The two pilots inside are flipping levers and pushing start buttons as the 98,000 pound airplane is being turned around to face the taxi way. Almost on cue, John raises his head up smartly, almost like his name is called out by a faint voice. His head slow at first turns and looks reluctantly to his left . . . candidly into the lobby gate area windows straight into the eyes of Senior Detective Salvatore . . . once again as a bit of fear comes over him. He immediately turns away.
John, sensing something, in truth feeling something weird, turns to look back out the front side window. Again trying not to appear to be too obvious, he leans to see over his left shoulder; he looks back to note this cop-looking guy staring at him and is startled a little as they make eye contact again. He hastily taps Tom with his right hand, but the airplane is now pushed all the way out on the tarmac. The bird is a bit over 90 degrees to the terminal area. Once it is pushed back by the ground tug to the ground crews’ painted release mark on the ramp, the flight crew can no longer look into the terminal area.
“There!” He blurts out, “there, there he is. That guy, the cop-looking guy . . .” says John.
A cool headed Tom leans forward, looks to his left, and looks about, and asks, “Where? I can’t see into the terminal anyone.
“Let’s go flying, we are safe in here.”
A stressed Tom draws on his military training and settles himself down to the task at hand—to fly this 98,000 pound beast down to Phoenix at 500 mph.
Chapter 13
Current Weather or current METAR: KLAS
2809KT 9SM, Sky Clear, 38/22 A30.39 or in plain language:
Winds are 280 degrees at 9KTS, 9 SM of visibility, Sky Clear, temperature is 38C, dew point22 and the area altimeter setting is 30.30
Las Vegas, Nevada
Back in this gate area, things certainly calmed down and the gate agents are finished up for an hour or two. Our Detective Sal is standing, looking up at the monitors, checking all the flights. He picks up a schedule and thumbs through the pages deep in thought.
Speaking softly to his inner self in yet another one way conversation, he starts, “. . . one more inbound from Phoenix . . . be here at 02:05 am uh, seems to gives me about, uh, three and a half hours to kill.” He next drifts about, sort of killing time. In a roundabout way, he heads back down toward the baggage claim.
After casually walking through the baggage area, our investigator makes his way back to one of the taxi stands. The line is short, and Sal goes to the end to stand in line like everyone else. The greeter smartly hails down a cab. He even opens the right rear door and holds it open until Sal enters the worn out Ford Taurus. His left hand is sort of open, waiting for a tip. That behavior is the norm here in Las Vegas.
With a glance, noting this driver’s slim features, Sal requests, “Circus, Circus . . . the Casino please.”
The taxi is now headed up the Strip, past the MGM Grand Hotel, The Flamingo Hilton, Bally’s, Harrah’s, and the others. Settled in with the other traffic now, the driver starts to talk, the chit-chat. “You like Circus, Circus?”
“Actually, to tell the truth, I’ve never been inside of the place.”
With a quick peek into the rear view mirror, he poses a simply question, “By yourself?”
“Yep.”
Still glancing back at his passenger, he offers, “Uh, looking for some action?”
A grinning Sal offers back. “No . . . actually, I’m working . . . I’m looking for someone.”
Now really looking into his rearview mirror, thinking “Oh shit—this guy might be a cop and I’m in big trouble,” he stares straight ahead.
Salvatore grins and continues the conversation now, “. . . couple of AWOL pilots. Seen any lately?”
A relived cabbie answers, “No not tonight. What did they do?”
“Uh, stole a jet and went AWOL. These two . . . uh a couple of sharp looking guys, officers, lots of cash, I mean lots of cash money . . . big spenders, big gambler types.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware of the type. I was in the Army for six years as an enlisted man, a grunt.”
The taxi cab pulls into Circus Circus complex and stops to let Sal out. After paying the 18 dollar fare with a 20 dollar bill, he walks toward the front door and is once again greeted by the unique sounds of another casino, the distinct sounds of people having fun: The ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding-ding, of the hundreds of slot machines that rattle the casino’s cool air. Sal moves into the crowd for a quick scan over the vast casino layout.
* * * * *
Several hundred miles away by now, the big airliners is finally leveled off at the assigned cruise altitude. Four miles and change above the ground, up in the business end of the jet looking outside, the cockpit reveals a clear night over the southern United States. This DC-9-30 is flying along against a dark sky. The beacons and strobes light her up as she zooms along at 27,000 feet, with a good 50 knot tail wind tonight.
After completing the cruise check list, John starts, “Man, I got a real bad feeling about this dude—uh, the same one I had over Iraq when those jerks shot the shit out of my F-15. I’m telling you, he’s a cop and . . . and he’s watching us.”
“OK, OK, easy. There’s no way they can tie us to these banks. We both agree the disguise works. No one, not even our friends would ever be able to recognize me while I’ve been wearing the get up. You know we tested it out many times and even my own mother couldn’t figure out it was me unless she heard me speak.”
“Yes, but this fucker had a certain demeanor about him,” says John. “I’m telling you, he’s a cop . . . Some old salt, Super Detective like Kojak, Sherlock Holmes, or Colombo . . . or . . . or and he’s on our six o’clock position with his finger on the button.”
A soothing Tom comes back with, “Please, it’ll be all right; calm down. Pay attention young man, here is what we’re gonna’ do. We’re going to land in Phoenix, drop off these 70 something folks, then pick up our new set of passengers and fly right back up here to Las Vegas. After that, we’re gonna’ park this airplane, check into our rooms, and promptly go out on the town. Barking orders, Tom bellows, “You hear me, Mister?”
A somewhat calm John replies, “OK, but we’ve got to be careful. I got a call from my mechanic today and he said the ’ol girl will be ready by the end of the week. I can’t wait to take her out for a spin.”
“Yeah, but are you sure you can ride her, cowboy?” asks Tom. “She might be a bit too much for you to handle, young man,” comes another low blow with a chuckle.
“Hey, I got another card trick to show ya’,” says Tom with a grin. It’s his way of changing the subject and his way of trying to ease the stress on young John.
“No, no, not until you tell me how in the hell you can do all these damn card tricks. I’m not gonna’ bite this time. What is it . . . the trick. Do you mark the cards somehow?
A somewhat serious Tom smiles and offers, “Now you’re on the right trail—hound dog; keep digging.”
* * * * *
Once inside the casino, Sal is moving about playing some video poker and slots while he examines the crowds of people. Paying attention to the time, he plays a game here and one there. At one point, he stops by a craps table and makes some bets. He wins a few dollars, then drifts back over to the video poker machines and hits a small jackpot for 900 dollars.
In a soft voice, Sal talks with the machine. He whispers, “Damn, I could get used to this.” He collects his winnings and cashes out at the casino cage before heading once again outside to the taxi stand. The concierge takes his tip and sends Sal off in another taxi south bound down the Strip.
Another hot night here in Las Vegas, Nevada . . . especially at the airport with all the miles and miles of concrete drives. A yellow and white taxi cab pulls up and stops. The heat here is always present, radiating off of the tons of concre
te. Sal exits the cab and enters the terminal area. He checks the monitors and notes that the in-bound flight is on time from Phoenix. Next, he badges his way through the security check and heads toward the arrival gate area bar. Again, almost without thinking about it, he grabs a bar stool at one end of the bar.
A rather large fat man named José comes by to take his drink order. “What can I get you, sir,” says José.
Sal’s reply is, “How about a cold beer, a real cold Bud Light.” He grabs the beer and keeps an eye on the minutes as they click away on his Rolex watch. As the hour gets near, he moves back toward the bank of payphones so he can monitor the situation without being observed. The gate agent announces the arrival of the flight and the passengers start entering into the gate area. A few of them head straight for the bank of slot machines to start gambling, almost like a gasp for a breath of air. This city does something to the people. It has some sort of spell that she can cast upon the masses.
After 10 minutes or so three female flight attendants enter, turn and walk away toward the terminal dragging their suitcases and gear. The crew is finally through for the day. Shortly thereafter, Captain John appears followed by Captain Tom. Sal smiles to himself as he detects them walking away, noting how they walk . . . almost march in unison down the gate area towards their Flight Operations Room.
Good at surveillance, Sal is able to follow and keep a loose tail on the two. Sal grins and speaks to no one, “Watch his step . . . his stride. No doubt about it—he’s our boy.” Sal follows at a decent pace and still lags somewhat behind. An accomplished individual at covert surveillance, he is adept at using his surrounding for cover to blend into the background. Facing away from his target, he monitors the two pilots using a large shop window as a mirror.
The two crewmen stop by their Flight Operations Office for a few moments. A short fifteen minutes later, the guys head back toward the flight crew shuttle van/taxi cab area. John is a being a bit cautious or nervous and keeps checking around, looking back over his shoulder to see if they’re being followed. He, too, is no fool. He’s an ex-US Air Force trained fighter pilot . . . and his gut instincts are telling him something is up . . . to be cautious.
A short time later, only a few hundred yards from the airport, a shuttle van, followed by a couple of taxi cabs arrive at the Trop. The Tropicana Hotel and Resort, even though she is an old girl when compared to the new modern Las Vegas, is still a beautiful lady, especially at night. Built back in 1957, she recently completed a fresh make over and still appears grand in the shadows of the mega resorts up and down the Strip.
The hotel is said to be by the locals like an extraordinarily famous movie star. She had a starring role in the 1964 Elvis Presley Film Viva Las Vegas which also co-starred Ann Margaret. Later in 1971 she starred in a James Bond film Diamonds Are Forever. She even made a scene or two in the original Godfather film made in ’72. This is more than appropriate, since she—in point of fact, does hold old world mob connections back to the famous mobster Mr. Frank Costello. She even had a small part in the second Godfather movie, too.
The hotel crew shuttle van pulls up and out of the white metal shell, and five flight crew members sort of bail out onto the driveway. With the help of the driver, they gather their bags from the rear of the one ton Chevrolet courtesy van. Once inside the two sets of wide glass doors, they turn a fast left and head toward the front desk to check in. At the check-in counter, there is a special line for flight crews and other local VIPs. In less than five minutes, each crew member grabs up their electronic room keys and head toward the south bank of elevators.
Sixty seconds later, another ragged taxi cab with a bad squeak pulls up and a tired Sal exits in foyer. He walks into the main entrance to the hotel and casino gaming area. Once inside, Sal is there to glance around a bit . . . here . . . there, but he’s smiling now, because deep down inside he has figured this one out. A sense of relief or accomplishment settles in over him.
He always had a knack for figuring things out. Ever since he was a kid, he took things apart and would take the time to figure out how to put them back together. He took apart his dad’s lawn mower, his small transistor radio, his bicycle, his junior high-school trumpet . . . it didn’t matter. He could sort of take anything apart and put it back together.
Inside the Tropicana Casino tonight the place is to some extent busy inside. People are playing dice, blackjack, slots, you name the game and somebody is gambling. Someone in the distance—yells out a brief “Yea!” when they hit their number and others sulk if they miss. The game tables are full tonight, and the waitresses are carrying trays full of drinks, trying to keep everyone happy . . . and perhaps a wee bit drunk.
Kind of hiding in and out of the shadows, sort of lying low, off to one side, Sal is where he can watch the elevators as he plays some dollar slots. A few minutes later, Tom and John enter the lobby and head toward the gaming area. They have both ditched their jackets, but are still wearing their white dress shirts and company issued black tie, and the two go straight to a craps tables and get into a game. Mr. Tom pulls out five 1,000 dollars in 100 bills, while John gets only a thousand or so to start with. They make some bets; Tom always bets big, while John makes only a few 100 dollar bets, here and there, but picks the pace up a bit.
Tonight, Lady Luck must be busy somewhere else, because they lose almost every single bet. A six here, a nine, a five, another six, the guy shooting rolls a seven and everyone loses; that is except the house. Welcome to the wonderful game of craps.
John later moves over to a 100 dollar Blackjack table and plays for a while, but he keeps looking about. After only a few more moments, Tom loses the last of his pocket money and like all craps shooters, he’s ready to go elsewhere . . . this table is cold, ice cold. He walks over to John. When the time is right or correct in between the deal of the cards, he speaks, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“One more hand,” is the response. “Where you want to go . . . Caesars?”
“Yep . . . not having much luck here—you?”
“No, let’s go, I need to run back up to the room real quick.” said Tom.
“Yeah, me too, I need a wee bit a cash myself,” is the response.
Another ragged old taxi cab heads north along the strip. He’s headed toward the Caesar’s Palace Hotel and Casino—about half way up the strip on the left next door to the now famous Bellagio Hotel and Casino. She’s famous for her world class dancing water fountains out front in her giant man-made lake. She’s referred to as The Bellagio, not the Bellagio Hotel and Casino as in days gone by. The cab weaves in and out of the mix of traffic; the driver is yakking on his cell phone in some complex foreign language. Intermingled in with all the other traffic, he drives north bound trying to get past a fast closing yellow light.
Far behind, but catching up is another taxi cab with Sal inside. He speaks. “Follow that cab.”
The young male cabbie, named Jack, peers into the rearview mirror and asks, “Seriously . . . like in the movies?”
A firm voice responds, “Yes . . . don’t lose him.”
A now determined cabby offers, “I won’t.”
“Right here . . . he . . . they’re pulling into Caesar’s Palace. Terrific . . . now slow down, I don’t want them to see me. Uh, let’s make the block and you can drop me off.”
“Certainly—this is so cool,” answers Jack.
In due process, Sal enters into the front doors of the casino and moves along the north wall toward the gift shop, like a bug always staying in the shadows. He makes his way along the near wall, using a tall row of slot machines to keep him somewhat covered and out of sight. Right off, he spots Tom walking up to the dice tables. “Yep, that’s the walk . . . that is the determined walk,” he speaks ever so softly to no one.
Tom settles into a gaming pit and decides on a 25 dollar craps table. Reaching into his right pocket, he p
ulls out a nice bundle of cash. With a look around the area, Sal sets a bead on Tom at the craps tables, but can’t pick up John. A moment later, John emerges from the restroom rubbing his hands together, and he finishes drying his hands on his pants over by the side payphones area. Sal tracks him as he heads toward the 100 dollar Blackjack tables. John is now ready to play and starts to bet 500 bucks a hand.
Off to the right, as the dice come around to Tom, he starts betting big and winning big. His first roll is a seven and his 1,000 dollar bet turns into 2,000 dollars. Now, the game starts hopping; a crowd slowly gathers and a beautiful woman is eyeing Tom, who is now puffing on a big cigar and having a wonderful time. She’s a tall slender working girl . . . 1,000 dollars a night working girl with large fake boobs and a short skirt. She has found what she is looking for tonight—a good looking, tall rich guy tossing around lots of 100 dollar bills.
While he’s watching the show, Sal puts a few 20 dollar bills in a dollar slot machine and the rather raucous machine hits. The bells ring, a loud ding-ding-ding and the lights blink, but Salvatore is not too excited at this awfully deafening machine trying to draw all this attention toward him. Under his breath, he mumbles to the machine, “Shit, shh, shh . . . damn.”
A couple of slots over from Sal sits a polite elderly couple playing and wondering what is wrong with that man . . . complaining about winning. After collecting his paper winning ticket, Sal moves quickly away. He backs out and makes his way around toward the other side of the room.
After cashing in his winnings in at the casino cage, Sal goes to the right far end of the bar and grabs a beer to survey all that’s going on. Now, more than ever, convinced that these are the ones, he mulls things over in his head, while he half-ass plays the bar’s video poker machine.
Sal, still mumbling under his breath says, “Perfect team . . . pair of bad guys. My boy over there playing blackjack has got to be the driver, perhaps the brains—low keyed, somewhat conservative, probably got out as a Captain, possibly a Major . . . Air Force.
Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured Page 22