Dating Dead Men (21 page)

chapter twenty-seven

T
he Santa Monica Airport wasn't for your basic guy bound for Newark, it was for people flying small planes, or dining in the trendy airport restaurants, or attending events at the Museum of Flying. There were several entrances, and mine was off a short street called, imaginatively, Airport, three blocks ahead. According to Joey, though, I should use this entrance only if I'd managed to keep distance between the Swedes and me.

“If they're right on top of you,” she'd said, “go to plan B: drive to a main entrance and find your way to the museum, or anywhere you see people. The museum's good, because there'll be staff there. Make a scene. Yell. Say there's something suspicious about the guys behind you. It won't take much, it's an airport, they'll take that seriously. It may complicate things on our end, but it'll save you from physical assault.”

My problem with plan B was that making a scene at an airport sounded as appealing as joining the Marines. With a glance behind me, I made a decision.

I signaled, then moved into Centinela's far right lane. My pursuers disappeared from my rearview mirror, but I hoped they changed lanes too. Two blocks later, I saw an opening and made my move, shooting across all lanes of traffic to turn left onto Airport, a feat that used up 40 percent of my nerve. Wincing at the angry honking in my wake, I raced down the near-empty avenue, past the Spitfire Grill restaurant, and swung right onto Donald Douglas Loop south. My mantra now was “Donald Duck south, six-eight-seven-four, tee-one-oh-four,” a version of Joey's instructions, written on a Post-it stuck to the dashboard.

The entrance gate appeared and I swerved toward it, screeching to a stop next to a keypad on a standing black box. With shaking fingers I rolled down my window, whispering, “Six-eight-seven-four” as I punched in numbers. I begged the gate to open fast. I looked behind me.

The Alfa Romeo was passing the Spitfire Grill.

In front of me, the gate began its slow ascent.

Behind me, the Alfa Romeo made the turn onto Donald Douglas Loop south.

I faced forward and floored it, not caring whether I wrecked the gate or my car. I hoped the gate closed faster than it opened, but I didn't look back to check.

What I'd bet on was that the Swedes would not be as willing as I to damage their car. It seemed I was right: a full minute later they still hadn't appeared in my rearview mirror. I knew my luck wouldn't last. Most likely they'd gone to the airport's closest public entrance and would intercept me any moment.

Driving maniacally through the T-section hangars, I nearly plowed through a good-looking man waving his arms at me. This, no doubt, was my date, set up by Fredreeq that morning. Swerving around him, I drove until I found an empty hangar and pulled deep into it. A car cover would have been nice, or even a pile of leaves to camouflage the Rabbit, but my top priority was me. I ran to the edge of the hangar and peered out.

“Didn't you see me flag you down?” my date called, striding toward me down the wide driveway. “Where the hell did you park?”

“Oh, over there, in the shade, out of the way,” I yelled back, with a vague gesture. Hugging the building's exterior, I started toward him. “Dylan, right? Where's your car?”

“What car?” he yelled, still some distance away. “We don't need a car, the Stearman's right back there—you nearly ran into it.”

When I reached the opening between hangars, I stopped, scanning the area, reluctant to give up my cover. Visions of Olof and Tor, guns drawn, played in my head, and it wasn't until my date reached me that I even looked at him, registering prominent nose and good cheekbones, slightly sunburnt. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket, way too warm for the afternoon, and a Lakers cap.

“Wollie, right?” he said. “Nice to meet you. This way. Let's go.”

“Great,” I said. “Let's jog.”

Dylan was game and handed me, on the run, a pair of goggles and a hat of sorts. “These are for you,” he said. “You didn't bring a jacket?”

“For the Museum of Flying?” I panted. “Why, is there a dress code?”

“Museum? What, you think we're going to that fund-raiser?” He laughed. “Babe, we're going flying.”

“Flying?” I stopped, mid-jog. “Like, in a plane? Right this minute?”

He turned around to face me. “Not scared, are you?”

“Scared of flying?” I took off again, grabbing his arm on the way. “Heck, no, I love it! Come on, come on, what are we waiting for?”

         

I
T WAS THE
tiniest airplane I'd ever seen, brightly colored with two sets of wings, one atop the other, and two compartments, each big enough to hold one not-fat person, not side by side, but one in front of the other, like on a bicycle built for two.

“Do I climb on like this?” I asked, trying to vault myself into the backseat.

Dylan caught me and redirected me to the front. “Really hot to fly this thing, aren't you?” He laughed.

“No, please, I'd rather you be the pilot.” I struggled to remain pleasant as I scrutinized hangars, road, and runway for Swedes, Saabs, or cops.

“It drives from behind, Wollie,” Dylan explained, then hoisted me into the seat, handing up his leather jacket after me.

Higher now, I had a better vantage point for my surveillance. After shrugging myself into the jacket, I was forced to sit still while my date trussed me in with a series of faded canvas straps and buckles, until I was as immobile as a child in a car seat. Wedged next to me, similarly secured, was the world's smallest picnic basket.

In the distance, I saw the Alfa Romeo, circling hangars.

“Goggles and helmet,” Dylan reminded me, then tossed a third piece of paraphernalia into my lap. “Headset. Now, don't touch this pedal or this lever, and—”

“Yes,
fine,
I won't touch anything. Let's just
go,
” I practically screamed, which brought him to a dead halt, frowning up at me. I forced a smile onto my face. “I'm sorry, it's just that I adore flying, and you've got me all excited, it's a . . . an instant gratification compulsion . . . a disorder, really, and we have to go
right this minute
.”

He shook his head, but moved to the rear of the plane, calling out, “No problem, babe. Your headset's patchy, okay? About half of what you say and hear gets garbled, but mine works, and that's what counts. If I tell you to lean right or left, do it. If I ask how you're doing, thumbs-up or thumbs-down—all right, all
right,
we're going.”

My range of movement was limited now, due to the bondage just enacted on me, but I was squirming like mad, trying to scope things out. Turning in my seat, I nearly dislocated my shoulder, but what I saw behind me nearly dislocated my brain.

The Alfa Romeo was stopped outside the hangar where I'd parked the Rabbit.

“Dylan!” I rasped, then found my voice. “
Dylan!
Get this bird in the air!”

“Jesus Christ,” I heard him mutter, but he climbed into the seat behind me, judging from the severe wobble that ensued. I was still contorting my spine to watch the Swedes, and as the plane's engine roared to life, I saw Olof and Tor spot us.

I turned to face forward, staring at the whirring propeller and fighting panic. Talk about a sitting duck—perched high like this, I was as inconspicuous as a parade float.

“Yo!
Helmet!
” Dylan yelled, and with a jolt I realized a disguise had been literally dropped in my lap. I crammed the canvas helmet onto my head and stuffed my telltale blond hair up into it, then donned the goggles. I had just enough time to smash the earphones on before turning to find the Swedes driving alongside us.

“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up,” I yelled into my headset, with no idea whether Dylan could hear, but seconds later the plane shuddered and rattled and inched forward with all the speed of my Rabbit with a cold engine.

I
walk
faster than this, I realized, and started to sweat profusely, seeing the Alfa Romeo immediately to my left, keeping perfect pace with us.

There was nothing for me to do
but
sweat. Olof and Tor looked up from their car, at me, Dylan, the plane, and each other, mouths and hands and even widow's peak moving vehemently. I assumed they were discussing the possibility of one of us being me. I couldn't turn sufficiently to see Dylan, but I figured he was in the same getup. With eyes, ears, and head covered, I assured myself, the two of us could just as easily be Siegfried and Roy as Wollie and Date Twenty-six. But I couldn't stop sweating.

The Alfa Romeo gained speed along with us, and static assaulted my ears, probably Dylan commenting on lunatics in foreign convertibles driving onto airfields. Seconds later the static cleared and a woman's voice came in, in fits and starts, discussing weather and flight paths. As we made our turn onto the runway, the Swedes did likewise, and seemed to escalate their argument until the driver, the Birkenstocker, pulled a gun from his shoulder holster. I stared, mesmerized, as he aimed it upward, and I wondered if Stevie had been as dumbstruck at Rio Pescado, moments before his death. How does a guy drive
and
shoot, I wondered, as if the question were purely academic, and then, abruptly, I began to scream.

But the engine screamed louder as the plane bolted like a horse, rattling as if every screw were loose. I rattled too, my teeth threatening to fly out of my mouth, until, all rattling notwithstanding, we lifted off.

I watched the Swedes on the ground grow smaller, and then Olof or Tor reached over and grabbed the gun from Tor or Olof. Farther down the runway a police car started toward them, but the Alfa Romeo was already heading for an exit.

I was halfway through a huge sigh of relief when a new thought struck me.

This thing was in the air.

         

I
F
I'
D NEVER
experienced fear of flying before, clearly it was because I'd only ever flown in commercial airplanes, with plastic tray tables and seat cushions that doubled as flotation devices. As opposed to a winged kayak. Gripping the cheap plastic windshield, I looked longingly at grass and concrete falling away, wondering how I could ever have taken such nice surfaces for granted. The plane dropped altitude suddenly, leaving my stomach a few yards above my head, and I discovered a whole new realm of sensations to be scared of.

“Pretend you are in the French Resistance,” Ruta said, giving me courage. I longed to give Dylan the thumbs-down signal, but there was opportunity here. I peered at the ground, determined to track the convertible as long as possible.

“Patchy” was too kind a word for my earphones, apparently salvaged from the Battle of Dunkirk. When I suggested going south, I was answered with a barrage of static, giving me no clue whether Dylan heard, understood, or cared about my navigational preferences. Chances were slim that I could explain things sufficiently to keep him hovering indefinitely over a couple of drive-by shooters.

We seemed to be headed west, and Olof and Tor had disappeared from view by the time words, such as they were, could be heard through the static. “. . . PT-17 . . . fighter pilot . . . World War . . . commissioned . . .”

Good Lord,
surely
Dylan wasn't that old, I thought, then realized he was referring to our aircraft. I dragged my gaze from the streets of Santa Monica to study the flimsy aluminum, its Disneyesque red, white, blue, green, and yellow paint job now putting me in mind of a very new toupee on a very old man. Why was Dylan telling me the life story of an airplane, I wondered irritably, until I recalled I was supposed to be a fool for flying.

The open air did have an undeniable appeal, as did the low altitude, and under other circumstances I might have enjoyed myself. Now, though, the only view I cared to see was the Swedes, overtaken by police. I squinted at streets, straining for the sight of the convertible, or even a landmark, to get my bearings, when suddenly the plane nosed its way straight up, sending my equilibrium into outer space.

Terror hit me, purely physical and absolutely paralyzing. Looking into nothing but blue-white sky, unable even to scream, I wondered, Could I be going into a coma? Do people literally die of fright? Would this ever end?

It ended. We hung suspended, then did a vertical 180-degree turn and headed back to earth, and as bad as the preceding seconds had been, the sight of ground rushing to meet me was infinitely worse. I stopped breathing.

How long it went on I couldn't say; it's possible I blacked out momentarily, but at some point I realized we were level again and I was focused on my own hands, chalk white and gripping the sides of my plastic windshield. I was shuddering violently and wishing I'd let Olof and Tor shoot me dead while I had the chance. I started formulating the words to express to Dylan my willingness to be boiled in oil rather than play Evel Knievel again, when my mouth filled with saliva and my chest heaved convulsively. I leaned as far as my bonds would allow, and vomited over the side of the plane.

Some seconds later, my glazed eyes cleared and I even managed a shred of compassion for whomever had found themselves beneath me, catching the remains of my lunch. Which is how I happened to see, ahead of me and to the right, an Alfa Romeo.

I opened my mouth and screamed into my headset, “Follow that car!” I kept leaning to the right, stretching to keep the Swedes in sight, and this provoked a veritable assault of static in my earphones. “. . . quit! . . . up . . . damn it!”

I squirmed around enough to see Dylan's arm, pointing skyward, which I took to mean that leaning was not a good idea. This seemed highly ironic, given the death-defying flying maneuvers he'd just inflicted on me, but the plane was listing dangerously, so I straightened up. The car soon emerged on my other side, heading south. I pointed and yelled into my mouthpiece, “We gotta go left! Left! Thataway!”

There was no response to this and I had to assume Dylan couldn't hear. I gestured aerobically with both arms, pointing and yelling, “SOUTH!” but we kept flying west, until we were over the ocean and the Alfa Romeo was no longer in sight.