Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  Layten couldn’t have that, of course; Tim Campbell would have been tres disappointed. Accordingly, Layten had been forced to discipline Halloway, threatening to expose him as Icarus if he didn’t continue to do Layten’s bidding. Halloway didn’t like it much, but he did as he was told. He had no choice if he wanted to save his own hide.

  Things came to a head several Mondays ago when the GC-600 jetliner crashed at the Paris Air Show. As soon as Layten had heard about the crash he’d summoned Halloway to this parking lot, where he’d played his trump card. He’d offered Halloway a managerial position at Amalgamated-Landis—fat chance of that ever happening—if the man could come up with some incriminating dirt on GAT in light of the crash. A day later, the ever-gullible Halloway produced his dynamite: a memo from Don Harrison to Steve Gold admitting the GC-600 had dangerous structural flaws.

  Tim Campbell was overjoyed when Layten presented him with a copy of the memo. Tim used his influence to pressure the L. A. Gazette into immediately running the story, but then it turned out that the memo was a forgery. Tim Campbell was livid over the news, but nobody had been more flabbergasted than Layten himself. He never would have thought a little worm like Halloway could have possessed the audacity to fake the thing.

  In retrospect, however, the phony memo had more or less served its purpose, Layten now thought smugly. It had been more salt poured into GAT’s wounds.

  Layten glanced at his Rolex as Halloway’s orange Karmen Ghia clattered its godawful ugly way into the parking lot. Halloway was exactly four and a half minutes late. Yes indeed, the man was going to suffer a severe dressing-down on account of his tardiness.

  Layten waited impatiently for Halloway to spot him and drive over, parking next to the Jag. He got out of the Karmen Ghia, a short, pudgy man in his early forties, poorly dressed in a dark-blue plaid madras sports jacket, ink-stained white shirt and dark tie, and baggy chinos. Halloway had a bulbous nose, thinning gray curly hair, and a wispy beard that did nothing for his appearance and was often littered with stray crumbs of food.

  “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” Halloway said, getting into the passenger side of the Jag.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t leave,” Layten said curtly. “You’re late.”

  “I know!” Halloway nodded quickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Layten! I—I had to make sure I wasn’t being followed on my way here.”

  “Very well,” Layten said, mollified by Halloway’s meek behavior. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  Layten turned slightly in the driver’s seat, letting his seer-sucker jacket gap to allow Halloway a peek at the gun on his right hip. Halloway’s eyes widened suitably and Layten considered his point well made. Every so often, a dog had to be reminded of who was its master.

  “Now, then”—Layten nodded—”what was so urgent?”

  “They know about me,” Halloway began, clearly over-wrought.

  “Who?” Layten demanded sharply. “GAT?”

  “Yes, sir,” Halloway replied. “I went to them, sir—”

  “You went to them?” Layten exploded. “You pathetic fool!”

  “I had to, sir,” Halloway whined. “They were on to me. It was that damned forged memo!” Halloway’s eyes grew wet. “God, I never should have done it! I never should have given it to you!”

  “Spilt milk,” Layten said coldly. He was disgusted by Halloway’s emotional display. Weren’t they making men with backbone anymore? “If they’ve nabbed you, then what are you doing out of jail?”

  “They don’t want to involve the police,” Halloway said, sounding hugely relieved. “The way they see it, the damage I did them is over and done with. They feel a trial would only reopen old wounds.”

  “I see….” Layten thought about it. Yes, he supposed he would do the same if he were in Steve Gold’s and Don Harrison’s place. But now for important matters; Layten forced nonchalance into his tone as he asked, “I suppose you told them about me?”

  Halloway seemed surprised by the question. “No!” he declared. “I’d never do that, sir!”

  “They didn’t ask why you did what you did?” Layten skeptically challenged. “Who put you up to spying on their company?”

  “They accepted that I had my own motives for wanting to hurt GAT,” Halloway said simply.

  Oh, perfect! Layten thought, elated. “Well, then, that’s very good, Halloway. I must say, considering the circumstances, you showed great presence of mind to make sure that you weren’t being followed here to this meeting with me.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Halloway gushed. “But now I need your help, Mr. Layten,” Halloway blurted. “I protected you! I kept you out of it.” He paused, eyeing Layten nervously as he said, “At least I’ve kept you out of it so far.”

  Layten was vastly amused. “Why, Halloway! Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “No, sir,” he said quickly. “It’s not anything like that! It’s just that they’re not done with me. Not by a long shot! They said they’ve got lots more questions to ask. They’re poking around in my life. It’s only a matter of time before they find out about my bank account, the one I established to stash the money you paid me. When they find that money they’re going to ask me where it came from. What am I going to tell them?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Layten muttered, disgusted. It looked as if he were going to have to have this fool eliminated. He would speak to Tim Campbell about it. Tim knew the right people for this nasty sort of job.

  “I’ve got every penny of the money you’ve already paid me to betray GAT,” Halloway was saying. “But I need more—say, another fifty thousand—if I’m to go far away where they can’t ever find me. If they can’t ask me any more questions, then your part in this will never be revealed.”

  Layten thought about it. He had no intention of paying Halloway the money, but if he pretended to agree to pay, and then set up a rendezvous in some deserted spot where Halloway thought he was going to receive the money, it would make the job of eliminating him much easier. The more Layten considered the idea, the better it seemed. The whole thing could be orchestrated to look like a suicide. Yes, it would be perfectly understandable why a ruined man like Halloway might decide to end his misery by taking his own life.

  Layten smiled. He loved things nice and neat.

  “Very well, Halloway,” Layten said. “I’ll give you the money.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir!”

  “There, now,” Layten said benevolently. “No need to carry on. Why shouldn’t I help you out in your hour of need? You’ve done good work on mine and Tim’s behalf—”

  Layten stopped abruptly, angry at himself for letting that last bit about Tim slip out, but then, he’d been preoccupied with his plan to eliminate Halloway. Up until now, he’d kept Tim Campbell’s name out of this business; Halloway had no idea Campbell was involved. Layten now watched Halloway closely. Then he relaxed: poor Halloway seemed so emotionally distraught that he’d missed the reference.

  “Anyway, Halloway,” Layten smoothly continued. “It will be my great pleasure to hasten your exit from the scene.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Halloway. You did the right thing by coming to me. You run along, now.”

  As Halloway got out of the Jag, Layten distastefully noticed that the chubby engineer had left a sweat imprint on the black leather upholstery. Layten started up the Jag’s engine, put the XKE in gear, and rolled out of the parking space. He was heading past the white Chevy, gliding toward the lot exit, when the Impala coughed to life, swung quickly around, and darted forward to lengthwise block Layten’s path.

  Layten hit the brakes and then pounded his horn, thinking, Damned L.A. drivers!

  The Chevy’s driver got out of the car. Layten stopped honking his horn. The man was in his twenties, and looked pretty brawny beneath his suit jacket. “Shut off your engine, Mr. Layten.”

  What in blazes? Layten put the Jag into reverse and twisted around in the dri
ver’s seat in order to see to back up—

  He kept his foot on the Jag’s brake. The green Ford had pulled in behind him, blocking his escape.

  “Turn off the engine, sir, and give me the keys.” The young man from the white Chevy was now standing beside Layten’s door, looking down at him. Layten caught a whiff of the young man’s after-shave—Canoe, it smelled like—as he leaned in past Layten to turn off the Jag’s ignition, then extract and pocket the keys.

  “What’s going on?” Layten protested, but not all that strongly, because he knew exactly what was going on and felt like kicking himself for not realizing it earlier. He thought about going for his gun, but there were too many of them: The dark-blue Ford Econoline van that had been rolling toward Layten now parked alongside his Jag. The van’s two drivers stayed in the cab, but the van’s rear doors opened and out of the back popped Steve Gold, followed by two more men whom Layten didn’t recognize.

  “Hi, Turner,” Gold said, coming around the van. “Guess what, your goose is cooked.”

  Layten gestured toward Holloway, who was walking over to the scene. “He was wired, I suppose?” he asked tiredly.

  “Yep,” Gold said cheerfully, and pointed to one of the men who’d gotten out of the van with him, a fiftyish, tall fellow, with a steel-gray crew cut and the hard look of an ex-cop. “Turner Layten, meet Otto Lane,” Gold said. “Otto’s people worked out the technical stuff.” Gold winked at Layten. “However, Turner, I do want you to know that the setup itself was my idea…”

  “And I was glad to do it, you bastard!” Halloway spat at Layten. Halloway tore open his ink-stained shirt to display the tiny mike and the wires taped to his flabby chest. “You pulled the rug out from under my life, and now I’m glad I could return the favor!”

  “Would you get out of the car, Mr. Layten?” The young man who had taken the Jag’s keys now opened the car’s door.

  Layten did not want to step out of the car, but he did as he was told. He heard Halloway exclaim, “Be careful, he’s carrying a gun!”

  “Ah, Turner, still up to your old tricks?” Gold sighed. “Would one of you guys take care of it? I’ve already had my turn disarming Mr. Layten.”

  “Otto Lane runs a private security agency,” Layten blustered as the young man standing beside him deftly lifted his seersucker coattails in order to pluck the revolver from his hip. “His operatives have no right to deprive me of my personal property or detain me!” He broke into a cold sweat as he looked around at the circle of impassively staring faces. “I—I demand you call the authorities.”

  “I will if you force me to,” Otto Lane threatened.

  “I intend to file kidnapping charges against all of you!” Layten thundered.

  “And GAT will file industrial-espionage charges against you, Turner,” Gold countered. “Think about that. Thanks to this tape, we’ve got enough on you to convict. It would mean jail, and you wouldn’t like jail, old man. For one thing, they’d take away that jaunty little cap you’re wearing. Of course, the guys in jail would just love you.”

  Jail, Layten thought. He’d almost gone to jail last time, when they’d tarred and feathered his old CIA boss, Jack Horton. Layten had warned Tim Campbell that it might come to this, but Campbell had refused to listen. Yes, it was Tim’s fault this had happened!

  Oh, God, jail. Layten could feel himself caving in inside. He knew the kind of men who were in jail. He knew what they would do to him. He’d never survive it. He couldn’t abide jail.

  Layten’s stomach was so severely churning that he was afraid he might vomit. He had to go to the bathroom. He couldn’t see: everything was going dark….

  “I—I need to sit down,” Layten muttered. “I’m feeling faint.”

  “Yeah, you are looking a little peaked, Turner,” Gold remarked. “Go on, sit down right there on the ground.”

  Layten sagged to his knees, hanging his head. He’d broken out into a cold sweat and his teeth were chattering. He glimpsed Halloway snickering at him, and saw that Gold and Otto Lane were exchanging knowing glances. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, especially not his hatred of Steve Gold. All that mattered was saving himself.

  “Listen, Steve,” Layten whispered hopefully. “It’s not me you want. Maybe we can make a deal?”

  (Three)

  Campbell Residence

  Beverly Hills, Los Angeles

  28 June, 1978

  “Steve Gold to see Mr. Campbell.”

  “Yes, sir.” The armed, uniformed guard manning the entrance to Campbell’s sixteen-acre estate worked the controls that opened the electrically operated wrought-iron gates. “Mr. Campbell is expecting you. He asks that you join him in the greenhouse. When you reach the main house, just continue on to your left along the drive. The greenhouse will be brightly lit. You can’t miss it.”

  Gold flicked on the Corvette’s high beams as the guard waved him through the gates. It was almost eleven P.M. on a cloudy night, and black as pitch. Almost as black as my mood. Gold thought. He steeled himself; he had to go through with this. He let the ’Vette creep forward, carrying him into the lion’s den.

  The crushed-gravel drive curled like some immense serpent through the lushly landscaped grounds, but finally Gold rounded the final bend and caught his first view of the flood lit house, a vast jumble of gray limestone studded with turrets and terraces. When Campbell had built this monstrosity back in the forties, he’d probably intended something majestic, but what he’d ended up with was Dracula’s castle hemmed in by palm trees.

  “Sixty rooms,” a mutual acquaintance had once told Steve Gold in describing Campbell’s house. “Yes, sixty, and just him there, alone with his servants. There are entire wings that haven’t seen a living soul for years. He won’t let the servants dust. Says he likes the cobwebs, that the spiders are his kindred souls. Corridors filled with crates of antiques, paintings, furniture that he purchased who knows when and then never bothered to unpack.”

  Gold drove slowly around the mansion, until he spotted the long, low, glass greenhouse, a brightly lit oasis of jungle that resembled an immense, glowing emerald surrounded by the black velvet of the night. Gold parked by the greenhouse door and got out of his car.

  He was almost bowled over by the heat and humidity as he entered the greenhouse. Within seconds his jeans and cotton polo shirt were soaked through with sweat and clinging to his skin. The greenhouse was lit by long, fluorescent tubes casting that pinkish sort of light plants were supposed to favor. The floor was damp gravel, with lots of drains. There was a small cleared area right by the door furnished with a glass patio table and two canvas deck chairs. The rest of the space leading into the greenhouse was filled with rows of long tables packed with an unending assortment of plants. More plants overflowed the shelving built against the greenhouse’s glass walls and hung from the roof rafters, and tall palms in huge wooden troughs weaved their canopy over everything, so that like in a real jungle, you couldn’t see more than a few feet into the mass of foliage.

  “Tim?” he called, peering around. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Steven,” Tim Campbell said, stepping out from behind a bushy potted something or other just a few feet away.

  Gold had to smile. He hadn’t seen Campbell for years, not since the two had crossed swords over that Pont jetliner situation. Now Gold thought that for a man approaching eighty, Campbell looked good. Tim was barefoot, clad in a white-and-blue-striped, short-sleeved boatneck pullover and white duck trousers. His thick gray hair was poking our from under a straw sombrero. Campbell looked like one of those old codgers you see beachcombing in Malibu, the ones who looked like they’ve been carved from driftwood, and are just as ancient and just as indestructible.

  Campbell was looking spry, chipper; like a kindly old granddad. Gold mused, feeling guilty over the purpose of this visit. This was, after all, good old Uncle Tim.

  Like hell.

  Gold reminded himself that it was the prettiest mushroom in the forest that
would kill you quickest if you took a bite. Get your mind right, he ordered himself. Or this kindly old granddad will eat you alive and pick his teeth with your bones.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Gold began. “I know it’s late.”

  “Nah, no problem.” Campbell shrugged. “I don’t sleep much anymore. Here”—he gestured toward the table and chairs—”let’s sit down.”

  “Thank you.” As Gold sat, he thought he glimpsed movement in the foliage at eye level behind Campbell, but he dismissed it as his imagination.

  “I had this furniture moved in special for you when you called earlier this evening asking to see me,” Campbell said. “I usually hang out back there.” He gestured over his shoulder toward the greenhouse’s interior. “But it can get a little close. Most people don’t like it.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” Gold took a seat. He was dying for a cigarette, but didn’t think it was appropriate to jeopardize the well-being of all these exotic plants with cigarette smoke. “The reason I called you…”

  He stopped, his attention again distracted by a twitching leaf, and then his eyes widened as he saw a smallish, bright-blue snake with coral markings slither out of the wall of green flora to drape itself over a branch.

  “Tim?” Gold was pointing a wavering finger at the snake when he heard more rustling and saw a brown tortoise the size of a basketball waddling along between two large clay pots. Above his head something flapped on leathery wings between the palm fronds, too fast for him to discern.

  “They like you,” Campbell remarked. “Usually, they hide when strangers are near.”

  Gold was about to bolt when he was frozen in his chair by a close-by, prolonged, hissing sound, like steam being vented. He looked wildly around, and then he saw it coming toward him out of the foliage: an emerald-green lizard the size of a basset hound was spitting at him as it sent the gravel flying with its thrashing, yard-long whip of a tail.