The Scorpio Illusion Part 30

"The way I feel, Minnie Mouse could do that."

"I gather youre not flying today."

"Oh, no, Ive got too much respect for reflexes to get near a plane."

"Glad to hear it. You havent got a h.e.l.l of a lot of respect for much else."

"I dont need a lecture from you, sailor, I just need to know you can help me."

"Why should I? The man was dead."

"What?"

"You heard me, that air controller was shot, a bullet in the middle of his forehead."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Maybe you tipped someone off that we were going after him."

"How? You tore out the phone!"

"Im sure there are others-"

"One other, and its in my room on the third floor, and if you think I could have managed those steps last night, then Im in the wrong business. I should have been an actor. Also, why would I? I want your help."

"A certain logics on your side.... Then we must have been followed here. Whoever it was knew wed found you but figured we were looking for someone else beyond you."

"You know what youre saying, dont you?" Simons cold eyes were riveted on Hawthorne. "Youre saying that since Im part of the chain, I could be next-with a bullet in my forehead!"

"The thought crossed my mind-"

"Well, for Christs sake, do something!"

"What do you suggest?... Incidentally, after three oclock this afternoon Im occupied with another matter. Ill be gone."

"And leave me in this f.u.c.king mess?"

"Lets put it this way," said Tyrell, glancing at his watch. "Its six-fifteen, so weve got roughly nine hours to figure something out."

"You could get me protection in nine G.o.dd.a.m.ned minutes!"

"Its not that easy. Taxpayers money used to harbor a rogue U.S. pilot who happens to own a wh.o.r.ehouse? Think of the congressional hearings."

"Think of my life!"

"Last night you challenged me to pull the trigger-"

"I was drunk, for G.o.ds sake! Youre so f.u.c.king pure, you never got p.i.s.sed and found out that you didnt particularly like the way things were?"

"Ill let that pa.s.s. Weve still got nine hours, so lets start thinking. And the better you think, the closer I am to getting you protection.... How did they first recruit you?"

"h.e.l.l, it was years ago, I can hardly remember-"

"Remember now!"

"A big guy, like you, but with gray hair, very high-cla.s.s; good-looking face-yknow, like those advertis.e.m.e.nts for fancy mens clothes. He came to me and said that all the bad bulls.h.i.+t about me could be stricken from the records if I did what he wanted."

"Did you?"

"Sure, why not? I started running Cuban cigars-can you believe that, Cuban cigars-they came wrapped, waterproof cartons dropped by instant chutes into the fis.h.i.+ng grounds forty miles off the Keys in Florida."

"Drugs," said Hawthorne, no question in his reply.

"They sure as h.e.l.l werent cigars."

"And you kept doing this?"

"Let me tell you something, Commander. I got a couple of kids in Milwaukee Ive never even seen, but theyre mine. I dont push drugs, and when I put two and two together and came up with four, I told them I was out. Thats when the big fancy man, who walked like a swish, made it clear that the government would come down on me like a meat ax. I either did what they said or I was in Leavenworth. I wouldnt be able to send any more money to Milwaukee. For my two kids Ive never seen."

"Youre a very complicated man, Mr. Pilot."

"Tell me about it. I need a drink."

"Your bars within lurching distance. Get one. And then start thinking further."

"Well," said the damaged wh.o.r.emaster, weaving toward the bar. "Theres always, like maybe once, twice, or three times a year, an uptight son of a b.i.t.c.h with a jacket and a tie who comes here and asks for the best toaster-"

"Toaster?"

"Oral s.e.x, what can I say?"

"And?"

"He has a good time, but he never touches the girl, you know what I mean?"

"Its not exactly in my frame of reference."

"He never takes his clothes off."

"So?"

"So thats not exactly natural. So, naturally, I got curious and had one of my girls give him a rocket-"

"A rocket?"

"A little powder in his drink that sends him into s.p.a.ce."

"Thank you."

"And guess what we found? In his wallet are a dozen IDs, business cards, country club members.h.i.+ps, the whole ball of wax. Hes a lawyer, a real high-cla.s.s attorney from one of those megabucks firms in Was.h.i.+ngton."

"What was your conclusion?"

"I dont know, but its not normal, you know what I mean?"

"Im not sure I do."

"A zipper-jock like that can get whatever he wants in the uptown joints-why does he come downtown? To a place like this?"

"Because it is 'downtown. Anonymity, thats understandable."

"Maybe, but maybe not. The girls tell me hes always asking questions. Like who are my customers; who looks maybe Arab or light-skinned African-what the h.e.l.l has that got to do with good old plain s.e.x?"

"You think hes a conduit?"

"I dont know what that means."

"Someone who carries information, but doesnt necessarily know from whom to whom."

"You got me."

"Could you identify him? In case his IDs were garbage."

"Sure. Cla.s.s acts stand out down here." The pilot poured himself a half gla.s.s of Canadian whiskey, downing it with several swallows. "Similis similibus curantor," he intoned while closing his eyes and belching.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Its an old medieval prayer. Translated, it means 'the hair of the dog. "

"Okay, weve got two 'cla.s.s acts: The man who recruited you, and a lawyer from D.C. who doesnt take off his clothes in a wh.o.r.ehouse. Whatre their names?"

"The recruiter called himself Mr. Neptune, but I havent seen him or talked to him in years. The legal beagles name is Ingersol, David Ingersol, but like I said, he may be just a weird cipher."

"Well check him out.... Before Gorda, what was your last job?"

"My bread and b.u.t.ter, besides this place, is legit tourist stuff-"

"I mean related to your recruiter," Tyrell interrupted.

"Seaplane runs, usually once a week, sometimes twice, to a crummy little island you can barely find on the charts."

"With a cove, a short dock, and a house built into the hill."

"Yeah! How did you know?"

"Its gone."

"The island?"

"The house. What did you fly there? Or who?"

"Supplies, mainly. Lots of fruit and vegetables and fresh meat-whoever lived there didnt like frozen junk. And visitors, guests for the day who Id pick up late in the afternoon; they never stayed overnight. Except one."

"What do you mean? Who was it?"

"No names were ever used. She was a woman and one h.e.l.l of a looker."

"A woman?"

"And then some, pal. French, Spanish, or Italian, I dont know which, but a long-legged broad, maybe in her thirties."

"Bajaratt!" whispered Hawthorne to himself.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. When did you last see her? Where?"

"A couple of days ago. I dropped her off at the island after picking her up in St. Barts."

Tyrell gasped, his breath suspended, no air permitted into his lungs. Madness!... Dominique?

16.

"Youre lying!" Hawthorne gripped the pilot by his soiled s.h.i.+rt, causing the man to drop his gla.s.s, which shattered on the floor. "Who the h.e.l.l are you? First you use my name for a killer on your f.u.c.king plane from Gorda, now youre telling me a close friend, a very close friend, is the psycho b.i.t.c.h half the world is looking for! Youre a G.o.dd.a.m.ned liar! Who put you up to it?"

"Whats all this caterwaulin about?" A startled Jackson Poole, awakened by the noise, swung his legs over the chaise longue.

"Let go of me, you fruitcake!" The pilot clutched at the bar to steady himself. "You got shoes on; I dont and theres broken gla.s.s all over the place!"

"And in ten seconds Ill sc.r.a.pe your face across it! Who told you to do this?"

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?"

"Its Amsterdam all over again! What do you know about Amsterdam?"

"For Christs sake, Ive never been there!... Lemme go!"

"The woman on St. Barts! Light or dark hair?"

"Dark. I told you, Italian or Spanish-"