by L. J. Martin
I smile tightly. "But he stayed two years?"
"Yes," he replies, and gives me as hard a glare as his rather baby face looks can muster. "Have you ever lost a fifty million dollar aircraft…or anything else worth that kind of money?"
"Hardly. That's between you and…Henry, you called him?"
"Henry Hausman."
"Hausman, spelled how?"
He takes another sip and eyes me again. "You don't need to worry about him. He won't bother you again."
"Just like to know whose gun barrel I'm staring down."
"Let's get onto the business at hand. I have a golf game at two."
"Sure. You want your plane back."
"I'll pay a half million for its recovery—"
"Sorry, but it's a fifty million dollar airplane, and I don't work that cheap."
"You consider a half million cheap?"
"Mr. Wedgeworth, when someone has something worth fifty million, they generally want to hang onto it, and will do just about anything to do so. These are likely very determined and very capable people who are now in possession of your airplane...and they won't give it up easily. I may end up paying a half million in bribes or mordida—"
"What's that?"
"Mordida, that's how most of South America operates. It's a bribe, as well."
"So, you think the plane is in South America?"
"I have no idea where it might be, but it's in the hands of someone willing to steal it, and probably more than willing to kill to keep it…particularly if they're in a country where the law is on their side, which is likely the case by now."
"So, how much?"
"Three million. Three hundred thousand up front, nothing more if we fail."
He laughs and shakes his head. "That's out of the question."
I rise. "Then thanks for the drink…unless I owe, of course."
"I can handle the drink."
I nod, and head out the way I came in. Just as I reach the door, he calls after me, "Mr. Reardon."
I stop and turn. "Drop over to the house about seven, after my game. We'll have another cocktail and talk some more. I'll have a counter offer for you."
I nod, shrug, wave over my shoulder, and am gone. A counter offer is good.
As soon as I wheel back out onto East Valley Road, I voice activate my iPhone and call Pax to see what he can dig up on Henry Hausman, then call an old friend, Detective Horace Alderman, Santa Barbara Police Department. To my surprise he's in the office.
"Alderman," he answers.
"Free lunch, Ho-man," I say.
"A voice from the friggin' past," he says with a chuckle. "I figured you'd be looking up at lily roots by now."
"You know mere mortals will never touch this hide of mine."
He laughs. "As I recall, you got enough scars to belie that bit of wishful thinking."
"You got me there. In fact I've got a few new ones since we last broke bread. I'm buying…Café del Sol?"
"And I'm trying to get shed of this gut…but how can I refuse a free lunch?"
"A half-hour?"
"It's a patio day."
I'm closer to the Mexican restaurant across from Santa Barbara's bird refuge than Ho-man is, so I'm waiting on the patio when he arrives. I haven't see him in over a year, but he hasn't changed much—a flat top cut right out of the fifties, but gone gray, a frumpy wrinkled sport coat, and a shirt that's straining at the buttons from forgetting to push away from the table. I rise and shake with him before he takes a seat across from me.
He eyes me suspiciously. "Okay, Mike me lad, what the hell kind of trouble are you bringing to my pretty little town?"
"Trying to land a gig on the Wedgeworth airplane heist."
"You having to chase biz now?"
"Actually, Wedgeworth's been chasing me."
"As you know, I work homicide and that was a grand theft bit so it wasn't my case."
I laugh. "I didn't invite you to lunch to talk business. I figured I owe you one…however, there is one thing."
"As if I didn't fucking well know."
"Actually I just thought of it. I do have some unfinished business here in your pretty little town."
"So you are buying?"
"I am…I was anyway."
The girl arrives and we order, both of us sticking to iced tea as he's on duty and I have a meeting yet today, and maybe I can save the deal I came to make.
The girl leaves, and I remind him of a gig I had wherein my client got her head removed by some cartel boys, and one of them, at least a name that came up, still roams the streets of Santa Barbara. "You remember some guy here who owns a lawn service company…Tony Gomez? I don't know his exact involvement, but some cartel boys were driving his car when they hit Sharon Janson Zumadio…you remember the case?"
"You don't forget one who loses her head…particularly when the head's as pretty as hers was. You bet I remember, and I remember who smoked those guys—"
"You remember a rumor about who smoked those guys." I smile. He is a cop, after all.
"Right, a rumor. Anyway, you don't have to worry about Tony Gomez."
"Why's that?"
"He washed ashore down by Carpenteria…with a Columbian necktie."
I can't help but smile. "Made some of his compatriots angry, did he?"
"Guess so."
A Columbian necktie is when your throat is cut and the cutter drags your tongue out though the slit and watches you strangle to death on your own blood. Not a nice way to go, but in my opinion one fitting for this guy if he was involved in the death of my client.
"Good," I say, "one more scumbag, not only out of the tide pool, but out of the gene pool."
He agrees to introduce me to the detective, a guy named Sotomeyer, who worked the G5, and to meet me at Harry's in town at nine o'clock, and we part ways.
I've got time to kill, so I head into town to visit Samy's, one of my favorite toy stores—actually a sophisticated camera store—but I know they'll have the latest model of quadcopter with a built in GoPro camera. One came in very useful on my gig before last, and this one should be even more so as it comes with a monitor and you can see what it sees in real time, rather than having to download from a chip.
Then I wander downtown and enjoy being an ordinary guy, walking the streets, wandering in and out of shops, eyeballing the beautiful women, and trying to look normal. Tough as it is.
Heading back to Montecito, and still early, I stop at Lucky's, where the steaks are sixty bucks which helps keep out the riffraff like me. I have one glass of pinot grigio for what I'd normally pay for a bottle, and sip it for a half hour and watch the pretty people come and go. Then it's finally time to meet up with Wedgeworth.
3
I guess there's been a shift change as there's a new no-neck at the gatehouse, this one a blond Germanic type who looks like he time-travelled right out of Hitler's SS. But he's polite, does the same gig with my license as the first one did, then calls up the main house and reassures himself that this guy Reardon in the 1957 Corvette is actually invited to the castle before he activates the electronic gates and I find myself on an excursion though a copse of oaks and eucalypti, all perfectly manicured.
And a castle it is. I know enough about Santa Barbara to know how they value their George Washington Smith designed mansions, and this is one, albeit one that appears to have been added onto a time or two since the 1920's, as wings on either side seem to be somewhat newer than the main structure. Altogether the Spanish themed residence has to be twenty thousand square feet, and I've covered twenty acres just winding my way up to the house.
My, the power of dot com dough. And this guy only in his late thirties.
Another no-neck awaits me, and he waves me around to the side entrance of the mansion.
I'm not surprised when he leads me to a servant's entrance.
We wind our way past an eight car garage holding a couple of million dollars in vehicles, then a pantry, a butler's pantry, through the kitchen, and out to
a covered swimming pool. I'm seated at a table near a fifty inch built in TV and treated to a Monday night football game, but as soon as my butt hits the chair, a woman in maid's attire comes out and asks me what I'd like to drink, then informs me that Mr. Wedgeworth is tied up on a call and will join me shortly.
She heads out to get my Jack Daniels neat and as soon as she disappears, a young girl, trim and pretty with mouse-brown hair, with the nubbin breasts of a puberty child, in a modest bikini, exits another door and immediately does a graceful dive into the pool. She pops up as close as she can get to where I'm sitting ten feet from the edge.
"Hi," she calls out. "I'm Athena."
"Hi," I answer, and give her a smile and a nod. At first glance I figured her for her late teens, then, after she's spoken, adjust my opinion to early teen new to puberty.
"You here to see my dad?" she asks.
"If your dad is Prather Wedgeworth, I am."
"What's your name?"
"Mike."
"Hi, Mike."
"Hi, Athena."
"Friends call me Tenee."
"Tiny?"
"No, Tenee, no 'I', an 'E'."
"Nice to meet you, Tenee, if I can call you that."
Her smile suddenly fades.
"You shouldn't be bothering Mr. Reardon," an angry voice rings over my shoulder, and Wedgeworth strides to poolside, a beach towel in hand, and spreads it out, shielding my view of Tenee scrambling out of the pool. He wraps her in it and she hurries away, not looking back and heading back in the door she'd come out of.
He calls after her, "We'll have a talk later, young lady." Then he heads over and flops down across from me. "Sorry about that," he says.
"She's a pleasant young lady. No bother."
"She knows better than to interfere when I have business."
I shrug. She was hardly interfering by jumping into the pool, but I keep it to myself.
"Now," he says, "where were we?"
"Nowhere," I say, and see that he doesn't like that reply.
"I hardly think a half million is nowhere."
"At the risk of wondering if you heard me earlier, I might have to spend that much to get in a position to return your airplane. I'll have to hire a pilot and copilot—"
"What's the matter with using the people I have? Or can get?"
"Odds are your crew won't be up to this particular trip."
"Fact is," he says, his brow furrowed, "the old crew disappeared with the plane. I meant someone I'll hire who's new to the job."
"Odds are, I'll need someone who has military skills, and I don't mean just in the pilot and co-pilot seats."
"I see," he says, but looks a little puzzled.
We talk for over an hour, then finally agree on a two and a half million dollar fee. He agrees to advance fifty grand, and I assure him that I'll go through it quickly, and will have to come back to the trough for more. He assures me that I'll get more when and if I justify what I've spent, against the total amount, of course. He makes it very clear it's an advance, not in addition to.
He finally extends his hand, and says, "I'll have my attorney—"
And I interrupt him. "Mr. Wedgeworth, I don't think you want to have a written agreement with me."
He looks a little surprised. "I don't enter into multi-million dollar agreements without having legal counsel."
"Then we've been talking for nothing. You don't want to know what I might have to do to get your airplane back. If you want an agreement, get a piece of note paper and write 'on the return of my G5 I agree to pay Mike Reardon two point five million bucks. You sign it and I will."
"So," he says, "you'll go to work on this without an agreement?"
"I'm not a bit worried about you paying me what we've agreed to, when I perform."
He laughs. "And what if I decide it's only worth a million, or three quarters of a million."
"You mean like you decided not to pay Henry Hausman the fee you'd agreed to pay?"
He noticeably reddens. "That's different. I'm not going to pay him. The plane was stolen on his watch."
I sigh deeply, and rise. "I'm not sure we can do business, Mr. Wedgeworth. If you say you'll pay me, I'll take you at your word. If I perform and you don't pay, then we have a problem, and I assure you that you don't want a problem with me. I always do exactly what I say I'll do, and I expect others to do so as well. Written agreements are merely fodder for attorneys."
He's looking a little too smug. Then he, too, rises. "I'll have a fifty thousand dollar check—"
"No check. Cash."
That takes him aback. "Cash, golly…."
"Yes, golly gee, cash."
His look sours. "Are you mocking me, Mr. Reardon?"
"No, sir, I think it's charming."
"I'll have a briefcase for you at the front gate by ten o'clock in the morning. Pick it up, then go get my airplane…and don't fail."
"I'll do my very best."
"Don't fail."
"I'll do my very best," I repeat. "And my best is as good as it gets."
He nods, takes his iPhone out of his pocket, and dials. As I stand and finish my drink, the no-neck, who'd walked me in, reappears.
Before I follow no-neck out, I turn to Wedgeworth. "I'll give this gentleman a cell phone that I'd appreciate you keep with you. It already has my number programmed in. It's as secure a line as we can get this day and age with big brother watching over everything we do. We don't want to talk many specifics on the cell, but it's a good thing to have some line of communication other than phones easily traced to either of us."
"All James Bond stuff, eh?" he says.
"Hang onto it if you would."
"I will. Find my airplane," he says, gives me his back, and heads inside.
After giving no-neck a throwaway cell phone to give his boss, and noting the number in my cell, I am halfway back down the long drive, on a rather dark lane lit only by very small lights, when to my great surprise, the young lady I met at the pool steps out of the shadows, still in bikini with a matching see through wrap, and waves me down.
"You're out in the dark," I say, a little surprised.
"I hate my father," she says, pulling her wrap tighter in the chill.
"I'm sorry," I say, a little in shock.
"Nice wheels. Can you give me a ride into town?" she asks.
I'm struck dumb, and finally ask. "How old are you, Teene?"
"Fourteen. I need a ride to town."
"I can't do that, young lady. That would hardly be—"
"Then it's your fault."
"Sorry?" I say, more a question than a statement.
About that time, another pair of headlights appears a hundred yards back, and she fades back into the copse of trees.
I'm at a loss, but go ahead and hit the gas and head for the gates.
That was a bit of a mind blower, I think, as the gates open in front of me, and I turn back toward Santa Barbara, and head for Harry's Bar on the north end of State Street.
A mind blower.
4
Harry's Bar, aka Harry's Plaza Café, is an institution in Santa Barbara, located in the crotch of a shopping center on upper State Street. Its red leather booths and generous drinks embrace you with a warm welcome then leave you reeling if you have more than one of the bucket sized bombers they serve. Frickles—deep fried pickles—and deep fried ravioli will coat your arteries with enough cholesterol to keep your cardiologist happy and his Mercedes payments up to date.
And where else, in Santa Barbara, can you get Spaghetti al Burro or a Ranchero's rib-eye, and a beer, and still walk away with change from two Jacksons?
I love the place. It and Joe's Café on lower State Street—which used to be next to the Salvation Army—are a must for me in the beautiful city by the sea.
However, the look on the face of the guy sitting next to Ho-Man is giving me indigestion even before I reach the booth they occupy.
I stick out a hand and shake as Horace introduces me to Dete
ctive Allen Sotomeyer. He's slender, wrinkled cheap suit, with a slight pot belly and deep enough bags under gray eyes that he could pack for an extended trip to Europe. The guy looks like a much older and far more tired and terribly groomed George Stephanopoulos. And the groom-gods at SBPD have not called him aside of late as he has enough hair growing out of his ears and on and out of his rather bulbous vein-lined rosy nose that he's safe from an earwig invasion, as they could never broach the barrier. I guess there's some advantage to not giving a rat's ass how you look.
Both of them are well into Harry's bucket sized martinis, and I spot the barmaid, point to their drinks, and give her a thumbs up. She's a quick study and before we're finished with the niceties she's tableside and has a half-pint tumbler in front of me.
"So," Horace gets to the heart of the reason for our coming together, "Mike is working on the G5 thing, hired private by Wedgeworth, and would appreciate your help, Al."
The guy gives me a look like I've just pissed on his shoe, and with mouth turned down at the sides, asks, "So, Mike, what kind of brass do you carry?"
"I'm a bail enforcement officer, but other than that, I'm pure private."
He turns to Horace. "So, why the fuck should I make his life easy?"
"Because he's made mine easy a couple of times. And he could make yours easy some time, if he owed you a favor. And besides, he's buying the drinks."
"True," I say, and wait while Al makes up his mind.
Finally he sighs deeply and asks, "So, what do you want?"
I shrug. "What did your investigation turn up?"
"Fucking plane was missing for three days before it was called in. Wedgeworth's cousin was the pilot and in charge—"
"His cousin?"
"His cousin, and he's been missing along with the plane, as well as the co-pilot, who left a wife and two young kids out in Goleta."
"So, Vandenburg or some other radar installation must have tracked them?"
"They filed a flight plan to Hawaii, headed out that way, but never turned up there. I figured they swung south and are somewhere in South America where it's very tough to get information."