The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  He was talking to me and he was on a roll, perched on the top step of his porch. The door was open and I could hear the sound of an oscillating fan inside. Ira was explaining himself and the unfortunate decisions that had sent him to prison.

  “Well—” He twisted around to face me more fully. “Ever’body knows there’s bad parts, and then there’s bad parts. You take a B747. There’s over six million parts on that sucker, and most of them don’t make that airplane fly. If you know what’s what”—when Ira said “what,” it came out like “whuuut”—“which I do, you know never to muck around with nothing that’s flight critical.” He wet his lips with a sip of Fresca from a sweaty can. “The worst thing I did was fudge a little bit when I had to. I’d take parts from one unit that just come in to be fixed and use them in another one I had to get out the door. You weren’t supposed to do that, swap parts around, but there ain’t no real reason you can’t do it other than they told you not to. And besides that anyways, these parts they call bogus, a lot of the times they’re just as good as the real ones. They don’t have the paperwork behind ’em is all that is.”

  “Ira,” Jack said, “you weren’t working on crop dusters in the backyard.” He was sitting across from Ira in a folding beach chair, the kind with the aluminum frame and the woven nylon strips. “You were an FAA-certified repair station doing work for major commercial airlines. You weren’t allowed to run by the seat of your pants.”

  “I know that. All I’m saying is I paid attention to the things that mattered. Maybe I wasn’t so good with the paperwork, all the manuals you got to keep on hand and updated and so on. I just never had the money to do it right. These fellows coming up in the business now, they just don’t care if the engine runs or the airplane gets off the ground or even if it stays bolted together while it’s up there.”

  Between declarations, Ira puffed the life out of a hand-rolled cigarette that was shaped like a knotty twig. Every time he exhaled, I felt my own lungs withering. I moved a few more inches upwind. “How did you get into the business?”

  He shaded his eyes with one hand and pointed up at me with one of his yellowed fingers. “See now, that there was one of my main problems. You think of it as a business. To me it was just fixing airplanes like I’d always done. I was a mechanic for Eastern before that asshole Lorenzo showed up. Other buddies of mine, they’d started their own repair shops, so when I finally got laid off I figured what the hell, I’ll give it a whirl. And so I did. Ended up doing twenty-one months. It don’t sound like that much, but I’ll tell you what, I could’na done one more day. But I never went into it to be no crook. I really didn’t. All I was trying to do was feed my children.”

  I reached up to rub the back of my neck. I’d worn my hair up because it had been so hot. It wasn’t even nine in the morning and I could already feel the sunburn starting.

  Ira nodded at Jack. “What about you, Bobo? I hear you retired from the FBI a few months back.”

  Bobo? Jack was busy ignoring me. Was this a nickname with meaning specific to Jack? Or was it Ira’s catchall name for everyone? He hadn’t yet called me Bobo.

  “I left three years ago,” Jack said.

  “Whoooeeee! You sure do lose track of time when you’re in the joint.”

  Jack stood up and stretched, pushing the arch in his back with both hands. “Ira, did you get anything on Avidor?” The catching-up-with-each-other phase of the interview was now over.

  “Well, I did. After you called I did me some checking around.” Ira took a long drag of nicotine and checked back and forth with his eyes, as if he might catch someone sneaking around the side of his trailer to eavesdrop.

  Jack glanced over at me. And he kept looking at me, eyebrows raised. I’d figured my role in this interview was to listen closely, learn what I could, and not disturb the flow. But after he stared for a while longer, it hit me that my role was to listen closely, learn what I could, not disturb the flow—and take notes. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my nifty notebook, and christened it with Ira’s name and the date.

  “What I hear—and I don’t know nothing for sure ’cause I ain’t never worked with this boy myself—is he’s a good steady source. He works out there at the airport and he’s in management, so he can get you what he says he’ll get you, and he delivers on time. He’ll get you papers, too, if you pay extra.”

  “What’s he pushing?”

  “Anything he can lay hands on, but mainly new parts. He’s getting hisself a reputation, too. They’re all still talking about a deal where he had this ol’ boy stealing from out of his own airline’s inventory and then selling them back to the same outfit. They was paying for the same gizmo twice and didn’t even know it.”

  “Was it Majestic?” I asked the question, then braced for the answer. In spite of all that had happened, I still felt protective of Majestic Airlines. I’d left fourteen years of my life there.

  “No. He don’t shit in his own bed, apparently, which is the smart thing to do. I hear he uses these rent-a-mechanics a lot.” He looked at Jack. “You know the ones I mean?”

  Jack nodded. “Temps with mechanic’s licenses.”

  “Thing is, they don’t make much money, and they got access to everywhere because they go wherever they’re needed.” Something in the water caught his eye. He went over to a splintered deck that hung out over the mud and the water. “Look over there, Missy, in the sawgrass. See that? See ’em moving out there?”

  I joined him and scanned the brown water where he pointed. And near as I could tell everything was moving. Everything was alive. Bugs crawled on the carpet of lily pads or swarmed across the surface in huge undulating clouds. Mysterious creatures pinched at the surface from underneath, leaving no trace except dissipating concentric circles. The drought had pulled the waterline down, exposing large expanses of black mud, tree roots and rocks that were slimy and encrusted, covered in black and green mold and algae. And then I did see what he was showing me and it gave me a shiver. It was a nest of small alligators—at least eight of them—knifing through the shallow water with only their snouts and bubble eyes visible.

  “They’re babies,” he said. “The mother must be around here somewhere.”

  “What’s Avidor doing for Jimmy, Ira?” Jack obviously wanted to get back on course. We went back to join him. He was still at the trailer, having shown no interest in checking out the indigenous wildlife.

  “He’s recruiting mechanics,” Ira said, settling back in. “Dirty boys. You know the kind I mean. They got the feelers out. Somebody even asked me if I was interested.”

  “Recruiting them for what?”

  “Don’t know, Bobo.” Ira’s tone had turned cagey. “I try not to know stuff like that no more. And I told them no. I ain’t going back to prison no way no how.” He reached down and knocked on his wooden steps.

  “Speculate,” Jack said. “What is Jimmy up to these days?”

  Ira took a last long drag and dropped the cigarette into the soda can at his side. The still burning butt hissed when it hit bottom. “I really can’t, Bobo.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Jack didn’t move and Ira didn’t move. All they did was look at each other. But something had shifted between the two men. Jack’s approach still felt casual and relaxed, perfectly in tune with the hot and still weather that slowed the world to an underwater pace. But there was an underlying firmness of tone that had crept in, a directness in his speech, a no-bullshit attitude that seemed perfectly pitched to Ira’s frequency. And he responded.

  “Far as I know, Jimmy’s doing the same old shit. Pulling in parts from wherever he can get them cheap, and selling them for what the market will bear.”

  “Is he still pushing them out through the usual outlets?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know who specifically he’s using these days, but it’s got to be three or four of them little repair shops around town that got their FAA certificates and not much else. Probably the ones couldn’t stay in busi
ness if it weren’t for him propping them up.” He reached into the slush-filled cooler by his side for another can of soda, and smiled as he popped it open. Then he reached into a deep pocket of his baggy pants for his tobacco pouch. “You after Jimmy, are you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What for?”

  Jack looked as though he were considering how much to tell Ira. “The helicopter thing. The one that went down up in the panhandle.”

  “Those deputies, huh? I heard about that. You ain’t never gonna get him on that, Bobo. Take my word. He’s got hisself covered six ways from Sunday.”

  Jack paused before answering. “We’ll see.”

  Ira sat shaking his head and staring down into his lap, absorbed by the intricate process of rolling another tobacco twig. “Nobody ever used to get kilt in this business. But it’s what it comes to when you get these drug people coming in.”

  Jack looked at him closely. “Drug people?”

  “The business has changed since you and me were part of the landscape. It ain’t the friendly, neighborly sort of confab it used to be. It’s growing. New people are coming in, and some of them are crossing over from the dope trade. Not a good class of people, neither, if you want my opinion.”

  “Drugs and aircraft parts,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like a natural crossover to me.”

  “Why not? You can make almost as much money, the FAA is a hell of a lot easier to hide from than the DEA, and even if you do get caught like I did you don’t do much time. I mean twenty-one months ain’t nothing compared to a life sentence. Or the needle in the arm.”

  “Do you have the names of any of these drug people?” Jack asked him.

  “No. You never know who these people are. They’re used to keeping themselves hidden. They don’t know nothing about fixing airplanes. That’s the whole problem. The government grabs up the ones like me that don’t mean no harm, really, and leaves the ones who are a menace to society out on the street. At least I always made sure anything I fixed would work.”

  “Ira”—Jack was still in that firm tone—“I need to know why Jimmy is putting together a crew of mechanics.”

  “Why don’t you ask the Avidor fellow?”

  “I plan to.” Jack moved a step closer to Ira. The toes of his shoes were almost touching the bottom step. “But I also need to know what you can find out. You said they contacted you. Call them back.”

  “All righty. I’ll do that for you, Bobo.”

  “I want to know something else, Ira. Air Sentinel 634.”

  Ira was busy firing up his cigarette. His eyes narrowed as he looked up at Jack. “What about it?”

  “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  He studied the burning end of his cigarette. “I know about that airplane that flew into a mountain in Ecuador, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  The answer came too fast. Ira knew it too—and didn’t care. My inclination was to lean in because this was getting really interesting. But Jack stepped back and tilted his head to the sky. “You ever remember a fire season like this one, Ira?”

  “No sir. Not in all my days. It’s the drought is what it is.” He nodded out to the swampy morass just beyond the deck. “Water levels are four or five feet low. It’s so dry out here, you can see bottom in places. Yes sir. See things we ain’t never meant to see.”

  Jack put one foot up on the step and moved his face closer to Ira’s. “Tell me about the crash.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.” Ira kept passing his free hand over his chest as if he were trying to wipe something off the palm of his hand. Then he started to rise, but Jack reached over and put one hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat.

  “Do you know something you’re not sharing? Because it feels to me as though you know something you’re not sharing.”

  “No sir.”

  “I need you to get me something. A name. A place to start.”

  Ira’s body began to list slightly in favor of his right shoulder where Jack’s hand seemed to have gotten heavier. “That might be dangerous, Bobo. Might there be a little something in it for me if I get you what you want?”

  “Get me something and we’ll see.”

  Jack let go. Ira popped instantly back to center as if nothing had happened. “I’ll scratch around a little for you,” he said. “But I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t going too deep. I don’t want no ex-drug runners on my ass.”

  We sat in the car with both doors swung open, waiting for the cabin to cool down. Jack was on the phone checking with his service for messages. He was having a hard time getting a signal. I was taking in the surroundings, things I had felt or heard but not seen when I’d been out Jimmy’s way. Everything was green or brown, like plants and the water, or gray like the trunks of the ancient trees. Most of the flowers were purple. Purple seemed to be a big swamp color. There was an amazing variation of plant types, thousands of different textures and shapes and shades of green. Ferns that were six feet tall, bamboo stalks, twisted tree branches sprouting leaves as big as both my hands together.

  “What do you think of Ira?” Jack had finished his call and was staring at the trailer. Ira had taken his cooler of Fresca and pouch of tobacco and trundled inside.

  “If he turned down the work,” I said, “he didn’t do it without finding out what it was. But if he didn’t take the work, what other reason would he have to lie or withhold?”

  “He’s a snitch. He sells information. He could be playing both sides. The trick with someone like Ira is to get as much information as you can while revealing as little as you can. We’ll wait and see what he comes up with.” He closed his door and strapped in. “What do you think about this drug connection he mentioned?” He asked the question as though he knew I wouldn’t like it.

  I adjusted the vent on my side so the struggling air conditioner wouldn’t blow hot air in my face, and tried to choose just the right word. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” He didn’t seem satisfied with the one I’d chosen. “Did you tell Terry McTavish what Avidor said about his drug deal?”

  “His alleged drug deal.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was more of Avidor’s bullshit and he threatened to fly down here and beat the crap out of him with his cane. John’s wife thinks it’s a preposterous story. My friend Dan says no one on the ramp in Boston has heard anything about it. Terry hasn’t been out of Boston since his accident and he’s offered his phone records to demonstrate that he hasn’t called any drug connections. No calls to Florida or South America.”

  “All right.”

  “I think it’s a dead end, Jack.”

  “Okay.”

  “Aren’t you going to argue with me?”

  “I don’t think it would be productive,” he said.

  The temperature of the air blasting out of the vents was approaching tolerable so I closed the door, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the trailer park. Dust flew and I was glad we had the windows up. Jack seemed content to stare out his window.

  “What are we going to talk about all the way back to the city if you won’t argue with me?”

  “You can guess who we’re going to talk with next.”

  “That doesn’t sound productive.”

  “First clue—it’s someone you already met.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Detective Patricia Spain had not offered her hand to me when we’d met at the police station. When she arrived at the restaurant and saw me sitting with Jack, she thrust it right out there and told me to call her Pat. It was a confident handshake. None of that stuff where you reach out and grab a dead jellyfish. I always admired that in another woman. I liked her better already.

  As she settled in at our table, she reached over and touched Jack’s arm, then did a double take on his face. “Baby, you look like hell.”

 
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Patty. You look great as always. I ordered for you. A large stack of banana pancakes with extra butter and extra syrup, a side of scrambled eggs and bacon—crisp—and a tall glass of orange juice. Is that going to be enough?”

  She studied him critically, as if he were an oil painting at the museum. “You eat it, lover. You look like you could use the protein. And next time you want to meet with me, you make it someplace besides the airport. Could you have picked a more inconvenient place?”

  “We’re seeing someone here later. Besides, I thought you’d like a chance to get out of the office.”

  “Tell me what you need so I can get up out of here and go do some real work.”

  He sat back in his chair, looking marginally insulted. “Why do you always think—”

  “I know you wouldn’t be calling if you didn’t need something.” She nailed him with her black eyes, but I could tell she was teasing him. Half teasing, maybe.

  Jack’s protest was interrupted when he had to push forward and let a family of six squeeze by our table, one at a time, each with their own large, clumsy rolling bag. Pat looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were running with this fool? I wouldn’t have had my game face on.”

  “We hadn’t even met at the time. I thought you weren’t interested.”

  “That’s not true. And I am sorry about your friend. I called the family after you left to see how they were getting along.”

  “Patty,” Jack said, “you gave her the brush-off?”

  “I wasn’t even supposed to be talking to her. I’ve been instructed to refer all inquiries to the FBI. If I could save her from the experience of dealing with Agent Hollander, it’s the least I could do.” She spit out the agent’s name as if it were a bug that had flown up her nose.

  That was a name I hadn’t heard. I dug out my notebook and wrote it down.

  Jack pressed for details. “The Bureau took your case?”