“I’ve never worked with Mr. Willis himself,” the facility manager said. “How is the old buzzard doing?”
Fell looked at the guy, then at Lake, and he could immediately sense that his boss’s mood had suddenly turned as dark as the inside of a thunderstorm. He stepped back a pace to watch the fireworks…
“He’s doing fine,” Lake said tightly. He glanced at the manager, who was suddenly eyeing him with a great deal of suspicion, then added, “Walter is doing fine — for a guy who’s been dead for eleven fucking months, you cold- hearted son of a bitch!” The manager’s jaw dropped open in surprise, and Lake used his dumbfounded expression as a target for his anger: “His son Brad Willis and the Universal investor group own the company; I was an usher at Brad’s wedding last January in Aspen. Do you know the Willises?”
“Ah, no, but you see…”
“Then why did you ask about Walter? My friend Brad almost had a nervous breakdown at the death of his father.” Lake did not know Brad Willis except by his ultra-irresponsible playboy reputation — Brennan McSorley and Universal got a good deal when they bought the company from Brad. “And Walter was certainly not an ‘old buzzard’ when he died — he was only in his early sixties, in the best physical condition of his life.” Lake turned toward the manager, enjoying watching the bastard wilt under his glare. “Is this some kind of test, Mr. Adams?” Lake asked. “Are you actually testing me?”
“I would never even consider…”
“Sir, I do not have to submit to this,” Lake said, truly indignant that this old bastard would dare to try to clumsily trap him like that. “I can drop names all day to you, and you might be impressed or you might not. But I let my credentials, my reputation, and my money speak for me, sir.”
“I assure you, Mr. Lake, I did not mean to…”
“As I recall, I deposited a certified check in the amount of nine million dollars in your bank account in Los Angeles two days ago, along with enough credit references that my submission can be measured by the pound. It took a staff of four two days to complete it, working night and day.” He reached into his jacket breast pocket and withdrew an envelope, opened it, and showed the contents to the manager. “This is another certified check for sixteen million four hundred thousand dollars, made out to your company, with today’s date, as the second deposit for the two aircraft.” Lake waited until he could see the facility manager’s eyes grow wide with surprise and want — then crumpled the check up in his right hand, right in front of the man’s face. Lake held his clenched fist with the check inside it up in the man’s face until he saw sweat pop out of his forehead. “I am not accustomed to being treated like a teenager trying to buy a bottle of cheap wine at the Safeway, sir. Ted?”
Fell turned to the Aeritalia G222, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The three men he had hired to do the prepurchase inspection on the freighter looked up and turned toward him. “Pack it up,” he shouted. “The deal has been canceled.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Lake,” the manager pleaded. “Hold on. It wasn’t a test, I swear it wasn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“No, and after your company finds out what happened, I would think you won’t be selling too many aircraft, either.” “C’mon, Mr. Lake, I didn’t mean anything by it,” the manager said. “It’s all these federal boys out here — I guess I started thinking like some bozo gumshoe detective.”
Both Lake and Fell twisted their necks around to stare at the manager when he mentioned “federal boys.” Fell shot a subdued, panicked look at his boss, but Lake quickly regained his composure and shot a warning glance at Fell, who turned away and walked toward the G222 so he could effectively hide his shocked expression. “Federal boys? What are you talking about?”
“This place gets a visit by someone or other from Los Angeles or Washington or Las Vegas or Sacramento damned near every day,” the facility manager said. “I guess it has to do with that terrorist that’s dropping bombs on American airports. The feds ask tricky questions all the time, trying to trip you up, like I can hand Henri Cazaux to them on some shiny silver platter.”
“I think that’s the last straw,” Lake said quickly. “Federal agents, indeed! You’re just trying to pin your clumsy attempt at making me feel uncomfortable on someone that doesn’t exist.”
“No, Mr. Lake, they’re here — look, there’s one now,” the man said. He pointed at a dark gray Chevrolet Caprice sedan cruising up and down the flight line. “That’s… damn, I can’t remember his name…” He fished around in a pocket and came up with a business card. “Yeah, here he is — Timothy Lassen, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Here’s his card.”
Lake snatched the card away — he didn’t want to be so obviously upset, but a thrill of panic had just settled into Lake’s brain, and he was no longer totally in control of himself. Yes, the card said he was a U.S. Marshal, from Sacramento… and now the man in the Caprice had spotted him talking with the facility manager and had turned in their direction.
“Well… perhaps I’ve been a bit hasty,” Lake said as the sedan approached. “I should’ve realized you’re under considerable scrutiny these days.”
“That is the truth, Mr. Lake, it certainly is,” the manager said, relieved that the sale would actually go through. Lake motioned to Fell, who told the inspectors to go back to work.
“I will direct my bank to cut another check for you — it’ll take an extra day, I’m sure you understand.”
“I certainly do, Mr. Lake,” the manager said, practically kissing Lake’s hand in gratitude. “And I sincerely apologize for my behavior. I’m very, very sorry…”
“I’d like nothing more to be said about it,” Lake said, adding a touch of his command voice into his request. “My clients appreciate discretion as well as efficiency. There will be questions about why the transaction is to be delayed an extra day, and that’ll have to be handled.”
“You can count on me, Mr. Lake,” the manager said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” Just then the sedan pulled up to them, and a tall, good-looking man a bit older than Lake emerged. His plain dark-gray suit coat was unbuttoned, revealing a plain white shirt and plain dark-blue tie with diagonal red stripes. The sun was hot and merciless already that morning, but the man kept the jacket on. “Excuse me, Mr. Fennelli, but how do I get out of here? I’m lost already.” “Easy enough, Agent Lassen,” the facility manager said, pointing southwest. “Just head for the gap between the big hangars out there, you’ll see the front gate. Be sure to watch out for planes taxiing around.”
“Got it,” Lassen said. It was obvious that Lassen didn’t need any assistance getting off the airport. He looked at Lake, and the investor could practically see the marshal going through the mental exercise taught to all law enforcement officers that would imprint a man’s face on their memories for years. He held out a hand toward Lake: “Hi. Tim Lassen — how’re you doing?”
“Harold Lake, Marshal Lassen,” Lake responded, shaking Lassen’s hand. “My associate, Ted Fell.” They shook hands. “Mr. Fennelli tells me you’re a federal marshal,” Lake said. He motioned to the expanse of high desert and rocky mountains surrounding Mojave Airport. “Seems like the perfect setting for a marshal, like the Old West. All you need is a horse and a big six-gun.”
Lassen chuckled easily and genuinely enough, but his eyes never left Lake’s. He said, “Actually, you’re pretty close, Mr. Lake,” Lassen said. “This area used to be one of the roughest and toughest in the country. Claim jumpers, fugitives on the run from justice, hijackers, bank robbers… terrorists… the scum of the earth always seemed to congregate around this area, as if the desert would protect them from the law… This your plane, Mr. Lake? It’s Italian, isn’t it?”