“Those two retired cops should stay retired and let us boys here at the FBI headquarters do our job.”
“We are the pros at solving major felony crime sprees in the United States. This is our job, and we enjoy the full backing of the Director himself on these cases.”
* * * * *
Later in the evening, a few blocks down the Las Vegas Strip at Caesar’s Palace, Sal is walking or really drifting around the casino, playing a slot machine now and then, as he glances over the area and all the people. After that, Sal goes to the old bank of payphones next to the restrooms and calls Agent Bob back. Sal waits for Bob to pick up the phone.
“Hey, Bob what you got?”
The reply from Agent Bob is, “Actually, one hell of a lot . . . a heck of a lot more than earlier.”
“OK, tell me—please, please, please,” pleads Sal.
“Well . . . how about a company spec-sheet on each pilot and a good photo, I mean a real color photo of each one?”
“Damn! That’s huge! Uuh . . . can you fax it over to me?”
Agent Bob fires back, “Are you crazy? This shit’s classified. They’ll have my ass if I let this info out. About the best I can do is FedEx the stuff to you overnight, but you don’t know where you got it, right?”
Sal offers back, “Got what? Thanks again.”
“You owe me, you owe me big time,” is Bob’s reply. “By the way, I’ve perused every one of these photos and I can’t even make a basic conjecture on which one of these guys might be your suspects. I hope you have something more to work with on your end. Hell, I pray you can add a bit more to help out with your deductions buddy.”
“I do,” is the simple response.
“You owe me, you owe me big time,” again is Bob’s reply as he hangs up the telephone.
All around, the casino is filled with people—rich folks, poor folks, average-Joe types. Some are dressed sharply, some dressed like slobs. Nowadays more than ever, anything, any kind of dress seems to go in Las Vegas. Sal keys on a couple of men who are shooting dice together. He notes one guy seems to match the overall description of the hijackers. He moves around the table to view them from all four different angles as he observes them discreetly for a while.
When Sal is satisfied these two men are not his suspects, he moves on. After a bit, he heads outside toward the cab stand. It’s a warm and clear night, a bit noisy as the different cabs come and go dropping off or picking up their fare. The doorman blows his earsplitting whistle and flags in another cab. He has the driveway well-choreographed as he opens the rear cab door with one hand and discretely accepts a tip with the other.
As the line dwindles at the cab stand, the taxi drives off down the strip once again toward downtown Las Vegas. On the right side are Harrah’s, the Venetian, and the Wynn/Encore. Off to the left side is the Mirage, the Treasure Island, and the sill old, but still somewhat famous Circus, Circus.
The old worn out taxi cab could use a new set of shock absorbers as it rocks back and forth gently as the driver turns up the east side of Binion’s Casino. Sal pays the elderly female cab driver and enters on the east side where the one million dollars encased in a plastic-resin mix is on display. He stops and stares for a moment.
Under his breath, he once again is talking to himself. “Damn. Look at all that money! . . . A couple of east end boys with a pickup truck or stolen wrecker could crash through the door and be gone in less than a minute. Maybe less than 30 seconds. Wow man, dig at all that friggin’ cash,” finally going into the heart of the casino and moving about. Again, the loud and distinctive ding-ding-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding-ding-ding, of the slots dominates the sounds of the entire area.
Next, Sal walks southbound through the heart of the casino toward the front entrance of the main casino to check out the large bank of craps tables, but no one seems to fit the description conjured up in his mind.
He then goes over to the west side blackjack tables, but again, no one fits or even looks remotely like the surveillance photos, so he plays some games. A slot here, a poker machine next, some 5 dollar Blackjack, but his mind is elsewhere—his mind is at work still.
Later in the night, Sal is settled into anther taxi, this time headed southbound down the Las Vegas Strip. This rather pleasant semi-new, but a bit worn Ford taxi cab is headed back towards the center of the action once again. The driver turns right just past the Mirage Casino and Hotel to pull into Caesar’s Palace. A not so young . . . old man with a day’s growth of facial hair is behind the wheel. The name on the cab’s medallion is Oscar.
“You like Caesar’s Palace, my friend?” asks Oscar.
“Uh, uh, it’s OK . . . uh, I’m sort of out here on business.”
“This is one big friggin’ place . . . I’m telling you.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Oh. Well, the city is probably pretty slow right now. If you’re looking for a hooker, I can fix you up.”
With a chuckle, Sal’s reply is, “No, not tonight.
“I’m a, uh . . . I’m a . . .” he paused on saying cop and quickly ad-libbed . . . I’m an insurance investigator.”
On guard now, Oscar doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything of interest with any kind of investigator; to cab driver Mr. Oscar, insurance investigator means a cop.
In a flash, Oscar tries a quick change of subject, “If you don’t want girls, I can’t help you out . . . other than that, I don’t know nothing; I drive a cab.
“What . . . what are you really looking for?”
“Uh, two guys, mid/late fifties, looking like a couple of Air Force Officers out on the town. Seen any?”
“Not tonight. Have you tried the airport?”
“Uhh, yeah,” is Sal’s counter.
Never tiring to be on the Strip once more, Sal realizes that Vegas is still a sight to see . . . and Caesar’s Palace at night is a good as it gets. Sal exits the cab and gazes about marveling at all the lights, the statues, the flowing cascading water, and the overall beauty of the fountains. He walks up the marble steps and then strolls slowly into the casino. Just past Cesar, Sal makes his way down the three marble steps into the gaming pit.
Sal enters the casino area and moves about, looking for any set of two men hanging out together. He checks out the area around the three lavish dice tables and moves toward the Baccarat area where several high-rollers are playing for rather high stakes, but no one seems to fit what he’s looking for. Drifting about, here and there Detective Salvatore methodically checks out the entire casino floor. He takes a brief walk down the mall toward the Forum shops to window shop. Before long, he heads toward the main entrance and back out to the taxi stand.
Back in another worn taxi cab, Sal now wants to head farther south down the strip to the Tropicana Hotel and Casino. In the still night air, the Monte Carlo and Luxor passes by on the right side of the cab. A few hundred feet down on the left across the street from the enormous MGM complex, the cab pulls up to the Tropicana and lets Sal out.
He walks up the white polished marble steps and enters the casino. A few steps into the foyer, Sal is sort of slithering along the wall, like a bug as he takes everything in. This casino is full of people, compared to some of the others. Under his breath, Sal whispers, “Man . . . this place is packed,” and looking about, he mumbles, “must be a big convention in town or something.”
Circling around the inside of the casino, Sal examines the people, stops a moment here and notices all that is about him. A moment later, he moves a few steps and does the entire process again . . . watching, keying on certain ones. Once in a while, he puts a twenty dollar bill in a slot machine to fit in with the crowd. On one lucky machine, an IGT model Triple Diamond Deluxe machine, he wins a couple of hundred dollars on one spin and 80 bucks on one or two more spins. As he moves around, he keeps the c
raps tables in sight, hoping the right people show up. After a while, he heads back toward the front door; again, nothing yet.
The line at the cab stand isn’t too bad. After the ten folks in front of him load up in three different taxi cabs, Sal enters another old beat up cab. A bit tired, but determined, he asks to go to the airport.
“Wow,” he mouths and thinks, “I hope this thing can make it. Still another old beat up taxi cab . . . this one is headed towards the airport . . . if it makes it.
A fake cough trick to clear his throat and Sal asks the driver, “. . . uh, drop me off at the baggage claim area if you don’t mind.”
The cab driver responds, “That’s fine with me. Are you here to meet someone?”
Sal’s answer was, “Uh, looking for someone . . . a pilot.” The cab pulls up to the baggage claim area and then slows down as it, the cab creeps along.
“Friend or foe? Which airline?”
The reply from Sal is, “Uh . . . foe, sort of, a couple of SouthEast Airline pilots.”
“SouthEastern, oh those cheap, low-fare guys. Yeah, uh . . . oh, they’re down here on the far end. For a cheap new airline, they’re not too bad. Have you tried their hotel connection?”
“Uh, huh?” a puzzled Sal asked. “No, I was told by the home office that they didn’t have any special; one, I mean hotel out here—something about too damn many hotels?”
A self-assured cabbie offered, “Oh, I’m sure some of that is true, but those pilots seem to like some of these gigs, the hotels right here at the airport. Hell, they don’t make the kind of money the big boys make . . . like Delta, United, or American. I’d try the Luxor or the Tropicana, they both give pilots a break on their hotel rooms. Hell, on any given night, in those two establishments there could be literally hundreds of pilots staying here in town overnight. You figure some 20 to 30 different airlines flying in and out of here each and every day . . . night. Hell, you got, “Delta, United, Frontier, Southwest, American, Jet Blue, and on and on. Even the corporate pilots and freight hauling pilots get a discount room rate, too.”
“Great, appreciate that info,” replies Sal. He pays the fare and exits the cab into the warn night air.
In the lower baggage claim area, Sal stops here and there, looking about the vast area; observing everyone and everything is a basic form of surveillance. He moves about scrutinizing the people as they claim their bags, and flight crews pass by either going to work or going home. After a moment, he decides to go upstairs to the check-in area so he can view the monitors for incoming flights. There are three more inbound SouthEast flights scheduled to turn up within the next hour or so.
He next moves toward the arrival gates and stops by an open bar. Again not wanting to pass up a good bar, Sal sits on the isolated end so he can check out everyone as they get off the flights. He grabs a beer, another Bud Light as he considers one and all and nothing at all at the same time. He examines everything and everyone out of habit.
Out on the ramp, turning off of taxi-way Hotel, is another SouthEast DC-9-30 series airliner. In short time, the twin jet airplane will be pulling up to its gate, being waved into position by the line personnel with the lighted wands. Inside the plane’s cabin an exceedingly loud overhead speaker announces the arrival of the flight as over one 115 people rush off the airliner down the jet way and dive into the corridors headed toward the baggage claim area . . . toward the action, to stake their claim and to win lots and lots of money.
As the last passengers finally leave the aircraft, Sal merely sits and keeps a close watch on all of this. He is conducting surveillance and taking mental notes. A moment or two later, three female flight attendants appear—these ladies exit the jet way and enter into the airport proper. Less than two minutes later, the two pilots show up and they all walk away as a crew. These two pilots are not the ones. The Captain—the four striper is a sharp looking older black man and he for sure is an ex-Air Force Officer. His young first officer is grinning and having a wonderful time. Basically, one is too young and the other is too old . . . oh yeah, and one is too tall, while the other is too short.
Off in the distance, flying east to west another DC-9-30 lands and turns off onto the taxiways, headed toward their assigned gate. This plane too is directed into the correct and proper parking slot/gate by the line personnel. Once the plane stops, the ground crew takes over unloading the plane, refilling the stores, topping off the fuel tanks with Jet-A and trying to turn the plane in their required 20 minute turn-around time. The next half hour is a busy, in fact hectic, few minutes.
Inside the cockpit, the crew are doing their arrival paperwork and also trying to finish up the DC-9-30’s quick-turn checklist. A bit tired, John offers up, “I’m gonna grab a snack and stretch my legs in the terminal before we fly down to Phoenix, you want anything?
“How about a coke, a fountain Coke, a real Coke,” comes the reply from Tom.
“OK, I’ll try to find one while you finish setting up the plane up for the next leg.”
A kidding Tom comes back with, “Yessa,’ Boss.” I’ll do that and tell these people to hurry up, I want to knock out this quick round trip flight and get back here before the casinos run out of money.”
John grins and says, “Right, yea, right.”
Inside the Vegas McCarran Airport, there are always masses of people in the gate area of the Las Vegas airport. Sometimes more than others, but this evening, it seems to be a bit slow.
John exits into the terminal area without his jacket or hat on . . . only his uniform slacks, white dress shirt, and black tie. He stretches out a little—a quick stretch to the right and a stretch to the left followed by a bit of a golf swing. He next strolls toward the men’s room. A few moments later, he passes by the bar and down to check out a empty newsstand. An interested Detective Sal tracks his movements . . . notes the walk, the demeanor.
He keenly examines that only one pilot has gotten off, and sips on his beer as the passengers line up to board this next flight. A few moments later, John walks up to the bar and orders two fountain Cokes along with two salted pretzels to go. While he’s waiting, he gazes about and exchange glances with this lone gentleman at the end . . . this guy known to his friends as Sal.
After he has paid his food tab, John turns and leaves the bar area. Before long, he takes a pause for a moment . . . John stretches again and heads back to the jet way. Right as he gets to the entrance door, he turns and looks over his left shoulder right at Sal who’s following his every step intently. He wonders to himself . . . why is this guy at the bar watching me so intently, hmmm?
Sal is now racking his brain trying to determine if this guy fits the description he keeps stored in his mental data base. The bartender is washing glasses, working right in front of Sal. The hum of the water pump and clinking glassware permeates the air. A determined Sal under his breath speaks, “That’s weird. I thought most pilots wear those shirts with epaulets on them.”
The highly experienced bartender picks up the conversation. “Not those guys. I know the deal better than most—more of these start up airlines are trying to save money any way they can. They go cheap with plain looking uniforms, white dress shirt, and a simple black tie. Oh, some of them wear those pilot shirts now and then, but they aren’t required to . . . or so I’ve heard.
“Hell, they’ll go broke in a year or two anyway. Been around here serving drinks for 10 years and seen many of start-up airlines come and go . . . that is go broke and go away. Owning an airline is a damn tough business to even try to make a buck in. Everyone likes a safe bet . . . they, I hate to say—will fold. Hell, they’re the new guys here and have only been in business for about four years. Hell, by this time, they’ve already got half their pilots out on furlough.”
An excited Sal offers, softly, “Yeaah, white shirt and simple black uniform tie . . . I know it . . . like in the surveillance photos . .
. I know I’m right. Boys, I’ve gotcha.”
Back at the left forward entrance door of the airplane, John chitchats with the two forward flight attendants before he re-enters the cockpit. Grabbing the center hand hold first, he next kicks his left foot over the seat as he starts the effort of climbing back into his assigned seat. He hands over one official fountain Coke and a semi-fresh pretzel to his cohort.
Tom is kicked back in the right seat reading a copy of WAR-BIRD magazine.
John starts right off with, “There is this guy sitting at the bar who seemed to be awfully interested in me.”
Without looking up, Tom quips, “Most likely thought you had a cute ass. It’s OK these days . . . you know.”
A serious John, fires back. “No, listen . . . I am damn serious here. He appeared to be a cop or a Fed.”
“Hmm, not good” (picking up the mike), “Dispatch, 31 here,” reports Tom.
“Go ahead, 31,” replies a female voice over the speaker.
“We’re all set here on the flight deck, ready for engine start. Let’s board it up and go.”
The same voice answers back. “Roger that, I’ll inform the gate counter.”
Meanwhile in the gate area, everyone is already standing in line, waiting to board. With a call over the PA, the public address system, the line starts moving down the jetway, all 74 people, men, women, and children.
While Detective Sal waits for the last passenger to enter the jet way and get on board, he decides to get up, and at a snail’s pace walks over to one of the large ramp window. At the large window, he smiles as the airplane is being pushed back from its gate with the help of a 10 ton ground tug. From his vantage point, he can peer straight into the two man cockpit and notes Tom’s features in the right seat. He is rather sure now he may have his pair of bank hijackers in sight . . . right in front of him in the cockpit of the silver airplane. He smiles, a job well done. As the plane is pushed further away, he can plainly gaze into the left side of the cockpit some 100 feet away.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 21