; in fact, I give it to the ground controller before we get cleared to taxi."

  "But at night, if the number were off by a digit or two, nobody in the tower would notice, would they?"

  "I guess not, but why would I want to give the tower a false tail number?"

  Prendergast held up the envelope. "To double your fee," he said. "Shall we make it an even three thousand?"

  Shorty peered at the man. "Where we going, Mr. Prendergast?"

  "To a private strip just north of San Francisco, Shorty, but I promise you, there will be nothing illegal about this flight, except of course our little fib about the tail number. And, as I mentioned before, this is a very confidential trip, and that means you'll answer no questions from anybody, and I mean anybody, about our trip."

  "Mister, you're telling me the God's truth about this, now? I mean, I'm not looking to have the feds confiscate my airplane."

  "I guarantee you, you'll have no problems with the feds or any other law enforcement agency."

  Shorty decided to take a chance. "Mr. Prendergast, my fee for an absolutely confidential flight and VFR at night with a phony tail number is five grand, even." Shorty set his jaw and waited.

  Prendergast tossed the envelope onto the desk. "Count it."

  CHAPTER 51

  Sandy, with considerable flourish, tugged at the corner of the cloth, and it fell away to reveal the new label of the Kinsolving Vineyards. There was enthusiastic applause.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Sandy said, "from this moment this vineyard has a new name. In the autumn, after our first harvest, we will make the first wines bearing this label, which my wife designed. Cara and I are so pleased that each of you could join us for this occasion, the beginning of a new marriage and the beginning of a new tradition in the growing and making of fine Napa Valley wines."

  More hearty applause. No one showed the slightest interest in driving back to San Francisco, so the party continued. Sandy whispered to Mike Bernini to bring more wine from the cellars.

  Shorty Barnum finished his runup and held short of the runway. "Cessna one, two, three tango foxtrot ready for takeoff," he said to Santa Monica tower. "VFR to Oakland."

  "Cessna one, two, three, tango foxtrot, cleared for takeoff," the tower responded. "After takeoff turn right to three six zero and expect vectors to the VFR corridor."

  Shorty lined up on the runway center line, did a final check of the panel, and pushed the throttles gradually forward. "Tango foxtrot rolling," he replied.

  The twin-engined aircraft quickly picked up speed, then lifted from the runway and rose above Santa Monica Beach. Shorty set eight thousand feet into the altitude preselect, turned the heading bug to three six zero degrees, and punched on the autopilot. He took his hands off the yoke, and the airplane began to fly itself. He glanced next to him at Prendergast, or whatever his name was. The man had removed his hat and the wig was now clamped onto his head by a headset.

  "That was very good, telling them you were a Cessna," Prendergast said. "Keep up the good work."

  "Sure," Shorty said, and turned his attention to looking for traffic. He did not like flying through some of the world's busiest airspace VFR, and he had on the aircraft's nav lights, its strobe lights, and its landing and taxi lights. Tonight, he wanted to be seen by everything flying. He received a vector that put him on course for Oakland, and soon he leveled off at eight thousand feet.

  Prendergast glanced at his watch by the glow of the instrument panel. "Yes, yes," he said. "Looking good."

  "I told the tower Oakland," Shorty said. "Thought that would put us generally on the right heading. Now, you want to tell me where are we going?"

  "A very nice little private field," Prendergast said, handing over a slip of paper. "These are the coordinates."

  Shorty fed the coordinates into the Global Positioning System receiver in his panel, pressed the direct button twice, checked the heading, and looked at his chart. "We'll need to fly east of our course to get around San Francisco's Class B airspace," he said. "I want to talk to as few controllers as possible, and anyway, they'd just vector us all over hell and back if we tried to fly through their airspace."

  "Good thinking, Shorty."

  "GPS puts our ETA at one hour and thirty-four minutes; we've got a little tailwind."

  "Very good."

  "You a pilot?" Shorty asked. The guy certainly knew something about flying, but he wasn't sure how much.

  Prendergast remained silent.

  "I've got some music aboard," Shorty said. "What's your pleasure?"

  "Please yourself," Prendergast replied, gazing out at the night. They were leaving the lights of LA. behind, and those of Santa Barbara lay ahead.

  Classical, Shorty figured. He switched on the radio and pressed the CD button, and behind his seat, the player loaded a CD into the remotely mounted player. His passengers always loved this. Vivaldi's Four Seasons flowed into their headsets. Shorty didn't know a damn thing about classical music, but a woman of his acquaintance had suggested a few selections.

  Prendergast nodded slowly and held up a thumb.

  He's not American, Shorty thought. He says things like "please yourself." What the hell, he was making money; what did he care if his passenger wore a false beard and didn't talk?

  Sandy moved Cara around the impromptu dance floor on the broad front porch, accompanied by a small band that Saul Winner had recommended. A few yards away, Saul himself danced, with Nicky's head on his shoulder. The party was mellowing, now, and half the guests had departed for town. Soon the others would begin to say their goodnights, and he and Cara could go to bed. Sandy was looking forward to his wedding night.

  Shorty consulted the GPS and spoke up. "Your airport is dead ahead, fifteen miles," he said.

  Prendergast, who had been sitting as stonily still as a Buddha, came to life. "The lights are pilot operated on one-two-two-point-eight," he said. "Five keys."

  Shorty dialed the frequency into the radio. "What's the name of the field?" he asked. "I want to announce our intentions to any possible traffic there."

  "No announcements," Prendergast said. "There won't be any traffic."

  "What's the field elevation?" Shorty asked.

  "I don't know; probably about the same as Napa," Prendergast replied.

  They were descending through four thousand feet over the little town now, and Shorty looked up Napa's elevation: thirty-three feet. He flipped out his speed brakes, increased his rate of descent and eased back on the throttles. Five miles later he picked up the microphone and pressed the transmit key rapidly five times.

  "There!" Prendergast said, pointing ahead and slightly to their right.

  Shorty looked out and picked up the runway lights. "How long is the runway?" he asked.

  "Thirty-five hundred, maybe four thousand feet," Prender-gast said. "You've got plenty of tarmac."

  Tarmac. Another of those non-American words.

  "Land to the northeast," Prendergast said. "The forecast winds at Napa were zero five zero at five knots."

  "Gotcha," Shorty said, then began his final checklist. He increased his rate of descent again, and the speed brakes kept him from coming
in too hot. He flipped on his landing lights and lined up with the runway. The runway numbers came into view and Shorty pulled the throttles all the way back. He made a smooth landing and applied his brakes immediately. Prendergast could be wrong about the runway length.

  "Turn right onto the runup pad at the end of the runway, then do a one-eighty and cut your engines."

  Shorty turned off the runway, spun the airplane around and shut everything down.

  Prendergast popped the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said. "Don't leave the aircraft, except to have a pee. When I get back I'll want to go immediately."

  "Gotcha," Shorty said. He eased the back of his seat into a reclining position but held his head up long enough to watch Prendergast disappear into the woods not far from the end of the runway, the rays of a flashlight bobbing ahead of him… Then he lay back and closed his eyes. Sure was peaceful out here, he thought.

  All the guests had left who were leaving. Sam Warren and his wife had retired to the guest room, and Cara was taking a bath. Sandy undressed, slipped into a dressing gown and went downstairs to turn off the lights. He walked out onto the darkened front porch and took a last look at the lovely evening. There was half a moon and it cast a beautiful light over the vineyards. He was very happy to be who he was and where he was. He turned and went back into the house, not bothering to lock the front door. Mike Bernini had told him that nobody locked their doors around here.

  He turned off the living room lights and headed for the stairs, blinking and feeling his way until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. His hand found the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and a millisecond later, something heavy and firm struck the back of his neck. He managed to hold on to the newel post for another second before it got darker, and he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 52

  Sandy's dreams were awful; they spun violently in his head, and he couldn't get make them slow down. Then his eyes opened, and he wondered where he was.

  His cheek lay against soft carpeting, and there was a large, dull pain in the back of his neck. He lifted his head, and the pain increased. He was on a strange staircase; he could feel the bannister next to him, but he couldn't see anything. There was no staircase in the New York apartment, so where could he be?