Emerald Buddha

Chapter 9

Spencer, Allie, and Drake sat on the deck, watching the sunset over the Pacific, cold beers in hand, a mild offshore breeze ruffling their hair. A few stragglers and beachcombers roamed the sand as the last of the diehard after-work surfers caught their final waves.

“How is it down in Laguna Beach, Spencer?” Allie asked, as the sun sank into the sea.

“Gorgeous. Not as many trust-fund kids and Hollywood hotshots as Malibu, but stellar views.”

“Hey. Watch it — that’s my hood you’re dissing,” Drake said, and held out a sweating bottle of Anchor Steam to clink against Allie’s. She obliged with a happy sigh and went back to contemplating the salmon sky.

“Shame about the house. I hope you get that straightened out,” Allie said.

“Yeah. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? What about you? Sounds like you have your hands full with your dad’s estate.”

“I’m hoping to get the last of it settled in the next couple of weeks. I’ve got an excellent legal team out of Houston that’s keeping the worst of the leeches at bay.” She shrugged. “I can’t believe how many there are when big money’s involved.”

“Tell me about it,” Spencer said with a frown. “Are you planning to stay in Texas?”

Allie looked at a spot somewhere to the left of Drake’s shoulder. “Depends. This is pretty sweet. I’m just not sure I could get used to the whole Baywatch lifestyle.”

“Hazzle-whatever’s a star in France. Like Jerry Lewis, without the telethon,” Spencer said.

“Good to know I might have that to fall back on. Is that where unemployed treasure hunters go to die? Take up miming or painting or something?” Drake asked.

“It’s sad. The bistros are lousy with them,” Spencer said. “They’ll usually leave you alone if you buy them a drink.”

Allie nodded. “Or they start crying. I hear it’s kind of like the island of misfit toys, only without claymation.”

“Or the songs,” Spencer agreed, and they all laughed.

“We should probably grab some dinner before the flight. There are some amazing restaurants nearby,” Drake said, glancing at the time. “We have three hours to get to the airport.”

“You’d think the CIA could whisk us through security. Like making us take our shoes off and X-raying us is going to prevent anything. I can think of a dozen lethal weapons you can make from crap you buy in gift shops on the jetway side of security. Do they really think terrorists don’t have web access?” Spencer griped.

“I guess we just aren’t special enough,” Allie said. “Besides, Drake’s hands are lethal weapons.”

“Absolutely,” Drake agreed. “Just put a gun or a Lambo in them, and bam, it’s curtains.”

Music flooded the quiet area from next door as the sliding door opened, and Kyra sashayed onto her deck, wearing spandex exercise shorts and a jogging top. She raised a beer and toasted them all. “Hi.”

Spencer smiled like a Cheshire cat and Allie rolled her eyes.

“Hi back atcha,” Spencer said. Drake gave an embarrassed wave.

“Are you going to be around tomorrow for the barbecue? You didn’t forget, did you?” Kyra asked. The breeze carried the scent of vanilla and coconut from her as she neared the glass railing. Allie coughed.

“Oh, um, no, I can’t make it,” Drake said, flushing as Allie’s eyes bored holes through him. “I’ve got to go out of town for a few days.”

“That totally sucks. I guess it will be just me and my home girls, then. How boring.”

“Drake hates to miss an orgy. Maybe a rain check?” Allie asked innocently in a low voice.

“What?” Kyra said. “Let me turn down my stereo.”

“She said maybe a rain check,” Drake offered. “Anyway, have a good time.”

“I’ll try.”

Drake stood and went into the house before the conversation could go astray, and Allie and Spencer followed him in. “Let me change and we can hit the road,” Drake said, and didn’t wait for a response, opting to duck into his bedroom before being subjected to further torment.

At Allie’s request they ate a delicious Italian dinner at Gravina on Pacific Coast Highway, and then returned to Drake’s house to await the taxi to the airport. The ride south took an hour, and they were in the international terminal of LAX with ten minutes to spare. Alex was waiting for them at the Cathay Pacific counter, dressed casually, looking in his wrinkled safari shirt and cargo pants more like a midlife-crisis backpacker than a CIA field supervisor.

“Nice to see you made it,” he said. “First-class check-in is over there. I’m in business class.”

Drake noticed that his eyes never stopped roaming around the terminal even as he greeted them.

“No pampering for the wicked, I suppose,” Spencer said.

“Not terrible, though. I’m a good sleeper. I suggest you try to get as much rest as possible, because we’re going to hit the ground running. The only wait will be for the final go-ahead on the permits.”

They checked in and left all but their carry-on bags with the friendly counter staff, and then moved to the security checkpoint. There was the inevitable line, where bored dullards were searching grandmothers and kids as though they were smuggling bazookas, making for a tedious half hour of shuffling toward the imaging machines.

The first-class lounge was lavish and half empty, and they spent their time online until the flight was announced.

Boarding began almost an hour before takeoff due to the size of the plane, and both Drake and Allie were asleep by the time the 777 trundled down the runway and lifted into the sky. Spencer watched the lights of Los Angeles disappear beneath its wings as it climbed into the heavens, the quest he was depending on to replenish his fortune about to begin.