Their seats were towards the back of the plane. As she made her way down the narrow center aisle, she remembered an episode from The Beverly Hillbillies when Jed and his family-took their first flight in an airplane. They thought they were on a really fast bus when the plane taxied for takeoff. The studio audience laughed with delight, because they all knew what was coming. She promised herself that when the plane left the ground, she would yawn with boredom.
They took adjoining seats, stowed their bags, and fastened their seat belts.
The plane rumbled as it taxied down the runway picking up speed. She glanced at the other passengers, looking for signs of distress. A few clutched their armrests and closed their eyes, but for the most part her fellow passengers were calm. The plane left the ground with a lurch that made her stomach flop. She casually looked out the window and opened her mouth wide.
Once they were in the air, the stewardess demonstrated what everyone should do in case of emergency Munch listened intently straining against her seat belt.
"Your first flight?" Blackstone asked.
"That obvious, huh?"
"Most people ignore the safety instructions," he said.
"Seems to me that this could be the most important part."
"You've got a good point there."
The stewardess finished her spiel and all the passengers settled down to wait. Munch watched out the window until clouds obscured the view.
An issue of National Geographic was stuffed in the pocket of the seat in front of her. She pulled it out. The cover art showed the chain of evolution with the classic series of drawings beginning with an ape on all fours and ending with an upright man: the ever-popular Homo erectas. Deb would have fun with that one, she thought. The accompanying article, written by an anthropologist and entitled "The Communicators" was interesting.
The authors theory was that humans had evolved to become communicators. The article went on to list the supporting evidence. Homo sapiens have over a hundred muscles in their faces, she read. That was more than any other animal, even chimpanzees. Humans have very little facial hair, the article also pointed out. This is so that the facial expressions can be read more easily Homo sapiens also have relatively fragile skin, no fangs or claws, and are weaker than any other animal of comparable stature. In other words, if humans didn't communicate, they were screwed.
Munch thought about how bikers had jumped the evolutionary boat with their beards, leather clothing, chain belts, and buck knives. Still, there was something about all that dark power that was very seductive.
Blackstone was working a crossword puzzle. She looked over his shoulder and said, "Three down is Avon. The clue is ‘The Bard's river'. Thats gotta be Shakespeare?
Blackstone made a small snort of amusement as he filled in the squares. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"
She felt her mouth twitch into a smile.
* * *
Before leaving Los Angeles, Blackstone had also called his connection in Canyonville. As the plane taxied down the runway he thought about his brief conversation with Tom Moody
"Where are you calling from?" Moody had asked as soon as Blackstone identified himself.
"A pay phone at the airport."
"Yeah, that should be okay What's up?"
Blackstone filled him in on what had happened to Alex, how he had come to identify Munch Mancini as the woman from the morgue, and when their flight to Medford was arriving. Moody apologized for not having anyone available to pick him up at the airport.
"The feds are stonewalling us," Blackstone complained. "We're taking a lot of heat for the officer-involved shooting. I know it ties into the case they're working up at your end, but a lot of shit is being swept under the rug."
"Yeah," Moody said. "Things are heating up here.
They brought in reinforcements this morning. What does your source at the Bureau say?"
"That sort of dried up," Blackstone said.
"I'm not surprised," Moody said. "Those G live by their own rules—they get kind of spooky when they're moving in for the kill. Don't worry I've got my own way in. I'll explain when you get here."
22
BLACKSTONE AND MUNCH spent the three-hour flight going over the ground rules of their partnership. On arriving in Medford, Blackstone would avoid Munch and her friends.
"Not even a ‘How are you,"' she warned.
"What's wrong with that?" he asked.
"They'll know you're a cop. It's that in-your-face, too-cheery direct-eye-contact thing. Total giveaway"
"So you want me in the background."
"As soon as I find out anything," she said. "'1l call you. Deb doesn't have a phone in her house, so it will have to wait till I can get to a pay phone."
He gave her Moody's number. "Call me either way" he said. "Just so we keep in touch. If things start getting hinky let me know and I'll pull you out. Don't take risks, just gather information"
The plane made a wide turn and began its descent. She looked out the window and took in the breathtaking landscape of green mountains laced with wisps of clouds. They landed with a bump and she held her breath as the plane seemed to struggle to stop, the engines screaming in protest. She realized she was clutching Blackstone's arm and released him, but not before he gave her a you're-not-so-tough-after-all look. It occurred to her that the old her might have felt embarrassed by that exchange instead of secretly pleased that he noticed.
They busied themselves unhooking their seat belts and grabbing their bags from the overhead compartments. She, her duffel bag. He, a monogrammed leather carryall.
The Medford airport seethed with travelers in heavy coats and scarves. She spotted Deb and Roxanne in the queue of people waiting for the passengers to disembark. Deb's brown hair hung loose to her waist. The silver bracelets on her wrist jangled as she waved. Roxanne hung back a bit, almost as if she preferred to stay in Deb's shadow. Blackstone pushed past them without a backward glance.
The three women hugged each other fiercely mindless of the other people heading for their destinations. At first, Munch thought Deb had two black eyes. But on closer examination she realized that she was just seeing very dark circles, like smudges of charcoal, under her friends blue eyes.
Even inside the airport, it was cold. She stopped at the bathroom to pull on a second pair of jeans over the pair she was wearing. When she emerged from the bathroom, Deb nodded approvingly "You look good, partner. "
Roxanne said nothing.
"I got sober," Munch blurted out.
"Yeah, I did that once," Deb said. "Terrible accident." Roxanne and Deb laughed. Munch realized that they had no idea what she was talking about.
"No, I mean on purpose. I haven't had a drink or a drug for eight months."
"Must be about time, then." More laughter—sounding toxic and jittery.
She wanted to ask them if they'd been drinking, but realized that was a stupid question.
"Well, come on then," Deb said. "We got an hour-and-a-half drive to Canyonville. I hope you brought money" She looked at Roxanne and the two of them laughed.
"Or we ain't getting out of the parking lot," Roxanne said.
Roxanne and Deb led the way Up ahead, she noticed the crowd part with angry mumbling. She turned to pinpoint the cause of this reaction and saw a trio of black men in the nucleus of the mob. The three were dressed in long coats and superfly hats. She realized that they were the only black faces in the airport.
"Boy did you make a wrong tum," someone in the crowd said.
"You ain't in Kansas now," another voice chimed in. The air was close with the threat of violence. Munch looked at her companions, but they were oblivious to what was unfolding. The black men regrouped, forming a circle so that their eyes pointed out to every direction. They spoke quietly between themselves, faces impassive, eyes never leaving the crowd. She could only imagine what they were saying to each other. Were they as surprised as she to find hatred flourishing in this remote place? Or worse, were t
hey not surprised at all?
She wanted to say something—to protest—but she didn't. It wasn't really her business, was it? She hurried to catch up with her friends. The scene haunted her as they left the terminal. If blacks were treated this badly in a public place, what must it be like for Boogie? Maybe Canyonville was different. Tux's rusty white Ford pickup was parked at an angle in the parking lot, taking up two parking spaces. The doors weren't locked. Roxanne opened the passenger door and invited Munch to climb in. The door panels were missing, as were much of the inner mechanisms. Pieces of wood held the windows up.
Deb had to open the door to pay the parking attendant with the five-dollar bill that Munch dug out of her pocket.
"We better get gas, too," Deb said.
"The gauge reads half-full," Munch said.
Deb laughed. "Oh, shit, that hasn't worked since he's had the truck."
Munch fished out a twenty and handed it to Deb. This was going to be an expensive vacation, she realized. She sat between her two friends. The upholstery was stiff with cold and ripped in the middle of the seat. It pinched her butt, even through the layers of her jeans. She knew it was no accident that she was seated in the middle. Next time she would jockey for a window seat. Deb pulled into a gas station and came to a lurching stop at the self·serve pump.
"What's the story with you and Lisa?" Deb asked as she filled the tank.
"I was all set to take Asia and Lisa up and split on me.
"Sounds like we need to have a word with that cunt," Deb said, finishing with the pump nozzle and screwing the gas cap back on.
"I'll be happy to just get the baby back. By the way what was your ol' man doing in L.A.?" Munch asked as they got on their way
Deb snuck a sideways look at Roxanne. "He had business there. I'm not supposed to say what."
Roxanne looked out the window.
"What kind of business?" Munch asked.
"Club business. He's a Gypsy Joker," Deb added proudly
Munch whistled. " thought the Angels killed them all off."
"Not all of them," Deb said. "The Oakland chapter relocated up here."
"Welcome to the country" Roxanne said.
Munch drew her coat tighter.
* * *
It took Blackstone two hours to complete the journey to Canyonville in his rented sedan. The town had one main street ending in a truck depot. On this boulevard were two bars, the Snakepit being one of them. There was also a market, a Western clothing store, and a tattoo parlor. He stopped at a market, noting that it offered ammo and live bait for sale in addition to produce. A sheepskin-lined suede coat displayed in the window of the shop next door caught his eye. He wished Moody had warned him how cold it was here. His gabardine sports Jacket wasn't getting the job done.
As he walked inside the market, customers and staff alike viewed him with interest.
"Can I help you?" a large woman behind the counter asked.
"You got a pay phone?" he asked.
"Sure, honey" She directed him to the back of the store. "Anything else you need, don't be afraid to ask." He pulled out his notebook, found Tom Moody's number, and dialed it. While the phone rang, he glanced up at the bulletin board over his head and read the flyers posted up there. The first one warned of a Jewish banking conspiracy. The second invited him to discover the truth about his Aryan heritage.
Moody answered his phone, "Sheriff's Department."
"It's me," Blackstone said. "I'm in town, at the market, freezing my ass off."
Moody chuckled. "I'm just two miles west of you," he said and went on to describe a yellow house with a white jimmy parked in the driveway "I'll be waiting."
"Anything new on the—"
"Let's talk in person," Moody said, cutting him off. "I'll see you when you get here."
Moody like most resident deputies in small towns, operated out of his house. His was a one-man show
Blackstone followed the directions he'd been given and parked in the street. Moody's house was a simple one-story building on a half-acre of land. The area between the road and the house had been cleared of shrubbery Two large fir trees dominated the back yard. Blackstone stepped carefully through the mud to reach the front porch. A portly man in uniform answered his knock.
"You must be Blackstone," the man said, gripping Blackstones hand briefly "Moody here." The deputy guided Blackstone inside and bade him sit. The front room of the house was similar to cop shops everywhere—a desk piled high with paperwork, a bulletin board full of composite sketches and photographs. The smell of coffee brewing wafted in from the kitchen.
Moody wore a dark brown uniform with light brown piping up the leg. A silver star hung over his left pocket; his name tag above the right. When he sat, his pantlegs hiked up to reveal dark brown Wellington boots. Blackstone eyed the footwear enviously feeling the cold dampness creeping through his socks and loafers.
Moody pushed aside the Stetson hat resting on top of his desk and fished out some paperwork. It was the copy of the FBI firearms alert memo. "Like I told you before, I called them in three weeks ago and told them where all those weapons were. They got all the pay phones trapped and traced," Moody said, staring at Blackstone with bright blue eyes set in a ruddy face. As he talked, he constantly smoothed the thin strands of his white-blond hair.
His gun belt was all but lost under his prominent gut. "They really have a hard-on for this one," he added.
"You seem to know a lot about what's going on on the inside," Blackstone said.
Moody shrugged and lit a cigar. " got my sources." He opened his desk and pulled out the photograph of Jonathan Garillo. "This guy might have been around," he said. " can't be sure. All these hippies look alike after a while. But there's something familiar about the eyes. I think he wore a beard when he was up here, and he didn't have that messy hole in his head. You say he had the number to the Snakepit in his wallet?"
"That's right." Blackstone poured himself a cup of coffee. "My uh," he paused, struggling with the word to use to describe Munch. He hated to call her a snitch, but "concerned citizen" didn't quite cut it either. "The Mancini woman, Munch, confirmed the link between Garillo and local individuals. She also had physical evidence that tied together the feds' case, the stolen weaponry and your resident bikers."
"Had?" Moody asked.
"There was a complication," Blackstone said.
Moody nodded thoughtfully "So you want to clear your homicide," he said, running his hand over his scalp.
"That's part of it," Blackstone said. "I also want to vindicate my department."
"And you don't trust the feds to have your departments best interests at heart?"
This time Blackstone laughed. "That goes without saying."
"Where do you want to start?" Moody asked.
"The Mancini woman is going to check in with us when she can get to a phone," Blackstone said.
"You gave her my number?" Moody asked.
"Yes."
"That might have been a mistake," Moody said.
"The feds have traps on all the pay phones. Speaking of which, let's find out what they're up to."
"You going to talk to your source?" Blackstone asked.
Moody chuckled again. "Something like that."
Moody took Blackstone down the hallway of his house. After passing one bedroom, Moody unlocked the door to a second room. Blackstone was stunned to find an array of sophisticated electronic equipment. Two out of three reel-to-reel tape recorders slowly revolved. A shortwave radio set crackled. Another table was covered with Teletype machines and an electronic typewriter. Moody even had a videocassette recorder.
A red light mounted in front of the third tape recorder lit. There was a click as the machine came to life and its reels began to spin.
"Voice-activated," Moody said proudly
"Whose voice?" Blackstone asked.
"Why don't we find out?" Moody said, sitting before the tape recorders. "Let's see what our government servants are up to." He tw
isted a volume knob and voices filled the room, familiar voices. They heard chairs scrape and throats clear.
"How was your vacation, sir?" Blackstone recognized Claire's distinctive voice.
"Wonderful," a man's voice answered. "Whats the latest?"
"That's the boss—the director out of Sacramento," Moody explained. "He came up this morning. They've been waiting for him to get back. He wanted to be in on the raid."
"We're set for tomorrow night," Claire's voice answered. "Bolt reports that all the principals will be gathered for their monthly meeting. "
"What about the money?" the director asked.
"Brian Taxjford is driving up from Los Angeles with the cash. We expect him to arrive around midnight and then its a go."
"How about the L.A. end of things?" the director asked. " understand there was some trouble down there."
"Nothing but. We've kept a lid on it," she said. " had the woman who screwed up things for us at the morgue remanded into custody "
"What about the shooting incident?"
"For now the LAPD think it was one of their own. The human rights activists are up in arms. That should keep them busy for a while."
"What really happened?"
"Willis shot a cop. Tuxford obviously decided that it went against his interests for Willis to be taken alive."
"What about that homicide dick? Blackwood?"
"Blackstone," Claire corrected.
"Are you sure he won 't make any trouble? I've heard he's pretty sharp."
"Oh, he's very clever," Claire said. "Just ask him."
Moody and Blackstone heard guffaws. Blackstone's grip tightened on the pen in his hand.
"Keep me informed," the one Moody identified as the director said.
They heard sounds of doors opening and shutting, feet walking.
"Bolt is the code name of their snitch," Moody explained.
"How did you bug their headquarters?" Blackstone asked.
"They set up shop in the Motel 7 on the interstate. I've had those rooms wired since I took over here," he explained. " like to know whats going on in my town." He lit a cigar and then pointed it at Blackstone to emphasize his words. "I might have been born at night," he added, "but it wasn't last night."
No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 17
