He looked around but did not see Laura’s car anywhere. With a shrug, he went into the airport office. The manager was behind the desk, watching the Dodgers playing the Reds on a small television set. Jake had talked to the man several times on the phone over the last two weeks, arranging for hangar space. He now knew that man’s name was Dave Harlan and that he had been working at this airport since 1974.
Harlan looked up as Jake entered and gave him a nod. “Jake,” he greeted, not the least surprised to see him, undoubtedly because the flight plan Jake had filed had informed him of the pending arrival. “Good flight in?”
“It was,” Jake said. “The weather was good, clear skies, hardly any turbulence, and a nice, soft landing.”
“The way it should be,” Dave agreed. “You ready to move into the hangar?”
“Yes, I am,” Jake told him. “I brought cash for the first month’s rent. I hope that’s okay.”
“Cash is just fine with me,” he said.
“In subsequent months you’ll get a check from my accounting firm.”
“Your accounting firm?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito. They handle all my finances for me and pay all my bills.”
“Japs, huh?” he asked, suspiciously.
“They make very good accountants,” Jake assured him, pulling out his wallet. He pulled out two twenties and a ten and laid them down on the counter. Dave picked them up and put them in a drawer. He then handed Jake a pair of dollar bills in change and scribbled out a receipt.
“Here you go,” Dave said. He then reached in another drawer and pulled out a set of keys. He dropped them into Jake’s hand. “Number thirteen. Hope you’re not superstitious.”
“Not at all,” Jake said.
“Good to hear,” Dave grunted. “Lots of people are afraid of parking their plane in old thirteen. It’s been empty these past three years now.”
“Interesting,” Jake said, since some reply seemed necessary.
“Isn’t it?” Dave asked. He then looked pointedly at Jake. “So, folks in town been talking about that big old house you built up there on the cliffside.”
“It’s not that big,” Jake said.
“More than eight thousand square feet they say,” he said. “And a guest house next to it with another eighteen hundred. And a garage that can fit five cars. And they say you been looking for a swimming pool contractor too.”
Jake raised his eyebrows a bit. “They say a lot, don’t they?”
“They do,” Dave concurred. “This is a small town, my friend. They talk a lot when some rich musician decides to build a mansion and move in amongst us.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, I can understand that, I guess,” he said. “What else are they saying?”
“They’re a might worried about some of the things you might get up to out there on that cliff.”
“Such as?” Jake asked.
“Well, it’s said that you’re a Satanist and that you’ve been known to hold Satanic rituals on occasion. It’s also said that you’re a doper, that you might be trafficking in the white powder and maybe bringing some of those cartel types into town. Others heard that you might even be a faggot.” He said this last as if that was the worst accusation of all.
Jake nodded thoughtfully, as if considering all of this. “Well,” he said. “What do you believe, Dave?”
“I believe that as long as you pay your bills on time, it ain’t none of my business what you do.”
“A good philosophy,” Jake agreed.
“Although if you’re gonna do any of that faggot stuff, we’d all prefer you keep it to yourself,” he said. “Don’t flaunt it.”
“I assure you,” Jake assured him, “that neither you nor they will ever have to worry about seeing me engaging in any homosexual activity.” He considered for a moment. “At least not with a man.”
Dave scrunched up his brow in confusion. “What other kind is there?”
Jake chuckled. “Never mind,” he told him. “Listen, maybe you can help me put people’s minds at ease a bit. I don’t know if they’ll believe it, but you can tell them this: I’m just an average ordinary guy who happens to have some musical talent and a lot of money. I’m not a Satanist and I have never engaged in a Satanic ritual. I wouldn’t even know what the procedure is. And, while I have been known to flame a bowl of the green on occasion, I haven’t touched so much as a sniff of cocaine or any other drug since the Intemperance days. I know no members of any drug cartel, nor do I care to. I do not have sex with men. I am married to a beautiful, sweet woman and I never beat her; not even once. I don’t even really raise my voice to her. Our goal in this community is to simply live out our lives in peace and tranquility. We moved here because we hate living in LA and wanted some oceanfront property within easy flying distance of the city. That’s all there is to it.”
Dave looked at him through this speech and continued to look at him for several long moments after. “Hmmph,” he finally grunted. “I’ll pass the word along when I’m asked. Don’t know what good it’ll do though.”
Jake shrugged. “I just present the facts,” he said. “I can’t control whether people believe them or not.”
Dave nodded at these words of wisdom and then went back to watching the baseball game without another word. Jake took that to mean that the conversation was over. He bid him farewell and then walked through the door to go secure his plane in its new hangar.
He started his engines and then checked his fuel level. Both tanks were about a quarter full, more than enough to get himself and two passengers back to Whiteman in the morning with a healthy emergency reserve. His plan was to fuel the aircraft in LA whenever possible since Jet-A was almost two dollars a gallon cheaper there. Though he was frivolous with his money—much to the chagrin of the Yamashitos—he was not a fan of simply flushing it down the toilet for no reason. Besides, fueling on the return trips meant he could sleep a little later before the Oceano to Whiteman legs in the mornings.
He throttled up and taxied over to the row of hangars on the east side of the airport. Number 13 was approximately in the middle of the row. Jake positioned the plane the best he could and then shut it down once again. He got out and walked over to the hangar door. The keyhole was in the release handle. He inserted the key and turned it, hearing a click. He then twisted the handle and ran up the metal door.
Since Dave had told him the hangar had been empty for the past three years, Jake was expecting it to be musty, full of cobwebs, spiders, maybe even a rat nest or two. Instead, he found it to be sparkling clean, without so much as a speck of dust in it, the door mechanisms freshly oiled, the concrete floor neatly swept. Jake’s respect for Dave kicked up a few notches as he took this in. Even though he thought I might be a Satanic faggot, he still cleaned the place up for me before I moved in.
Jake pushed the plane backwards into the hangar. It was a bit of a struggle since he did not have his electric tug—it was too bulky to fit into the plane or one of the cars and would have to be brought up by Jake’s new truck at some point—and he was by himself. After a few starts, stops, and adjustments of the nose wheel angle, he was finally able to get it more or less centered inside. Sweating a little from the exertion, he shut the hangar door and locked it, making a mental note to move transporting the tug to Oceano a little higher on his list of things to do. He certainly did not want to do this shit every night, although under normal routine Laura would be able to help him park.