"No catch," Jake said. "I really love that plane and I'd prefer it be put to use when I don't need it instead of rotting in a hangar somewhere. Hell, you can even paint it with your logo like you did your Cherokee. That way it'll serve as an advertisement for you when I'm out cruising the country."
Fields literally didn't know how to react to this offer. It was a chance to nearly double his business and upgrade an aircraft at the same time, all at the negligible cost of maintenance, upkeep, insurance, and storage. "I don't know what to say, Jake," he said.
"Say it's a deal," Jake told him. "We'll even put it in writing, if you want."
"It's a deal," Fields told him.
They shook on it and both men left the encounter thinking they'd come away the better for it.
Jake left Auckland International Airport at 7:30 PM on Saturday, December 9, aboard a Pan American Airlines 747. Since it was a weekend, a direct flight was possible. The total flight time was twelve hours and fifty-five minutes, which, when the time zones and the International Date Line were considered, brought the plane down at LAX at 1:25 PM on Saturday afternoon. In a way, the plane landed six hours before it actually took off.
Jake had long since gotten over the chronicological wonders involved in international air travel. He was too seasoned of a flyer for that. He spent the majority of the overnight flight asleep in his first class seat. He exited the plane at LAX refreshed and ready to enjoy the day he'd gotten back after losing it on the outbound leg of his journey. He drank two beers in the limousine on the way home and then mixed a tall rum and coke after dropping his dirty laundry in Elsa's hamper. Elsa herself was not home. She had the weekends off and, while she usually hung out at the house anyway (and even kept things clean to keep from incurring a backlog on Monday morning), a note on Jake's bar refrigerator — someplace she knew he'd find it — informed him that she was spending this weekend with her daughter and grandchildren in San Diego.
It looks like dinner out again, Jake thought as he mixed a fresh rum and coke. He carried it into the living room and found that Elsa had neatly stacked all eleven copies of the LA Times that had been delivered in his absence. For the next two hours he drank drinks and caught up on the news. He was pleasantly buzzed and just starting to think about taking a pre-dinner nap when the doorbell rang.
He ignored it at first. He wasn't expecting anyone, which meant that whoever was standing on his porch pushing the little white button was probably someone he didn't want to talk to. But the doorbell kept ringing and ringing — a double-push every fifteen or twenty seconds, sometimes interspersed with a few knocks on the door itself.
With a sigh, Jake stood, polishing off the last of his latest drink and snuffing out his latest cigarette. He walked slowly into the small room just off the kitchen that served as the nerve center for his security system. In here were switches for all the perimeter lights, a panel to control the alarm system, and a large monitor to display the take from the four security cameras on the property.
He flipped the monitor on, listening to yet another doorbell and knock cycle from the front door while it warmed up. Finally, the display lit up. The screen was divided into four quadrants. The two backyard views were at the bottom. They showed nothing unexpected. The top left view was a lateral shot of the circular driveway. It was showing a nondescript Lexus sedan parked just in front of the garage entrance. The top right view of the display was from the camera that looked over the front door. It showed an attractive woman wearing a pair of blue jeans and a form-fitting angora sweater. Her brunette hair was tied up in an anonymous looking ponytail and her eyes were covered with a pair of dark sunglasses but, as had been the case in Fiji, Jake had no trouble recognizing his mysterious visitor. It was Mindy Snow.
"What the hell is she doing here?" he mumbled, his buzzed mind trying to come to grips with several things, like how she knew where he lived since she'd never been here before, and how she knew he would be home.
He watched as she reached out her left hand, the hand with the four and a half karat diamond ring on the ring finger, and pushed the doorbell two more times. She then stood back, waiting patiently, a neutral expression on her face.
Just keep ignoring her, the rational part of Jake's brain told him. She'll go away soon. This was perfectly valid advice. He was tired, out of sorts, jet-lagged, unshowered, unshaven, half drunk, and most certainly not in the mood for unexpected visitors.
But look at those fucking tits! the other part of his brain — the part that made entirely too many decisions for him — insisted. That's Mindy Snow out there! The woman who knows how to deep-throat without gagging! Who takes it up the ass like a champ! Who can fuck for six hours straight without boring you! Open the goddamn door before she goes away, you moron!
It was this side that won out — again. Jake had not engaged in any sexual activity except masturbation during his entire New Zealand trip (although not for lack of offers). He had only been laid twice since Helen had broken up with him — both times with nameless, faceless women he'd met at the Flamingo Club. He was, to put it mildly, horny as hell and in need of a good round of no-holds-barred sex. And there, on his front porch at this very moment, demanding entry, was a woman who would have no other reason to come over to his house unless she was hoping to provide such a sex session.
But she's married, the rational part tried to remind him.
So fucking what? the dark side shot right back. She was married when you boned her in Fiji, wasn't she?
Even the rational side had to admit that this was a valid point.
Jake saw that Mindy was now digging in her purse. She pulled out a notepad and a gold plated pen and wrote something down. She tore off the sheet of paper and took a few steps across the porch until she was just beneath the camera. She held the piece of notepaper up until it was the only thing in Jake's view.
I know you're in there, Jake, the note read. Open the fucking door!
Jake went and opened the fucking door.
"It's about goddamn time," Mindy said, feigning exasperation with him. "I was starting to think that maybe you really weren't here."
He stepped aside and let her in. "What made you think I was here?" he asked.
She smiled. "Because I've been stalking you," she said. "How else?"
"Stalking me?" he asked, visions of Jenny Johansen dancing briefly into his brain.
She closed the door behind her and turned to him, running her finger up and down his bare arm. "Not in a bad way," she said. "I just had a few of my people look into your itinerary for me. The found out you came in on a flight from New Zealand early this afternoon, and, as a bonus, that your housekeeper wasn't home this weekend."
"Pretty good sources," Jake said, still a little uncomfortable with the thought.
"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "They earn their money. Anyway, since I found out you're going to be alone I thought... you know... that maybe I could come by and see how you're doing."
"I'm doing... uh... fine," he said.
"Good," she said. "I figured you probably were. I was sorry to hear about you and what's-her-name breaking up. I do hope our little encounter in Fiji didn't have anything to do with it."
"No," Jake said. "She never knew anything about that. No one does."
"That's a relief," Mindy said. "It really wouldn't do for her to go blabbing something like that to the media. You know how those vultures are always willing to print any rumor they hear, unfounded or not."
"Yes, I know," Jake said, a little testily. "I recall you once used that willingness to your advantage."