Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured
Page 15
His inner thoughts race on. “This isn’t working well thus far, but I hate to go to the Feds with this. I was figuring the PIO office would give more information than she offered me. Oh Vince here is squirming in his seat. He thinks the Feds can do something with my information, but if I can’t take this to court yet, they damn sure can’t either. He doesn’t understand what it takes to build a case, a good case that will hold up in court . . .” Taking a sip of coffee, he continues to debate. “I need a bit more time and a bit of a break. Hell I’m not much on luck, but right now, I’ll take a bit of luck. I know I’ll spot the guy when he walks by.” Sal appreciates if he watches the company pilots long enough he’ll be able to match the walk with the surveillance videos and that’s good enough to take into court. He needs a week maybe a week or two at the most to scrutinize all of SouthEast’s pilots.
Vince starts to talk. “Sal, I can’t stay in Phoenix past 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. I have a big budget meeting that I’m required to attend tomorrow afternoon. I’m already booked on the 10:30 flight back to Chicago . . . furthermore I’m getting a lot of heat to bring in the Feds. I can’t hold them off more than a week if I am lucky, OK,” said Vince.
“Yea, sure,” is Sal’s tepid response.
As soon as the airliner touched down, all of the 76 passengers start turning on their BlackBerrys and cell phones. Vince likewise kicks on his BlackBerry and reads some new emails as they reach the gate.
“Ah, crap,” says Vince. “I have to head out now, my staff needs me home as soon as possible. Corporate has changed the rules on our presentation tomorrow.”
“Good,” Sal thinks, but instead he says, “Well, OK if you need to go, I understand . . . look I’ll keep working here and give you an update if I find anything worthwhile.” Yes, in reality that’s fine with Sal because Vince is being a pain in the neck . . . like a bored six year old kid.
After gathering up their luggage from baggage claim, Sal heads off to the crew shuttle van area. Vince however, goes back to the ticket counters trying to get on the next flight to Chicago. In no time, numerous crews pass by waiting on their ride to their prospective hotels. Several crew members are from SouthEast Airlines, but none of the men match the description of the bank robbers. After only thirty minutes, Sal is bored and ready to head off to the Hotel, but still he has barely settled into his routine. Long hours of surveillance are no stranger to Detective Salvatore A. Joseph. However, some days are easier to deal with than others.
Not having any luck here, and a bit bored watching the few crews pass by, Sal decides to head over to Las Vegas. He figures he has a good chance to spot his Hijackers by checking out the Casinos each night. He finally deduces he actually has a better chance of spotting his crooks at a casino since they probably spend many of their days off in Sin City gambling. A quick walkover to the flight schedule monitors, he reads that there is a flight to Vegas leaving in about three hours. Sal grabs his bag, heads up to the departing flight counters to purchase a ticket then heads out for a bite to eat and a beer.
An hour later, Sal is back watching the crew departing area. Nothing, nothing he thinks. “This was a big waste of time sitting here. I don’t care what the PIO lady told me, about Phoenix being a crew base. I can see twice as many Southeast Airline Pilots’ passing through Vegas each day as this friggin’ place,” whispers Sal.
Moving about, walking toward the cab stand, his cell phone rings. Looking at the number, he winces, it’s Vince calling.
“Ah, crap, what does he want now,” Sal whispers as he, answers the phone.
“Sal, hey we need to talk. Uh, I got an ass chewing from my boss . . . uhhh,” starts Vince as he clears his throat. Vince starts to talk again, trying to gather himself. “Uh, Sal, look . . . I’d certainly like to go to the FBI with this information. You’ve done a good job, getting this far, but I’ve got an obligation to my company and my ass . . . my job is hanging on this case.”
“Really, I understand where you are coming from, but they will merely spook these guys and you’ll never catch ’em,” replies Salvatore.
He continues. “Right now, it is fine with me or my company; the big boss wants the Feds, the FBI brought in!”
A quick and loud burst came out, “What,” exclaims Sal.
“Yeah, I got called yesterday, but I didn’t want to tell you yet. Now I’m given until noon tomorrow to contact the FBI or they will and I’m out of a job.”
A peeved Sal adds, “Vince, didn’t you tell them what would happen?”
A responding Vince answers, “Yes, but they don’t care. If these two stop . . . that’s good enough for my boss . . . we understand what our loses are and we can pay up and move on. It is merely an organized business decision we need to make.”
“But, I need . . .” Sal is cut off.
“Don’t waste your breath. I’m under orders and I need my job.”
“Right, I understand,” is the reply from Sal. Inside, Sal’s mind is racing. “Weenies—fuckin’ weenies! No fucking backbone to fade the heat. That’s what’s wrong with this country. No one is willing to stand up, to do the right thing anymore. Oh tell ’em to quit and we will be happy, blah, blah, blah; everyone gets a fuckin’ trophy bullshit! Makes me wanna’ puke, Ahhhhh!”
“Sal, those are my orders, noon tomorrow, bye,” and Vince signs off.
Moving this way around and about the airport lobby, Sal walks toward the baggage claim area again with all the other passengers. On the walls are advertisements for Las Vegas, Las Vegas, and more Las Vegas. Caesar’s Palace, The Rio, The Luxor, The Golden Nugget, and so on.
A small group of Army Officers walk, almost march by, wearing their full dress Class A uniforms right down to their shinny black dress shoes. Out to the right, through the large glass windows, two incredibly loud, flat gray painted Marine F-18 Fighter Jets taxi up and park; Sal stops to scrutinize . . . what a sight. The two Fighter Jocks raise their canopies and next climb over the left side of their jets. Heat plumes rise off the tarmac on this hot Phoenix evening.
Like magic, Sal finds another piece of the puzzle. He dashes over to a bank of payphones and dials the Houston Office of the FBIs toll free 800 number. Salvatore isn’t a bit surprised to find that old Vince is at last showing he is just a little bit more pissed off since he’s outside of the loop. Vince always did hate lone-wolves . . . even if they were good at their jobs.
Sal, dialing the phone realizes however, that it’s past closing back in Houston and hangs up the receiver. Reaching for his cell phone, he dials Bob’s cell number. “Bob, Sal here.”
Agent Bob answers with, “Hey, man where in the world are you?”
“I’m in Phoenix . . . no, yeah, but I’m headed over to Vegas, but I need you to do something for me.”
“Depends—are you still checking on the Bank Robber case?” “Yeah, I need you to tap into the FAA’s computers and get me a list of all the pilots who are ex-military working for SouthEast Airlines.”
“You don’t want much do you?” is the quick comeback from Bob. “Sal, I can’t go digging around without a reason, someone ’round here will get their feelings hurt. And . . . and I’ll get my butt in a sling.”
“Bob, Robert . . . goomba . . . you said that you wanted to show DC up, didn’t you. Hear me out, you’re my trump card and I need your help to play it now. No kidding, no bull this is for real. I figured out who is pulling off these jobs.”
Bob through the receiver, “Yea, but,”
Sal, negotiating now says, “Bob, just do it so no one else gets wind about it. I’m 99% sure this guy, these guys jacking all those banks works for SouthEast Airlines and in a couple of hours or so, this insurance guy is gonna’ tell the DC boys anyway. Look, you appreciate as well as I do—these guys will disappear and no one will ever catch them or have a case made on them.”
“OK, but you’ll owe me big t
ime: call me in about an hour,” said Bob. Sal hangs up and turns toward the cab stand again, moving around some jerk standing in the middle of the isle talking on his cell phone. Sal walks back over to the large window where the two jet fighters are, more aggravated than ever and decides to call Vince one more time. “Vince, uh, call your office and try to get me another day or two. I’m damn close here I should get an answer in a few . . .”
A condescending Vince cuts him off in mid-sentence and fires right in. “Sorry, Sal, I can’t do that. You see, I feel the same way they do, the same way the home office does. We need to bring the Feds in so they can solve this (acting like a prick). Sal, don’t take this personal, but I’ve been ordered back to the office, and you’re off the case.”
A bit confused and pissed Sal simply answers. “OK.”
Vince, now in actuality acting like a superior lieutenant (talking down to him) starts with, “Look Sal, you’ve earned your two weeks salary, so send us a bill, and go home! You’ll be paid for your services.” With those words said . . . “I’ve gotta’ go” and he hangs up.
Sal is stunned, but more than that . . . he is also pissed! Under his breath, he barks, “What a prick! What a fucking asshole! Damn! Damn! I realized I couldn’t trust that prick . . . that pencil pushing jerk! Fuck! Fuckin’ Jerk! What a prick.”
Drifting around for a moment, looking out the windows, walking here and there, he finally makes his way over to an airport bar. He sits at the corner of the bar and grabs a beer, a real Bud this time. He’s mad and hurt at the same time as he keeps looking at his well worn timepiece. Across the way on the far wall is another large set of poster advertisements for Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles.
Still speaking to himself, “What a jerk! I help these guys out and this is the way they treat me. Fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em, I say. Let the Feds fuck it up and I’ll sit back and watch.” He takes a drink and continues, “. . . that’s what they want, so that’s what they deserve . . . man I’m fuckin’ close . . . weenies. Fuckin’ weenies . . . tell them to stop robbing banks and we can all sing Kum Ba Yah and hold hands.”
Chapter 10
Current Weather or current METAR: KLAS
10012KT 9SM—RA OVC16 28/19 A29.88 or in plain language:
Winds are 100 degrees at 12KTS, 9 SM of visibility, light rain, overcast sky at only 1600 feet, temperature is 28C, dew point 19 and the area altimeter setting is 29.88
Las Vegas, Nevada
Against a deep blue afternoon sky, Sal is seated in on another SouthEast Airlines DC-9-32 series aircraft this time headed toward Las Vegas, in the southern part of State of Nevada. He keeps looking at his watch, his beat up Rolex Sub-Mariner he bought when he was on R&R. while station overseas in the Air Force. He waits and waits for the correct time when he can call his good friend Special Agent Bob back. The overhead speaker comes on as the airplane pushes back from the gate. The flight attendants begin the process with the FAA required passenger briefing, but everyone seems excited about going to Las Vegas . . . except Sal—he’s without a shred of doubt now on a mission.
Sort of . . . kind of paying attention, he listens as the blond flight attendant starts to speak. “. . . today’s flight is a short one over to Las Vegas so I would like to have your attention for a moment as we are going to point out the important safety features on this McDonnell Douglas DC-9 series aircraft.”
Fifteen minutes into the flight, Sal pulls out the in-flight telephone and swipes his credit card. A glance at the instructions . . . the part of five buck for the first minute . . . about with the confusing instructions, he connects and places the call to Bob.
“. . . can you hear me? Hello, hello . . . I’m in the air flying to Las Vegas.”
Agent Bob’s voice answers, “Yeah, but you sound like you are talking into a tin-can. Uh, I’m still checking. A friend of mine over in the tech squad is running . . . uh, the item we talked about. Call me back in a half hour or so.”
“OK, thanks buddy,” says Sal.
He sits back as the flight attendants arrive and offer him a snack bag of cheap pretzels and to take his drink order. He subsequently eats the snack crackers, drinks a beer, and picks up the in-flight magazine once again. He holds it, almost caressing the former tree in his hands as if the paper somehow holds all the answers.
Like yesterday, like tomorrow, the Las Vegas McCarran International airport is always busy. The vast area has four long runways, basically two running north to south and the other ones pointing east to west. SouthEast’s DC-9 airliner is on short final to land on runway two-five right. The airplane makes a nice one bounce landing and taxis north bound on taxiway H (hotel)to the assigned terminal arrival gate.
Inside, the McCarran International Airport proper is all aglow with people coming into and heading home from the desert city. The sounds, those unique sounds of McCarran International Airport greet the passengers as they de-plane, some rushing for the terminal slots area calling out to everyone: ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding. Others head this way and some toward the baggage area. Several folks appear to be lost. Not a clue on where they are going to. Everyone is in a hurry. Some are in a hurry for real and others seem to rush because everyone else is running about. Some folks come here to go gamble, to claim their fortune, except Detective Salvatore. He heads toward an old bank of real working payphones on the south wall.
Sal punches in the FBI Houston 1-800 number on a payphone, dialing away, stops and hangs up, a bit aggravated. Said phone does not work, so his right hand grabs his cell phone again and calls Bob’s cell number. He turns, takes a quick look around, observing the people and all the advertisements for the Casinos. Agent Bob’s voice is on the other end. “Hello.”
“Bob, hey can you hear me.”
“I’m on the other line; call back in ten, Bye” Came back the quick answer, followed by a click.
“Ahhhhh, damn.” A puzzled Sal figures, someone must have been peering over Bob’s shoulder. He turns and walks away looking up at the directional signs. With the minor task done, he takes off towards the baggage area and taxi cab stand.
The Las Vegas airport taxi stand is always busy . . . exceedingly busy. Day or night, here in baggage claim time does not matter. Here like always, hundreds if not more people in the different cab lines. When Sal gets to the cab stand, he stops and glances about checking out the area. Grasping in the entire mass of people running over themselves he absorbs his surroundings. Sal looks about, as he gets into the shortest cab line; a young cabbie asked him if he needs a cab.
He quickly answers, “Yes.”
However, Sal quickly notes the differences in the montage of cabbies, from young studs to old salts, men, women, foreigners, and stops. Sal changes his mind and offers up a, “no. Uh, I need an “Old Salt.”
The puzzled, young cabbie, asks a quizzical, “Old Salt, huh?”
Sal continues, “Yeah kind of, uh . . .” pointing into the stack of cab drivers, “like this guy, someone old . . . someone who’s driven or worked around here for twenty years.”
He points toward an older black male driver with a white beard. The young driver, fires back. “Hey man, I’m next up, but if you want an old guy, go talk to him, I don’t care. Ok let the kind people behind you come on around.”
Sal slides out of the way and weaves his way down the line of cabbies searching for the older man he spotted a moment ago.
“Sir, sir,” in a comforting respectful tone, asks Sal. “Sir?
The name’s Calvin, Mr. Calvin. What can I do for ya’?”
“Got ya’,” says Sal. “I’m looking for someone who driven the town, you seem to me as someone whose been driving a cab around here for years.”
Mr. Calvin continues, “Been driving up and down this strip since the 60s. I may not be the oldest cabbie, but I damn sure can get around this here Las Vegas.”
Mr.Calvin doesn’t miss a beat and says “Uh, my services will cost you 250 dollars plus meals. Get in, I’m hungry.”
A grinning, Salvatore gets in and Mr. Calvin starts off working his way to the Las Vegas strip weaving his cab in and out of mini traffic jam here at the exit of the airport.
The interior of the cab is as one might expect your typical Las Vegas cab full of all kinds of free coupon books and ads. The cab starts rolling as they mingle in with the traffic and take off north bound down the street.
A quizzing, Sal, asks, “Uh, where we going?”
Mr. Calvin offers back, “To eat. You’re either a lawyer, a bounty hunter, or a cop. What are you, young man?”
A grinning Sal answers, “Actually, I’m a retired cop, a detective, but now I’m an insurance investigator. You’re good, pretty darn good.”
A now grinning back, Calvin offers back, “Like I said, I’ve been driving cabs around here for a long, long time.”
The ride is a rather short drive from the McCarran International Airport to the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard South and Tropicana Avenue. As the car arrives into circle drive for the Luxor Hotel and Casino drive at 3900 Las Vegas Boulevard South, Calvin valet parks his cab today.
A brief look out the rear window and Sal asks, “What’s here?”
Mr. Calvin’s answer was brief and to the point, “Food, I told you I was hungry. Come on along with me. In here, we have an enormous all day buffet, and we can talk inside while we eat.”
A brisk walk westward and the two men enter the grand pyramid. Calvin walks toward the back of the casino and down to the lower level buffet. They pass all sorts of casino games, dice, blackjack, slot machines, and so on with their associated sounds. Especially the ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding: from the hundreds of fancy new electronic slot machines. As is typical of all your gambling casinos, you’re required by design to walk through the entire casino in order to get to the restaurant area.