by Reid, Joseph
I nodded.
“Good. I’ve got a spare, so just lock this inside on the driver’s seat when you’re done.” Lavorgna pressed the key into my hand. “Wherever you’re going, don’t use plastic unless you absolutely have to. Franklin hasn’t said, but I can guarantee you they’re monitoring your cards.”
Lavorgna slowed to a stop. “Listen, I know this has turned out to be a lot more than either of us expected—I’m sorry for that. The Bureau’s playing catch-up, but it’s going to take them a while to get anywhere. You’re the best hope the girl has.” He gave me a curt nod. “Be careful, Seth.”
Then he started off again, heading toward frozen foods.
I wove back to the front of the store, then downstairs. Grabbing the Lexus, I swung it up and around the concrete ramps of the garage until I spotted Lavorgna’s Honda. Fortunately, there was an open spot next to it.
People at the office didn’t tease Lavorgna much, but the Odyssey was one of the few topics that earned him some ribbing. He insisted the minivan was an SUV, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Plus, there was the color. Lavorgna called it “cherry red,” but I didn’t know anyone who liked their cherries that shade of maroon.
In a paper bag in the trunk, I found three extra magazines for my Sig, three boxes of ammunition, and an envelope with $1,000 inside. Apparently Lavorgna was a better gift giver than I’d given him credit for.
After leaving Lavorgna’s key the way he’d requested, I headed back to the guys’ house in Silver Lake.
By the time I arrived, it was nearly six. Brian was busy in the kitchen, wok’ing a vegetable stir-fry that crackled sharply and filled the room with the smell of soy and ginger.
“There you are,” he said. “We were starting to get worried.”
“Thanks. Everything’s fine. I just had to make some arrangements for the next few days. How are things here?”
“We’re doing all right. Max didn’t get out of bed until after I got home at lunchtime. It took her a while to get moving, but once I told her Dan would be hitting the stores on the way home, she perked up. She seemed particularly interested in the idea that she got to pick out clothes for you.”
All of a sudden, I felt slightly afraid.
“After that, she asked to borrow Dan’s office so she’d have a quiet place to work. She’s been in there ever since, writing music. She popped out a couple of times for a snack, but that’s about it.”
“So she seems . . . better?”
Brian nodded. “I think so. Heck, there were moments today she was downright polite.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I won’t swear to it, but I think there might actually be a sweet little girl lurking in there, somewhere. Buried underneath all the money and hormones.”
Within thirty minutes, Brian had the food finished and arranged along the bar. As if drawn by the aroma, Max appeared, Shen walked in from the garage, and the four of us sat down to eat.
Before popping a first bite into his mouth, Shen asked, “How’d today go?”
“I talked to Irvine. I’m pretty sure she’s clean—”
“She admit what a bitch she was to me?” Max hissed the words, earning a sharp look from Brian that drove her eyes down to the table.
“—but that means we need to go check out Civins and Garcia.”
Max straightened in her chair. “We’re going home?”
“Yes.”
“What time’s our flight?”
“Early,” I said, “so no sleeping in for you tomorrow.”
“Won’t they be watching the airlines?” Brian asked.
I nodded. “We’re flying private.”
“Ooooh,” Max said, eyes gleaming.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “It’s not that kind of private plane.”
Max looked confused, but before she could ask another question, Shen slid a plastic bag across the table to me. “Wherever you’re going, this should help. That’s got the burner you wanted, plus seven hundred and fifty dollars cash.”
“Thanks, I’ll hit you back.”
He grinned. “Already on your tab.”
“Speaking of phones,” Max said, “can I have mine back? I need to—”
I leaned over and stared at her hard. “No. You can’t talk to anybody.”
“Do you even know how the music business works? My fans follow me on social media. They haven’t heard from me in days. If I don’t—”
“You’ve got to stay quiet,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “If you log in from anywhere, they can trace it. No one can know where we are, and no one can know we’re going. Not my boss, not the FBI, nobody. It’s all got to be a secret.”
Max half rolled her eyes.
“Seriously, this is to keep us safe.” I tapped the plastic bag Shen had passed me. “We can’t trust my phone, either—that’s why I had Dan get me this burner. I worked it out with the FBI and your dad. Everyone understands it’s safer if we’re off the grid. So you’ve got to promise me: no communicating. Okay?”
“When I don’t have any fans left, it’s going to be all your fault.”
“You’ll be alive,” I said. “They’ll come back to you.”
“Fine. Whatever. I promise.”
“Which way are you going?” Brian asked, his eyes flickering. Although Shen had been in the military, he was much more the homebody of the two. Brian had left the Midwest seeking adventure, and he was still always up for a trip. Or to hear about someone else’s.
“Our first leg is LAX to Phoenix,” I said. “Then we’ll catch a smaller plane to Las Cruces. Spend the night there, then hop a flight to San Antonio. I haven’t worked out the last little bit yet, whether we’ll fly or drive.”
Max looked at me sidelong. “So we’ll be there Sunday. You’re sure?”
“You got someplace else to be?”
“Just answer my question,” she said. “Sunday night, at home?”
“Yep,” I said, “unless something unexpected happens.”
CHAPTER 11
Saturday, July 18
Knowing the drive to LAX would take us at least thirty minutes, I rose at five to finish getting ready.
Truth was, though, I’d packed almost everything the night before. The clothes Shen had bought us went into an oversize duffel, along with the ammo and magazines from Lavorgna. Shen had also insisted I borrow at least one extra gun from his collection. I’d considered the Glock, but not wanting to deprive him of his favorite, I’d settled on the shotgun from the other night. It’d be slightly tricky to handle with my arm in the sling, but I thought I could manage. And while it wouldn’t be any match for the volume of shots the gang could get off with their machine guns, every shot I did take would pack quite a punch and give me some margin for error when aiming. That I’d slid into the duffel, too, along with a box of shells.
The other thing I’d stocked up on for the trip were articles about Charlie Garcia and his company, Otra Records. In addition to all my usual tech blogs and audiobooks, I now had a full collection of everything that had been written about the man.
After a quick shower, I pulled on my new clothes: black jeans, a white button-down with narrow purple stripes, and black leather shoes that had a slight heel to them. Way more stylish than I normally wore, but I left the shirt untucked and rolled the sleeves to my elbows. Although the jeans fit snugly, I still managed to wedge the Sig’s holster into the waistband.
My next task was waking Max. I shook her shoulder multiple times until one blue eye finally cracked open. “C’mon,” I said, “it’s time.” When the eye shut and didn’t reopen, I yanked the covers off her and pulled her up into a sitting position.
“Hey . . .”
“I mean it. Gotta go.”
I went to the kitchen to give her some space, and found both Brian and Shen sitting at the bar, sipping mugs of coffee.
“Sorry for waking you guys,” I said. “I was trying to be quiet.”
“How did you think you were getting to the airport?�
�� Shen asked.
“Calling a cab.”
“Not a chance,” he said.
Brian nodded toward a bag sitting in the middle of the counter. “I packed you both some food.”
The guys had nearly finished their pot of coffee by the time Max finally emerged. Hair in a loose ponytail, the Sweet Tart shirt was thankfully gone, replaced by a pink tee that covered both shoulders. It bared her stomach, though, revealing her belly button and a silver charm dangling from it. She wore a different pair of cutoffs that were quite possibly shorter than the previous ones.
“That’s your idea of subtle?” I asked.
Her eyes, still half-closed, stared at me for a moment. “What? The places you said we’re going are all in the desert. It’s gonna be crazy hot.”
“All you had them buy for me were jeans and long-sleeve shirts.”
“Yeah. But now you look better.”
I took a deep breath. “Let’s get moving.”
We all piled into the Lexus, the guys up front, Max and me in the back. Given the hour, the ride went quickly as Shen took the 10 to the 405. The sun, just peeking over the horizon, cast long shadows that stretched across all four lanes of the freeway.
As we neared LAX, I directed Shen onto Century Boulevard, the main artery in and out of the airport. While tourists and travelers usually focus on the tall, glass hotels and fast-food joints lining the north side of Century, almost all the airlines have offices along their south side. Their buildings—just a few stories tall, with nondescript, opaque windows—don’t attract much attention. What folks don’t necessarily realize is that they back up onto the runways.
At my instruction, Shen turned onto a narrow access road, then into a small fenced parking lot surrounding an off-white concrete building.
“What is this place?” Max asked, peeking over her sunglasses as the Lexus slowed to a halt. The single-story structure looked more like a warehouse than anything else, its sides lined with rolling cargo doors, several of which were occupied by tractor trailers.
“Azimuth Airlines,” I said.
Before she could complain, I hopped out of the car and circled around back to grab the duffel. By the time I’d shut the rear hatch, Shen and Brian stood together on the driver’s side. Max was starting their way, but dragging her feet. I passed her, gave Shen and Brian each a quick one-armed hug, then started toward the entrance to the building.
I glanced back in time to see Max throw her arms around Brian’s neck. She whispered something in his ear; then he whispered back and gave her a squeeze with his eyes shut and a wide smile on his face.
Shen, too, embraced her. Even after he lowered his arms, she clung to him for several moments more, whispering in his ear before stepping quickly—almost running—past me to the door.
I felt a pang in my chest watching Max saying goodbye. I beamed at the guys one last time before they climbed back into the SUV.
As I turned for the entrance, I hoped I’d make it back here to see them again.
Just inside the building, a receptionist’s desk sat empty. As I searched for a bell or some other way to announce ourselves, a man in a pilot’s uniform appeared from around a corner. Everything about him was tall and thin, from his tie to the dark pants that seemed to be hiked up well past his waist. He had one of those narrow builds where the bottom of his rib cage seemed to jut out wider than the bony points of his shoulders. Although we’d never met, I recognized him immediately. “Tom Musselman.”
His lean face split into a broad smile. “You must be Seth Walker. Finally come to see how the other half flies?”
I smiled back. “Well, your brother’s been telling me for so long how he’s the better pilot—I figured I’d better come gauge for myself.”
Musselman shook his head. “After this trip, you may never want to go commercial again. C’mon back, I’ll get you settled.”
He spun on his heel, leading us through the office and out a back door onto the tarmac. The sun had risen higher now, and you could feel and smell the heat starting to rise off the concrete, while a warm breeze buffeted us from the side. A steady hum of mechanical noise filled the air.
Fifty yards away, a white 737 sat waiting. A rolling set of stairs had been wheeled up to its side door, while just aft of that, a large hatch had been built into the side of the plane. A forklift was loading a large silver container through the gaping opening.
From behind me, Max called, “We’re flying on that?”
“I told you it wasn’t that kind of private jet.”
When we reached the stairs, Musselman took them two at a time, almost by necessity with his long legs. I followed him up, duffel slung over my good shoulder.
Inside, the plane looked like some kind of retrofit. Overhead compartments lined the ceiling all the way aft like on a normal plane, but other than two rows of seats at the very front, the cabin floor had been cleared. Workers were sliding the most recently loaded container rearward, where several other containers were already secured to the deck.
Musselman turned to face us, and extended his hand toward the seats. “That’s it for our extensive boarding process. Sit wherever you like. We always ferry a couple of deadheads with us to Phoenix, but there’ll be plenty of room if you want to spread out. That”—he nodded at my bag—“can go in one of the overheads.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s four-star dining back here, right?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely. If you brought a hot plate, you’re welcome to boil up some of the cargo—I don’t think anybody will miss one or two of the smaller guys.” Musselman’s face straightened. “I’ve got to go run preflight, but I’ll check in with you before we take off.” With that, he turned and disappeared into the cockpit.
As I stowed the duffel, Max asked, “What were you two talking about?”
“Just joking around. There’s no flight attendants on here, no drinks or food. That’s why it’s good Brian packed that for us.” I nodded at the bag of provisions he’d handed her.
“What’d he mean, ‘boil up the cargo’?”
“Lobsters,” I said. “Fancy restaurants need fresh seafood, but Phoenix isn’t anywhere near the ocean, so every day or two it gets flown in. That’s one of the things this company hauls—they help out the commercial carriers with loads they’re too full to carry.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Not really. His twin brother’s a pilot for Delta. I helped the brother out a while back, and we’ve kept in touch. This flight is him repaying the favor.”
Max shimmied in against the window while I took the aisle, leaving an empty seat between us. Although she gazed outside for a few moments, soon she leaned her forehead against the bulkhead and closed her eyes. I checked the time on the burner phone—still not even 8:00 a.m.
Maybe ten minutes later, a few men stepped into the cabin. All wore uniforms like Musselman’s, although some had only three stripes on their epaulets rather than four. I eyed them as they scattered themselves among the remaining seats, but none seemed to pay us any attention.
Finally, Musselman returned. His pilot’s cap was gone, revealing dark, slicked-back hair. “We’re just about ready. You two all set?”
“Yep. Thanks a bunch for letting us stow away.”
“No problem. You off on some hush-hush air marshal business?”
I shook my head. “Nothing like that. My niece over here”—I jerked my head at Max—“came out to the coast for a couple of weeks, but now she’s got to get home. I figured I’d tag along, but everything was sold out.”
Musselman nodded. “Tim said you’re good people, so happy to help. It’s not a long hop—only about forty-five minutes once we get in the air.”
After Musselman returned to the cockpit, I switched my audio player over to the Charlie Garcia articles. As we rumbled through takeoff, I closed my eyes and focused on the words coming through my earpiece.
According to industry profiles, Garcia had grown up in o
ne of San Antonio’s nastier neighborhoods, the youngest of seven children and the only one to finish high school. The stories all mentioned how he’d avoided joining a gang, thanks to older brothers who’d been members themselves but had shielded him from it.
In my mind, though, that raised questions: Had Garcia really avoided the gangs? Or had he merely become their legitimate face? The men at my house hadn’t been speaking Spanish, but I certainly didn’t know all the different gangs operating in Texas.
Garcia had worked the graveyard shift at a local Tejano radio station to pay his way through junior college. When the money hadn’t added up quickly enough, he’d dropped out of school but expanded his role at the station. Soon, he was emceeing local concerts, hosting music festivals, getting to know the scene in a way no one else could. After two years, he left the station to start Otra.
I wondered how difficult it would be to start a music label from scratch like that. You needed recording space, a lot of equipment. If Garcia had lacked the cash, could he maybe have sought a loan from his brothers’ friends, instead of a bank? Possible, and one way he could be connected to whatever group was after Max.
Otra’s first successful signing was a small family group named El Fenix. Using his contacts to get their single on the radio, Garcia was eventually able to crank out an El Fenix LP. That, in turn, allowed Otra to expand, attracting bigger and better acts like Cesar Casarez, Aggie Zaragoza, Los Coyotes, and Chicos de los Rios. Several won Tejano Music Awards. Los Coyotes were even nominated for a Grammy before they got rid of the Tejano category in 2011. But none was a major commercial success. None had crossover appeal.
Until Max.
One article compared her signing with Otra to Elvis’s arrival at Sun Records in 1954: a game changer. As her albums started going gold, Garcia received much of the credit. Suddenly, Otra was competing with the big boys in terms of sales numbers, and Garcia was signing acts in new genres: rap, hip-hop, R & B. While Max had taken off and gone platinum, though, none of the others managed to replicate her success. The more time passed, the more Max looked like a bolt of lightning rather than a product of Garcia’s genius.
