by Don Porter
“Hey, no problem. That’s what I get for hiring criminal types. Come on back to the office a sec. Reginald wants to say hello.” He raised the hinged section of counter for me to slip through. We passed the fateful warehouse door to the first office on the left. Freddy tapped on the door and opened it.
I finally remembered the connection that had eluded me when I went to sleep during the newscast. Reginald Parker was running for governor, and he was also the owner of Interior Air. His office was dark paneled opulence, thick blue carpet, leather-upholstered furniture arranged around an eight-foot mahogany desk. Reginald reigned with a multi-line phone on his left, a scrimshawed walrus tusk penholder on his right, and behind him a framed picture of him shaking hands with Richard Nixon. A rollaway near his left elbow held a computer with a twenty-one inch monitor and a pullout drawer for the keyboard.
“Hey, Alex, I heard you were in town for a couple of days. No problems, I hope?” He stood with amazing alacrity for a six-footer who weighed two hundred fifty pounds, and reached across the desk for a handshake. It’s not that we’re such good friends, we’d spent just three days flying together. The handshake was part of his gubernatorial persona. So were the dark blue pinstriped suit, his movie hunk profile, and the abundant razor-cut salt-and-pepper hairdo.
“Nah, just a little R&R, and stopped by for a busman’s holiday.”
“Busman?”
“Am I mixing metaphors? Don’t bus drivers go for bus rides on their days off, or is it postmen who take walks? How is the campaign going?”
“Ask me the day after the election.” He motioned Freddy and me toward two chairs and sank back into his own. He turned to impress Freddy with what good buddies he and I were.
“Freddy, you should have seen the way we blitzed the Bethel area. We hit eighteen villages in three days, and everyone loved me. Lot of the credit goes to Alex because he’s some kind of hero down there and when we showed up together, they thought he was endorsing me. You are endorsing me, Alex?”
“It was my very great pleasure.” That was true in a way. The blitz was a great pleasure. Twenty flying hours and ten hours standby in three days had me feeling so rich that I took Connie into Anchorage for the weekend. That was one of the times she might have considered marrying me if Vicki hadn’t sent me off to Kodiak for three days, starting Monday morning.
“Well, we sure impressed the Eskimos. I’m really counting on the Bethel vote.”
He impressed the Eskimos all right. He tossed out Athabaskan words from the interior Indian language in the heart of the Yupik-speaking Eskimo nation. If I’d been endorsing him, I would have told him to stay in Bethel and make his pitch to Chief Eddy Hoffman because Chief Eddy decides how the Yupik Nation votes.
Reginald’s phone rang and he picked it up. Freddy and I stood while Reginald said “Hello? Just a minute.” He stood for another handshake, complete with a clap on the elbow. “See you at the polls.” He turned back to the phone and Freddy and I fled.
I ducked back through the counter. “Otter ready to travel?”
“Yep, she’s loaded. Seven hundred pounds over, but the plane doesn’t mind if you don’t.”
“Hey, beggars are remarkably compliant. Any special instructions?”
“Nope. Be sure to buzz the camp when you get there because it’s three miles from the camp to the landing spot and no phones. I did put in a request for a check. I figured four and a half hours yesterday and six today, but the check won’t be ready until day after tomorrow. It comes from the accountants in Anchorage. Can I loan you a couple of hundred to tide you over?”
“Nah, I’m okay for a couple of days. The crunch will come when I try to leave town.”
“Okay, just remember, fly low and slow.” He tossed me the key ring and turned back to his office.
If the Otter was overloaded, it not only didn’t mind, it didn’t notice. My route was over the White Mountains, which mostly top out around thirty-five hundred feet, then over a hundred miles of Yukon Flats to the Endicott Mountains. Atigun Pass is the entrance to the Endicotts, part of the Brooks Range where several peaks reach for eight thousand feet. I ran on up to ten thousand for engine efficiency and speed, and tuned in the non-directional beacon at Fort Yukon.
That was the proverbial “hours of boredom” part of flying, but it was spectacular. Snow was creeping down the mountains, valleys still blazing with fall colors, lakes and rivers sparkling silver in sunshine. The satin-smooth turbines could lull a chap to sleep. I noticed that the Hobbs meters for both engines read three hundred thirty hours, so that was the newest plane I’d ever flown. Bushmaster tends to pick up bargains from stateside companies that go broke. The low engine hours were impressive because I had put on four of them. Planes that size are normally flown up from the factory in Toronto, so that was another twenty hours.
I stayed at nine thousand feet, passed the patch of rocks and dirt that Freddy was calling the runway, and flew over the camp. I didn’t want to turn a heavy airplane around in the narrow valley and I wanted to be going downhill toward the runway when I buzzed the camp, not uphill with a need to climb. I pretty nearly took the roof off the bunkhouse, but it wasn’t a satisfying buzz. With reciprocating engines, you drift down over your target and gun the engines to rattle the windows. The turbines just whined a little louder.
The Otter bumped and squatted over the rocks and rubble, but stopped halfway down the strip, where the road from camp abutted. I got out to stretch and stroll, but the air was bracing. It was pristine though, crystal clear, and utterly silent. There’s something about the massive mountains that puts men and their little concerns in perspective. If there was an odor, it was new snow. The white line was working its way down the peaks toward the pass, and I spotted several Dahl sheep at the edge. Sheep are supposed to be camouflaged white, but actually next to the new snow, they had a yellow tinge. Perhaps they’ll blend better in a few weeks.
Two pickups and a two-ton flatbed rattled over the rocky road, and half a dozen men had the plane unloaded in ten minutes. I stood close enough to supervise because I didn’t want them knocking off any doors or railings, but they were good. A foreman signed my sheet and the trucks trundled away. I fired the engines to shatter the stillness but only produced the buzz of those incredibly quiet turbines.
I tied the plane down at ten after six, but the lot was almost deserted. Just one long black Cadillac sedan, a maroon Mercedes almost as long, and my little green rented Dodge were left in the lot. The office door was locked, so I used my key and snapped on the lights in the main room, but the light was on in Reginald’s office and his door was open.
Freddy had left a filled-out flight ticket on the counter again. I entered my six o’clock arrival, signed it, and slipped through the drawbridge to put it on Celeste’s desk.
“Hey, Alex, I want you to meet my campaign manager.”
Reginald came out of his office, followed by an even more Italianate figure. He wasn’t as large as Reginald, but he was a hefty specimen, the type who must spend all the time when you’re not watching him in the gymnasium.
This guy was smooth, suit and haircut just a little better than Reginald’s, black hair slicked back, olive complexion.
“Dave, this is Alex Price. Alex, Dave Marino is my campaign manager.”
We shook hands. He had a grip like a steel claw, no warmth, but I was watching his eyes. He was good, no flinch if the name Alex meant something to him, but his irises snapped up one notch. Those eyes were cold, impenetrable, and I wondered if I was seeing the wolverine Stan had described. I couldn’t decide if he recognized the name Alex from the CB conversation. Reginald was prattling on.
“Alex is our ambassador to the Eskimos. I’m sure we can count on their vote.”
Didn’t this guy know anything about Alaska? Sure, the Yupik Nation around Bethel may be over half the Eskimos, but they do not socialize with the Inuit to the north or the Aleuts south of them. It’s only been a hundred ye
ars since the borders were armed and raiding parties hunted each other like wild animals.
I tried a more acceptable response than my thought. “Yeah, Reginald really impressed the Eskimos. I’m sure they’re in the bag.”
“You’re just visiting for a few days?” Dave asked.
“Yep, our busy season starts in a couple of weeks when the Kuskokwim starts to freeze. We get swamped from the time villagers can’t use boats until they can use snow machines. Meantime, it’s a nice change to see mountains and trees instead of flat tundra, and it’s a chance to visit old friends.”
Dave was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if the old friends remark registered or not, but I had the feeling that I was playing poker with a pro. Tension was in the air, and the more I studied Dave’s eyes, the more they looked like wolverine.
“Care to join us for an aperitif?” Reginald invited.
“I’d love to, but I have dinner plans with friends.” I checked my watch and winced. “In fact, I’m late. Nice to have met you.” I aimed that remark at Dave. He nodded.
“See you at the polls.” Reginald dismissed me with a casual gesture and I hiked for the Dodge.
Chapter Eight
The airport provides a couple of pay phones on a post at the exit from the general aviation area. Itinerant pilots can call taxis without having to hoof a half-mile to the terminal. That’s a little old fashioned by most standards, and if you live in Anchorage or Fairbanks, you might have a cell phone, but those don’t work in the bush. In the villages everyone has a CB radio, and there’s one in every airplane, but when you visit a city, it’s good old-fashioned pay phones. I hid the Dodge between two hangers and jogged to the phones to call Angie.
“Hi, Alex, what’s up?” I could hear Seinfeld in the background, George Costanza whining about something.
“Probably nothing, but I may be late. You go ahead and have dinner. Be a good girl, order room service, and be damned sure the waiter is from the restaurant before you open the door.”
“Yes, mother, I’ll be fine. Are you in danger?”
“No, or not yet. Don’t worry, pistol in belt, keen insights and lightning reflexes honed. I’ll either join you at dinner or be a little late. Give my love to Elaine.”
“Huh? Oh, sure. Be careful, Alex.”
“That’s my middle name.” I hung up the phone and ducked back to the Dodge.
The first car to leave Interior was the Cadillac, and the driver was Dave, the campaign manager. I let him go three blocks down Airport Road and followed him.
We turned left down Cushman Street into town, but kept going across the river on the Cushman Street Bridge. He turned right on College Road, then left on the Steese Highway. I pulled into the service station at the corner and waited. When you’re following a car you don’t want too much traffic, but you also don’t want too little, and his was the only car on the Steese.
Just before I was going to have to pull out and follow, he turned left into the parking lot at the Rendezvous. I gave him three minutes and raced to the club, but drove the Dodge around back and parked beside the bartender’s Lincoln. Five minutes later, four guys jammed into the cab of a pickup came weaving down the highway. They slued into the lot and staggered toward the door. I was right behind them when they entered. They trooped toward the bar. I turned right, followed the wall past tables, and sat down in the darkest corner.
Several tables around me were occupied, most with a B-girl and a victim. Laughter, giggles, a general hubbub of horseplay and ice tinkling in glasses almost drowned out Jack’s piano. Hunkered down behind my table I felt inconspicuous enough.
Dave was at the bar with his back to me, and earnestly discussing something with two men. The two were dressed typical Fairbanks roughneck in jeans and work shirts. One was taller, one was wider, but that’s true of any two guys. I couldn’t pick out anything from their backs in the dark that might or might not resemble the phony cops who had come to Stan and Angie’s place. When they attacked at the house, they’d been wearing hats, so I hadn’t seen the features that could have identified them. I hadn’t had time to form a plan when Jody descended on my table.
“Hi, handsome, you came back for me.”
“Yeah, I got a little distracted the other night with all of the excitement.”
“Gawd, wasn’t that awful? Are you going to buy a thirty-dollar bottle?”
“Sure thing.” I peeled a twenty and a ten off the roll. She skipped to the bar and was back in a flash with a bottle and two glasses. She started to scoot her chair next to me, but I caught her shoulders and guided her down onto the chair opposite so she was between me and David.
“What’s the matter? Afraid I might bite? I do use teeth, but never draw blood.”
“See those three guys at the bar? The suit and the two scruffs?”
She tossed her mane to glance over her shoulder. “Yeah, what about them?” She popped the cork like the expert she was and poured the champagne. Don’t be impressed by the price. That bottle would cost four bucks at a grocery store, and fifteen of the thirty goes into Jody’s garter.
“Do you know them?”
“Hey, I don’t rat on my friends, but no, not really. Those guys are tighter than a fifty-cent condom. They want to feel the merchandise, but for free.”
“Do they come in often?”
“Well, the scruffs are pretty regular in the last couple of weeks. Not sure about the suit. Maybe I seen him, maybe not. Nice threads, I should check him out. Aren’t you going to drink your champagne?”
“Jody, I can’t drink that stuff. It would give me the trots if I didn’t actually upchuck it.”
“Yeah, me neither. I just wait until the customer is occupied and pour it on the floor. Problem is we’ve got to get rid of it. I plan on another bottle every ten minutes.”
“Okay, we’ve got eight minutes to go. Try not to breathe the fumes.” Actually, the fumes I was trying to avoid were Jody’s perfume, but they did seem to mix with the noxious emanations from the champagne.
Dave got up and strode out the door. No empty glass on the counter where he’d sat, so he hadn’t even had a drink. He’d come for a conference, and I did not like that at all.
“Jody, if I was to buy the next bottle ahead of schedule, do you think you could get one or both of the glasses the scruffs are using?”
“Probably. I can likely get everything except their wallets. Why, you some kind of cop or something now?”
“Or something. If you can get them, pick them up by the rim, don’t touch the sides, and be careful not to smudge or wipe them.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars a glass?”
“I like nice round figures. How about thirty?”
“Okay, but Jody, I will be checking fingerprints so you damn well better have the right glasses.”
“Hey, honor among thieves, right? You and me, baby.” She reached under the table to squeeze my knee. “Time’s up, need another bottle.”
“Right.” I handed her two more bills. “It would be a good thing if you can keep them here for a while, if you want me to live to buy the glasses.”
“Indubitably.” She swayed toward the bar, skirt raised for garter stuffing. She straightened the skirt, did a full body check that everything was in place, walked up behind the two scruffs and draped arms around their shoulders. I split.
***
“Angie, grab your stuff, we’re moving.”
“Where to, and how about dinner?”
“No, I mean we’re moving now, like this instant. Pretend the building is on fire, and it just might be.” She caught the urgency in my voice and ran for the bathroom.
“I’ll just put your stuff in with mine. What’s the matter?”
“Usual drill. I don’t know, maybe nothing, but I think some very bad people just learned my full name, and that’s the name on the hotel register.”
She zipped out of the bathroom carrying her
overnight case and swept the room fast with frightened eyes. I picked up her suitcase from the folding stand, and we were out the door.
We did a fast walk the length of the hall and down the stairs. The lobby was empty so I dinged the bell and a receptionist came from the office, wiping sleep out of her eyes. It took thirty seconds to check out. The Dodge was six spaces down the row. This time I’d gotten smart. I’d found an empty cigarette pack in the gutter, ripped the cellophane off, and stuck a sliver in each door. When I opened the passenger door for Angie, the cellophane fluttered out, so I tossed the bags in back and let her get in. Cellophane was in place on my door too, and one can’t open the hood without getting inside. I jumped in, engine started, and we raced for the Polaris building.
“Where are we going?”
“To change cars. Too many people who might be bad may have seen this one.”
“Don’t you ever make a positive statement?”
“I will, if anything positive happens.” We parked the car in the lot and the attendant took the keys. I popped the trunk and collected the shotgun. It was wrapped in Turk’s blanket, but was still pretty obvious and the attendant was staring. There’s nothing illegal about carrying a shotgun, and it wouldn’t even be unusual in your own car, but it did seem a little out of place in a rental. We ran across First Avenue toward the office, Angie leading, me carrying cases and the shotgun.
“Alex, they must know it’s a rented car, so if they know your name and you rent another, they can check on that.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Yeah, let’s use Mary Angela Demoski. They won’t recognize that name.”
“Mary? Even I don’t recognize it.”
“Yep, on my birth certificate, driver’s license, and credit card. I kept my maiden name when I married Stan. Not disloyalty, it just seemed right.”
Angie took charge, stepped up to the counter, and rented a white Buick Regal. I hovered outside the door, trying not to look like a desperado who might want a rental car to rob a bank. Angie came out dangling a key ring. We walked back across the street to the lot and she opened the trunk. I stashed luggage and shotgun in the trunk. Angie nodded her approval and tossed me the keys. “Now where to?”