War Lord

by David Rollins

  ‘He’s a flyer, so I’d say he would.’

  ‘You haven’t seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He hasn’t discussed it with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who might the beneficiaries be?’

  ‘No idea.’ Alabama seemed agitated. Maybe our conversation wasn’t heading in the direction she’d hoped. ‘You really think something else is going on here, don’t you? And you think it has something to do with me.’

  Alabama was quite possibly on the level about what she did and didn’t know. And her concern could easily be genuine fear for her missing lover’s safety, rather than the fact that I was rubbing her the wrong way. Nevertheless, I still had a test I wanted to put her through. ‘Did Randy tell you that he was running drugs back in Afghanistan?’

  She froze, but recovered quickly and looked me dead in the eye. ‘He wasn’t. That was a lie. I thought you said he was one of the good guys, that you were his friend.’ She gathered her things.

  I’d told her that I’d met him. I hadn’t said we’d graduated to friend status. ‘He was court-martialed,’ I continued. ‘The charges were serious.’

  ‘And they were dismissed,’ she said.

  ‘The Air Force still kicked him out.’

  ‘Okay, I think we’re done here.’ Alabama began to get up. ‘I’ll send you a check for your expenses.’

  Alabama was a dancer, not an actress, so I was prepared to believe that she believed Randy was innocent of drug running. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Stick it where the sun don’t shine, buddy.’

  ‘The story is loaded with inconsistencies. I just wanted to assure myself that . . .’

  ‘That I’m not one of your inconsistencies.’

  I shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Call me when you’re sure,’ she said.

  ‘As far as I can see, no crime has been committed here,’ I said as she turned to go.

  That stopped her. ‘What?’

  ‘Okay, it might be illegal to courier amputated limbs around the country without a permit or some such, but, aside from that, where’s the crime?’

  She stared at me, confused.

  ‘Look at it this way: the hand – it isn’t Randy’s, so we can reasonably conclude that he still probably has both of his. Also, there’s no concrete proof that the ring is his – even the engraving could be copied, and as far as we know he’s safely cruising along at thirty thousand somewhere over the Pacific. Bottom line, how do we know beyond any doubt that he’s being held captive?’

  ‘There’s the ransom note.’

  ‘It says you’re going to hear about where to take the money. Have the kidnappers got back to you?’

  ‘No.’

  The note stated that Alabama would be contacted, but no such contact had been made. It had been close to five days now since she received the parcel.

  ‘What do you think that means?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they lost your number.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Silence doesn’t serve the hostage-takers’ agenda. What do they hope to gain with no further contact?’ And while I was on the subject of things I didn’t know, what was the significance of having twenty days to pay the ransom in the first place? Why not seven days, or three days, or twenty-four hours to come up with the money? In my experience, kidnappers gave their victims less time rather than more to produce the cash. It didn’t suit the perpetrators’ reasons for committing the crime to allow authorities the time to track them down and stomp on their asses before they’d split with the dough. Maybe Randy was already dead. Even if he was, that wouldn’t stop the hostage-takers’ attempts to extract a pile of cash from Alabama with assurances that it would be in exchange for his life. Kidnappers demanding large sums of money didn’t usually play fair. No, at the moment I had no idea what the lack of contact might mean. Or pretty much anything else connected with this case.

  ‘When exactly did you last see Randy?’ I asked her, going back over some details.

  ‘Nine days ago.’

  ‘So four days before the package arrived.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he left on a Sunday – that would make it the twelfth.’

  ‘Was the fifth the day Randy left for Australia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you received the package the following Thursday?’

  ‘Yes.’ Twenty days time from that Thursday would be Wednesday the fifth. I made a note of the date.

  ‘Who else knows about the package, aside from Marnie?’

  ‘As far as I know, only you.’

  ‘And you say you’ve been in contact with Nevada Aircraft Brokers?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much every day since . . . since the package arrived. I’ve been asking them to tell Randy to call me.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about the ransom angle?’

  ‘The note said no police. Letting Randy’s boss in on it, the police would’ve been called for sure.’

  ‘And do you know if Randy’s checked in with them at all while he’s been en route?’

  ‘They said they haven’t heard from him. But they also said they’re not expecting him to contact them until he lands in Darwin.’

  ‘Any problems with the flight that they know of?’

  ‘I didn’t ask them that, not exactly, but they know I’m stressed about it. They’d have told me if they were worried.’

  ‘When’s he expected in Darwin?’

  ‘Any time now. What do we do next?’ she asked.

  I figured I could just hang around playing the slots and wait for Randy to show up, but that probably wasn’t what Alabama had in mind. ‘We could take the severed hand to the metro police.’

  ‘I could have done that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I thought there might be a better option – you, I guess.’ Her body language suggested having me here was no longer anything to break out the band for. I heard her phone buzz. She checked the caller ID on screen, got excited and plucked it up off the table. I went back to watching the shadow girls working the screens, and Sugar working the floor.

  ‘What?’ I heard Alabama say, suddenly in shock. ‘Oh my God . . . Yes, yes, of course . . .’

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked when she ended the call.

  She looked at me, her eyes bathed in tears. ‘That was Ty Morrow. It’s Randy . . . Darwin expected him two hours ago but he hasn’t turned up. They think he crashed at sea.’

  Five

  I called Morrow back. The guy told me the police had been notified, along with the Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Bureau. Beyond that, he said, nothing could be done – not until morning. It was late – or, rather, early – by the time we left Shadow Bar. The place was closed to the public at two a.m., but management kept it open for Alabama and a couple of her close friends from Bally’s. I also stayed back in case I was needed – I wasn’t.

  Nevertheless, it was almost three a.m. by the time I hailed a cab for Alabama and her friends, who she’d asked to stay over at her place to keep her company. I flagged down another cab for myself, and a yellow and green Prius pulled to the sidewalk. As I opened the door, a woman slid in ahead of me to claim the back seat. I stood there holding the door, working up to being indignant.

  ‘You goin’ my way, honey?’ called a voice from inside.

  There weren’t many ways to go in Vegas, so there was a good chance I just might be. I bent down to say sure and noticed the black dress with the polished stones around the hemline. Sugar.

  ‘It’s Vin, right?’ she asked when I hesitated.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said and got in.

  She held out her hand. ‘Sugar.’

  ‘I know,’ I told her. ‘We’ve met already, at Bally’s, in the change room. You might not remember.’ Her fingers were long and slender, the fingernails real and painted a soft pink, her skin warm, moisturized and fragrant.

/>   ‘Sure I remember. But we never exchanged names, so it ain’t official. An’ y’all have seen me naked, so y’all have me at a disadvantage.’

  I had, and I’d like to again.

  The driver was getting edgy sitting in traffic, banking it up. ‘We headin’ somewheres, folks?’ he asked, half turning in his seat.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ Sugar asked me.

  ‘Bally’s.’

  ‘What do you know, me too. Bally’s, please,’ she said to the driver, then to me: ‘You’re stayin’ there, ain’t you? I heard you say something about it to ’Bama.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You a frien’ of hers?’

  ‘I’m helping her out with a problem.’

  ‘You’re from back East. I can tell by yo’ accent. That’s a long way to come. Must be a big problem she got.’ Sugar shifted in her seat, uncrossed her leg one way and recrossed it the other, her body curling like smoke, her perfume fresh and imported. She smiled at me, eyes set to bedroom mode. ‘I think I’m gonna like you. ’Bama has good taste.’ Something amused her. ‘I sure liked the taste of Randy.’ She licked her lips. There was no mistaking her meaning.

  My collar felt tight. The driver was somehow managing to avoid colliding with other vehicles, despite the fact that his eyes were superglued to the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I spoke with one of the girls about half an hour ago,’ Sugar continued. ‘She said somethin’ had happened and that ’Bama was upset. Somethin’ about Randy.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Alabama,’ I said.

  Sugar smiled at me, her lips parting, one eyebrow arched. One leg rubbed against the other. If I’d been required to say anything more at that moment, I probably would have stuttered.

  ‘Yes, good idea. I’ll do that,’ she continued. ‘So, the important question is, how long will y’all be stayin’ in Vegas?’

  A thud followed by a lift under the cab’s front wheels told me we’d hit the ramp leading up to Bally’s forecourt.

  ‘Until I leave,’ I said, more cryptically than I’d intended.

  ‘Well, obviously.’ Sugar did that uncrossing thing again with her legs, preparing to get out, the cab coming to a stop. ‘Sounds like longer than a day or two, at least.’

  ‘Who knows,’ I said. The meter said eight bucks. I gave the driver twelve and asked for a receipt.

  ‘Maybe we could have a drink. You got a card?’ she asked me.

  I handed one over and she held it up to the light. ‘So, Mr Special Agent, y’all have come all the way from Andrews Air Force Base, Washington DC. What’s so special about you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time, perhaps. You probably want to get to bed before the sun rises.’ That’s what I wanted to say, but what came out was, ‘Umm . . . er . . .’ followed by a croaky kind of swallowing sound that ended in a squeak.

  ‘Can I borrow your pen, please, honey?’ Sugar asked the driver.

  The way the guy looked at her told me he’d have been prepared to hand over his Prius.

  She made a slow circular motion at me with the pen. I got the message and turned around. She rested the card on my shoulder and wrote on it. Then she whispered in my ear, ‘Use it, don’t lose it,’ and let the card flutter into my lap. ‘Goodnight,’ she said, her door opening.

  ‘’Night,’ I replied to her bare, smooth back. I fumbled for the card when she was gone. A phone number, ending with an exclamation mark, was penned on the flipside.

  Once she’d disappeared from view, and time and space returned to normal, the driver twisted around in his seat and said, ‘So who’s a lucky motherfucker?’

  *

  The street Alabama and Randy lived on was in Summerlin, a suburb twelve miles northwest of the Strip. The street itself seemed, at best, semi-occupied. Every third house or so was on the market, a faded ‘For Sale’ sign out front with a bleached photo of a smiling agent looking more like a ghost. The front yards of these unsold houses were mostly mini dustbowls of dead plant life and brown grass, the houses looking as discarded and dried out as shed rattlesnake skins. Alabama and Randy’s place was in the middle of a small green belt of occupancy, a little island holding out against the rising tide of foreclosure. A sprinkler system soaked the green lawn of the house next door, a miniature rainbow hanging over a flowerbed bursting with purple and red flowers.

  I got out of the rental and went up the short path to the stairs to Randy and Alabama’s veranda. My knuckles were poised to rap on the front door when it opened and Alabama appeared. She didn’t say a word. I caught a glimpse of her eyes as she walked out and made for the car. They were red-rimmed behind a pair of large black sunglasses that took up half her face. Despite the sunglasses, or maybe even because of them, she looked haggard, as much as someone like Alabama could look haggard. I figured she hadn’t slept much, if at all, and if she had it was probably in the old blue jeans and faded Giants t-shirt she was wearing. A red Caesars ball cap completed her ensemble for the morning’s unpleasantness. For me, it was jeans, a plain white tee and runners. I opened the car door for her and she slid in, still without saying a word.

  Shortly thereafter we pulled into the lot outside Nevada Aircraft Brokers. Two vehicles were parked outside. They had a federal look about them, that is to say tired and worn out. Alabama didn’t comment on their presence, perhaps because I’d already briefed her on what to expect as we drove there. Keeping us company on the rear passenger seat was the small ice chest and a Bally’s branded bag.

  I parked beside a white Ford Explorer with darkened windows and an FAA sticker on the rear bumper, and got out. The desert heat was thick with the smell of kerosene and burned aviation jet fuel. Three hundred yards over on the active runway, a United Airlines 767 lifted its chin and strained for height, its engines grinding through the heat of the morning. I collected the ice chest and bag off the rear seat – I didn’t want the hand fricasseed in the oven the rental would soon become in the morning sun.

  Nevada Aircraft Brokers was housed in a large white modular building, gold heat-reflecting film on its windows and front double doors. Behind the flat-roofed box, beyond a mesh fence topped with razor wire, several white executive jets gleamed on the ramp. Alabama and I walked toward the building’s gold-filmed front door just as a man and woman opened it, both in their early thirties, slightly overweight and dressed in a hundred percent polyester. The two walked out, not in any particular hurry, and headed for the Ford Explorer with the FAA decal. The guy smiled at Alabama; the woman gave her a frown. Nothing unusual in Alabama’s universe, I figured.

  On the other side of those gold doors the temperature dropped into the low twenties. We stepped into a waiting room that took up half the width of the building, a white Laminex reception desk at one end occupied by a large older woman with brassy hair, and down the other end a frosted glass wall with a door. Behind the woman hung framed photos of executive jets like the ones outside, the pilots visible in their cockpit windows. There was a leather couch to sit on and a low coffee table in front of it scattered with assorted financial and aircraft magazines and newspapers. A coffee machine and a water cooler stood in one corner, and a slot machine held down the one opposite; SLEEPING BEAUTY said the colorful lettering on it. Now that I thought about it, there was a musical hum in the air, sprinkled with what I supposed were meant to be magical bells, the same sound I’d heard dominating the reception foyer at Bally’s. A pictorial showed Sleeping Beauty herself comatose on a bed, Prince Charming coming through the window behind her. From the looks of it, Ms Beauty was in for either some morning glory or a rude awakening, depending on how she felt about strangers in her bedroom. The slot took quarters for a chance at winning a cool hundred-thousand-dollar jackpot. I had some change in my pocket – maybe later, on our way out.

  The receptionist peeked at us over bifocals, her eyes small in the expanse of heavily made-up flesh around them, like marbles pushed into dough. Chubby gold-ringed fingers paused over a keyboard. She touched a mole on her cheek
like it was a button that would switch on recognition, but doing so failed to help her penetrate Alabama’s cunning disguise of sunglasses and ball cap. ‘Can I help you folks at all?’

  ‘Special Agent Vin Cooper, here to see Ty Morrow,’ I said, placing the bag and esky down and my card on her desk, the gold leaf on the embossed OSI agent badge a nice match for the windows. ‘And this is Randy Sweetwater’s partner,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Alabama! Is that you, honey? I didn’t recognize you with those glasses on.’

  Why did I ever doubt how Clark Kent got away with it?

  ‘Hello, Carol,’ said Alabama, taking off the sunglasses, revealing red eyes above deep black, sleep-deprived shadows.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ said Carol. ‘Can I get you something, honey? A cup of coffee? Water?’

  ‘No thanks, really . . .’

  ‘Well, whatever you need, just ask. Mr Morrow is busy with some folks. Shouldn’t be long now.’

  Carol seemed uncomfortable. I wondered whether it was because we chose to remain standing or the fact that neither Alabama nor I appeared at all interested in playing slots. Whatever, after a few moments she got up, went to the door in the frosted glass wall, opened it and popped her head around the corner. I heard her murmur something in a low voice before turning and informing us that Ty would just be a minute.

  Less than a minute later, dark shapes appeared in the frosted glass and the door swung open. Two men in suits that were coffee-stain brown came out. NTSB, I figured, given the authorities Morrow said he’d notified. They turned and said words like ‘thanks’ and ‘we’ll be in touch’ to a short guy in his late fifties wearing polished black shoes, navy-blue suit pants, a pale blue shirt and pink striped tie, loosened at the collar. Had to be Ty Morrow. He looked well kept, like he rolled in money on a regular basis. His tan face glowed with a laser-burnished gloss, and his shaped and dyed black eyebrows sat above light gray eyes that matched the professionally layered silver hair swept back behind his ears. The guy had country club written all over him. But, like they say – mustn’t judge.

  ‘Alabama,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m soooo sorry.’