Land of Dreams

by Eugene Lester

  "Good evening, D. C."

  "You said we would conduct business like ladies and gentlemen, not street hoodlums."

  "Gentlemen prefer caution," Clendon said. "Ask Shelley what ladies prefer."

  He made a show of uncocking the .38 and putting it away in his jacket pocket.

  "Where's our money?"

  "May I?"

  "Yes."

  Lyman walked around, opened the Jaguar's trunk and hefted out the heavy briefcase. Clendon took it from him.

  "Have you been drinking?" Lyman asked.

  "Make the call," Shelley said.

  Lyman got into the Jaguar and made the call to his pilot from his mobile phone. The pilot must have acted irritated at being awakened.

  "There's a big bonus for you and extra days off," Lyman said into the phone. He rattled off a couple of sentences in Spanish with some numbers in it and hung up.

  * * *

  Shelley locked the dead bolt.

  "Are you wearing a wire?"

  "Mr. Lindsey, you're more paranoid than Brooks Boyd," Lyman said.

  "Maybe he wasn't paranoid enough. Put the briefcase on the coffee table and take your clothes off," Clendon said.

  "Humiliation is not necessary."

  "Do you need some incentive?"

  Clendon took the .38 out and waved it around.

  Lyman was wearing a brown leather jacket, open white shirt, tight designer jeans and new Italian-style cowboy boots. He took his clothes off slowly and folded them neatly on the couch.

  "Underwear, too."

  Lyman slipped his jockey briefs off. Shelley went through his clothes and found nothing but wallet, keys, and change.

  "Where's the disks?"

  "Inside the couch cushions."

  "May I?" Lyman asked.

  "Yes," Shelley said.

  Lyman unzipped the cushions, and started pulling out the disks. He stacked all seven of them on the coffee table next to the briefcase and sat down, naked.

  "In case Asp comes to the airport," Clendon said, "I have a Polaroid."

  * * *

  Clendon drove the Jaguar. Shelley followed in her Volvo. The money rested in the Volvo's trunk, inside a large parachute luggage bag. A million dollars takes up space and it weighs: one hundred packs of $100 bills, one hundred bills to the pack. They had moved the cash from Lyman's briefcase to the parachute bag. Lyman, still naked, was left tied up, loosely, on the bed with the ropes. The empty briefcase was left on the couch with his clothes folded neatly on top and the computer disks stacked nearby. Clendon figured it would take Lyman a couple of hours to wriggle free.

  They drove west on Wilshire towards Santa Monica. Clendon pulled into a Jack-in-the-Box parking lot. Before he could park, he had to drive around a man and a woman who were sleeping in the middle of the lot. They were covered by a ragged quilt and stretched out on large pieces of flattened cardboard. After he parked, Clendon put on his newest sunglasses, made by Dior, and felt once more for the Polaroid in his jacket pocket. He threw Lyman's keys in a dumpster, put the mobile phone in his jacket pocket, and got in Shelley's Volvo. After a stop at a 7/Eleven to buy a lighter, she took Bundy to the Santa Monica airport. It was after three a.m.

  The airport sat on a low bluff a mile inland from the ocean. It had one long, wide runway. There were a few lights on at scattered hangars. Shelley parked beside one of the hangars and they waited. In a few minutes a dark van raced across the tarmac and pulled up beside the Volvo. A large man dressed in a dark jumpsuit hopped out. It was Adolfo, his short black hair slicked back. There was a woman with him. When they came over to the Volvo, Shelley rolled down the window.

  "Is that it?"

  Shelley pointed to an airplane parked by the hangar. The plane had jet engines under its wings and looked like it had about six seats.

  "That's the jet," Adolfo said. "A Lear." His lisp and wiggle was gone. "And this is my wife."

  It was the platinum blonde. Without the wig, her hair was black and pulled straight back the way she had looked when Clendon saw her in Westwood with Asp. She glanced about, her dark eyes nervous. She smoked a cigarette and said nothing.

  "You're Lyman's jet pilot?" Clendon said.

  "I love to fly," Adolfo said, "especially for money. You have the money?"

  "Yes," Shelley said.

  "How long will it take to gas that sucker up?" Clendon asked.

  "It'll take some prep work for the plane," Adolfo said. "Twenty minutes. Half an hour at most."

  It was blowing cold fog out of the west, in off the ocean. Adolfo's wife got back in the van. Shelley and Clendon waited in the Volvo, the engine running and the heater on full blast. Clendon felt the .38 in his jacket pocket.

  "Did you know that today is Thanksgiving?" Shelley said.

  She opened her purse, took out a pill bottle, and shook three little yellow pills into her palm.

  "I'm afraid to fly."

  She gulped them down.

  "You never got the windshield fixed."

  "How can you tell with those sunglasses on?"

  Clendon took them off.

  "Adolfo's wife-- " he began.

  "I know. Don't say anything."

  "What if she's flying with us?"

  "Then that means they're planning to kill us and throw us out of the plane and into the ocean."

  After about twenty minutes, Adolfo came over and gestured.

  "It's ready," he said.

  "We're not."

  Shelley and Clendon got out.

  "Pat him down," Clendon said.

  He took out the .38. Adolfo leaned against the hood as Shelley patted him down.

  Adolfo giggled. "Nice boots," he said and pointed at Clendon's feet.

  "Thanks."

  "No weapons," she said.

  Shelley went over to a pay phone beside the hangar. She called Lyman's home number and left a message on his answering machine about Eskimo shoes. When she came back, Clendon went over to the pay phone and called the home phone number that Asp had given Shelley. It rang twenty times with no answer. Clendon slammed the phone down and sprinted for the Volvo as the wind from the ocean cut through him.

  "Asp is not at home," he half-shouted. "He's probably on the way over here right now."

  "How would he know about this?" Adolfo snapped. "This flight is supposed to be clean." He cursed in Spanish.

  "Maybe Lyman told him," Clendon said.

  "On my honor," Adolfo said, "I know absolutely that Mr. Lyman did not." He kept cursing in Spanish.

  "Are we ready for take off?" Shelley asked.

  "Ready," Adolfo said.

  Shelley opened the Volvo's trunk. Clendon lifted out the parachute bag. It was very heavy.

  "I'll take my ten thousand now, or I won't fly," Adolfo said. "Shelley and I have an agreement."

  "I thought Mr. Velazquez worked for Lyman," Clendon said to Shelley. "Does he really work for you?"

  "I am a good American," Adolfo said. "I work for myself." He stopped and cocked his head at Clendon and then looked at Shelley. "Did you tell him my last name?"

  Shelley's face was a blank.

  "We'll pay you when we get in the plane," Clendon said.

  "This is like the airlines," Adolfo said. "You have to pay for your flight before you can board."

  Clendon looked at Shelley. She nodded and he unzipped the parachute bag. He took out one stack of currency and handed it to Adolfo, who smiled and stuffed the bills into his jumpsuit. He waved at his wife. She started the van without turning on the headlights and drove away, disappearing into the darkness and fog.

  Adolfo went over to the plane and pulled down on the cabin door. It opened onto the ground as three short stairs popped up. Adolfo went up them and into the plane.

  They heard a roaring and screeching coming towards them out of the darkness. First headlights, then a black car appeared out of the fog and raced toward the plane. It stopped a few yards f
rom the wings and another twenty yards from the Volvo. A bright spotlight from the side of the car came on and shone on the plane. Asp sprang out of the car with a .38 in his hand.

  "Stop!" he shouted. "FBI!"

  Adolfo appeared in the cabin doorway. He was holding a Uzi and looking across the runway at Asp, who had dropped into a crouch behind his opened car door.

  "Freeze!" Asp shouted. "I'll shoot if you move again. Massive back up is on the way."

  Adolfo answered with a short burst of Uzi fire that clanged into Asp's car. Shelley and Clendon ran for cover behind her Volvo, Clendon lugging the parachute bag. His sunglasses flew out of his shirt pocket as they ducked behind her car.

  "Don't shoot!" Shelley screamed. "Don't shoot."

  "Throw your gun down," Asp commanded.

  Adolfo cursed in Spanish and pulled back inside the cabin.

  "Lyman has the disks," Shelley shouted. "The real ones."

  "So? Throw down your weapons and put your hands where I can see them," Asp called. "I know you have the money."

  "How did he know we were here now?" Adolfo screamed and fired another quick burst. "You throw your weapon down!" he shouted back to Asp.

  "Don't shoot, Adolfo!" Shelley called again. "Please don't shoot!"

  With his sore hand Clendon felt first the .38 in his jacket pocket and then the mobile phone. He reached into his front jacket pocket and he took out the Polaroid picture and the lighter he'd just bought.

  "Asp!" Clendon shouted. "Asp! Asp, I need to make a phone call."

  "What?"

  "I have this mobile phone in my hand, see?"

  Clendon thrust the phone up above the hood of the Volvo so Asp could see it.

  "So what?"

  "I'm calling 9-1-1."

  "So?"

  "Listen what I say. . . "

  Clendon pushed 9-1-1 on the mobile's buttons.

  "Hello?" he said loudly. "Yes. I'd like to report a crime in progress. It involves the sale of a large quantity of cocaine. It's going to be moved sometime in the next hour so you need to get over there right away. It's at 410 San Buenaventura Drive in Manhattan Beach,-- "

  "What are you doing?" Asp screamed.

  " -- involving an FBI agent who lives there, Kenneth Asp-- "

  "How did you know where I live?" Asp screamed.

  "This is not a prank."

  Clendon hung up and put the mobile phone away in a jacket pocket.

  "Asp! I have something I need to show you."

  "How did you know where I live?" Asp screamed.

  "Don't shoot, Asp. I have something here that will save you."

  "How did you know-- "

  "Shut up, asshole!" Adolfo shouted. "Where's your massive back up?"

  Adolfo fired another short burst that shot up sparks as it zinged off the tarmac.

  "Don't shoot at him, Adolfo. Cover me. I need to show Asp something."

  "You're covered, Clendon," Adolfo called.

  "I'm coming over to see you, Asp, and show you this. This will save your ass."

  Clendon began crawling around the Volvo toward Asp's car. He turned back to Shelley.

  "If he shoots me," he whispered. "Kill him for me."

  He glanced over to the open cabin door of the plane and saw the barrel of the Uzi pointed towards Asp's car.

  "Please don't anybody shoot!" Shelley screamed.

  Clendon crawled closer to Asp's car and held out the Polaroid, the lighter hidden in the palm of his closed hand.

  "Asp! You've got to see this picture!"

  "What is it?" Asp snapped.

  "Asp! I'm going to stand up and come over to you. I'm not holding a gun. You won't shoot me."

  "No. . . Not yet."

  "Okay. Okay."

  Clendon took a deep breath and stood, holding up the Polaroid. He slowly walked toward Asp's car, skirting the direct beam of the spotlight. He made eye contact with Asp, held it, and walked closer. Asp slowly stood from his crouch.

  "What is it?"

  "Asp-- Asp. Look at this."

  Clendon stepped within three feet of Asp and held the Polaroid in front of him.

  "Look at this."

  Asp stared through the gloom at the three inch by three inch Polaroid image.

  "I can't make much out," he said, and started to reach for it.

  "Oh, no," Clendon said and pulled it back. "Look, but don't touch."

  "What kind of trick is this?" Asp said. "I can't see the damned thing."

  "Don't move, please. Adolfo might shoot. Just look."

  Clendon held it out and stepped closer. His hand was not shaking nearly as much as he thought it would.

  "Can you see it now? Can you see me in the picture?"

  "I see you in the picture. So what?"

  "Closer."

  Clendon stepped closer and stared at Asp, whose forehead was wringing with sweat.

  "Don't shoot, Adolfo," Clendon called.

  "Steady," Adolfo called back.

  "Look closely."

  Asp stared at the Polaroid, now eighteen inches from his face.

  "I need my glasses," he said.

  "Fine. Go ahead."

  Asp opened his suit coat and with the same hand that still held his .38, reached in and took an eyeglasses case out of an inside pocket. He opened the case, took out his reading glasses, and put them on. He dropped his hand that held the .38 to his side and looked intently at the Polaroid.

  "You bastard, that's inside my house."

  "That's right."

  "You're holding my pistol shooting trophy-- "

  "And that's some family photos on your wall. I'm sorry about your divorce. But you see what else I'm holding?"

  "Some kind of bag-- "

  "A bag of cocaine I left stashed in your house."

  Asp scrutinized the Polaroid until he could make out the clear plastic bag half full of the white substance. His face began to turn red and purple. Every vein in his neck bulged out and he yanked off his reading glasses as the glasses case fell to the ground.

  "What are you trying to pull?"

  "I suggest you get home right away and try to beat the cops over there. If you used your flashing lights, you could get home in fifteen minutes. You have a chance. Santa Monica 911 has to contact the Manhattan Beach police--

  As Clendon talked, he watched Asp's mind work.

  "How do I know that stuff in that bag is really cocaine? You don't have the money-- "

  "D. C. Lyman does," Clendon whispered.

  "Lyman-- " Asp screamed. "How do I know that stuff isn't just powdered sugar, or, or-- "

  "Or baking soda? Are you going to take that chance?"

  Clendon stared at Asp as hard as he could.

  "Give me that."

  "Watch it. Adolfo will shoot you."

  Clendon flicked the lighter in his palm and lit the Polaroid. He held it up in his hand as it burned quickly to a black shrivel, then he tossed it away into the wind, which carried it across the tarmac into the blackness.

  "They'll never believe it-- "

  "After years in jail, I figure a million dollar lawyer could prove you were framed, but then there's that $100,000 stake you have from Lyman to get started-- "

  Asp let out a shriek, threw down his reading glasses, and jumped into his still idling car.

  "But massive back up is on the way," Clendon called.

  Asp slammed it into reverse, spun his tires till they burned white smoke, backed up, slammed his car into drive, and floored it, roaring off into the night. Clendon turned around and started walking toward the plane. Shelley ran over and hugged him. Adolfo began clapping from the plane's doorway.

  "Congratulations," he said. "You muy loco madre fucker."

  He came down the cabin door steps towards them, holding his Uzi on them.

  "Take your gun out of your jacket and put it on the ground," Adolfo said, his face a stone.

  Clendon reached in slowly, g
ot the .38, and set it on the ground.

  "Now Shelley," Adolfo said. "Shelley, Shelley, Shelley, I know you so well." He sighed. "I know you probably have a gun in your purse, too, so please take it out and set it on the ground next to the other one."

  Shelley took the other .38 out of her purse and placed it on the ground.

  "I'll need the keys to the Volvo so I can have it sent down for you. And I will get the windshield fixed first."

  She took the car keys from her purse and placed them on the ground next to the .38's.

  "I'll take that bag of currency now," Adolfo said.

  "Adolfo-- " Clendon started.

  Adolfo went over and picked up the car keys and the bag.

  "It's heavy," he smiled. "Good heavy. Let us get in the plane now. Let us leave those guns on the ground here, next to your Volvo."

  "So you're going to give it back to Lyman after all," Clendon said.

  "No, no, no, no, no," Adolfo said. "I am American. I am working for myself."

  "Why don't you just shoot us?" Clendon said.

  Adolfo shook his head. "I am a man of honor and we have an agreement. I am to fly you out of the country."

  "Then you're going to shoot us and dump us in some remote village in Mexico."

  "Would you call Puerto Vallarta a remote village?" Adolfo smiled. "Under the circumstances, I believe I can refund the $10,000 air fare. You will need it, of course, for the mordita at customs."

  In the distance, sirens sounded and slowly came closer and closer. Adolfo motioned with the Uzi.

  "Time to depart."

  Clendon and Shelley walked up the steps and into the plane. Adolfo followed them inside.

  "Buckle up for safety, buckle up," he sang.

  Clendon and Shelley settled into seats next to each other and fastened their seat belts. Adolfo got into the pilot's seat and started the jet engines, which revved up and began to whistle loudly. He placed the parachute bag across his lap and cradled the Uzi under one arm. The plane rocked slightly from a hard gust of wind that kicked up, then eased forward very slowly and began to turn onto the runway. It kept creeping and turning until it pointed straight toward the ocean.

  Clendon looked out the window and saw flashing red lights throbbing through the fog, rapidly coming closer. Adolfo cranked up the engines a notch and they sounded more shrill. He eased the plane forward. Two black and white police cars, red lights flashing, shot out onto the runway and headed toward the plane. Adolfo hit the throttle full blast. The plane sprinted down the runway, left the police cars behind, and lifted from the ground. He pulled the plane's nose up as their stomachs stayed behind. Outside it turned black. Ten seconds out Adolfo began banking the plane to the left and they looked back toward the runway lights from a thousand feet in the air as the airport slid away. Adolfo came out of the hard left turn and headed the plane south, still slowly climbing.