Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 50

Simon Teach was not without gall, a characteristic which he regarded as essential to his chosen profession, so he felt no compunction whatever about telephoning Peter Martindale.

"Peter, it's Simon, how are you?"

"You have a nerve calling me, you little weasel, after what you've written about me."

"Dear Peter, if you'd simply reread what I've written you'd see that it could have been much, much worse. Believe me, I have been very kind to you in the paper the past couple of weeks." There was a silence at the other end of the line that encouraged Simon to continue. "By the way, I thought your copy for the ad was brilliant; struck just the right tone."

"Did you?"

"Oh, yes; I don't think this nonsense is going to hurt your business in the least."

"Well, Simon, I do hope you're right. Now, I'm off to L.A., and I have to make an eleven o'clock flight this morning, so what can I do for you?"

"I don't suppose you're attending the nuptials this evening, are you?"

"Simon, please don't be arch; it's unbecoming."

"Sorry, Peter, it's just that my editor has demanded that I ask you for comment on the marriage of Sandy Kinsolving to your former wife."

"Of course, be glad to comment. Got your pencil ready?"

"I'm ready."

"Please note this exactly as I speak it."

"I won't misquote you, Peter."

"Very well, here's my quote."

Simon held the receiver away from his ear, but he could still hear the shouting clearly.

"I wish the happy fucking couple every fucking happiness!!!" Then the voice moderated, "Have you got that, Simon?"

"Yes, Peter, I have it."

"Good, run it without the fuckings, will you?"

"Of course, Peter."

"'Bye. I'm off to L.A. for a couple of days."

"What for, may I ask?"

"I'm lecturing at the Arts Alliance."

"Have a nice trip, Peter."

"Oh, I will, believe you me."

Shortly after 3:00 p.m. Elmer "Shorty" Barnum sat in a beatup leather chair in his tin shed office at Santa Monica Airport and worried. Shorty ran a jack-of-all-trades air service-air taxi, basic and advanced instruction, instrument instruction-whatever anybody wanted, and things were not good. His airport rent was due, he owed his maintenance man twelve hundred bucks, and he was a payment behind on his aircraft loan. What Shorty needed to get out from under was three or four charters that week, and the phone had not been ringing. The phone rang.

"Barnum Flying Service, speak to me."

"Mr. Barnum?"

"Call me Shorty."

"Shorty, my name is Prendergast. I understand you have a very nice Beech Baron with long range tanks for rent, is that correct?"

"Depends on what your logbook looks like, and, of course, a check ride." Funny accent, not quite American; Canadian, maybe?

"No, I want you to fly the airplane."

"Then the answer is yes, I have such an airplane, and it's in top shape."

"Are you available at around eight p.m. this evening for a flight to the San Francisco area and back?"

"Yes sir, I am available."

"What is your charge for such a trip?"

"You coming back tonight?"

"Yes."

"Three-fifty an hour for me and the airplane; fifty bucks an hour for any waiting time."

"I'm paying cash."

"In that case, I can manage three twenty-five an hour, but the waiting time's the same." Shorty held his breath.

"That will be satisfactory."

"Fine. What airport are we going into? I'll need to file a flight plan."

"Why?"

"Let me explain. I normally fly under instrument flight rules-that way, if we run into some cloud we can legally fly through it, and the air traffic controllers will give us radar separation from other aircraft. It's easier than flying under visual flight rules, which is what we'd have to do if I don't file a flight plan."

"Shorty, are you telling me that you're refusing to fly without a flight plan tonight?"

"Well, I guess I can if I have to."

"This is my party, so let's do it my way."

"I don't guess you want me to fly low over the water and then drop a bag of something on some dirt strip, do you?"

"Shorty, this is entirely legitimate, but it's also highly confidential; do I make myself understood?"

"Mr. Prendergast, I'll see you at eight this evening. Bring money."

"Fear not, Shorty."

Guests began arriving shortly after six, and Sandy and Cara greeted them on the steps of the house. There was a bar set up on the front porch, and the vineyard's wines, old and new, were prominently displayed.

It was some time after seven before the judge called for silence and began reading the marriage ceremony. Five minutes later, Sandy and Cara were man and wife, and her previous married name had been forever obliterated.

At that moment, the desk clerk on duty at the Bel-Air Hotel looked up to see Peter Martindale walk into the lobby. She was surprised to see him, since his room was at the extreme north end of the hotel-he always requested that area-and he would normally have driven his car to that end and parked near his room.

"Good evening," Martindale said.

"Good evening, Mr. Martindale. I hope you've had a good day."

"A tiring day, my dear," Martindale replied wearily "I'm just going to have a bite from room service and curl up with the TV. Would you please hold my calls? On no account do I wish to be disturbed."

"Of course, Mr. Martindale."

A little after eight, Shorty Barnum looked up to see a tall man wearing a black raincoat and a soft felt hat standing in the doorway of his office. He was also wearing what was almost certainly a false beard and a wig that protruded from under the hat. "You Mr. Prendergast?" Shorty asked.

"I am."

"I'd like to collect my estimated bill up front, if you don't mind," Shorty said. "We can adjust the final figure when we return."

"Of course."

"Let's see, say two hours up and two back; how long on the ground?"

"An hour or so."

"Okay, say thirteen hundred up front?"

Prendergast pulled a chair up to Shorty's desk, produced an envelope and began counting out bills, mostly twenties and fifties. Shorty was now sure the beard and wig were phony. He'd been in business for a long time, but he'd never had a customer wearing a disguise.

"How about fifteen hundred up front?" Prendergast asked.

"Suit yourself," Shorty replied and reached for the stack of cash.

But Prendergast laid a hand on the cash. "First, let's talk about some other conditions of this flight, shall we?"

Shorty sat back in his chair. "Conditions?"

"Do you have a Mode S transponder in your aircraft?"

"Nope, it's Mode C."

"So your aircraft registration number won't appear on an aircraft controller's screen until you tell it to him?"

"That's right."

Prendergast got up, walked to the window and looked out at the runway. "Pretty dark on this field, isn't it?"

"Well, it ain't LAX," Shorty said.

"Shorty, when you take off, you give your tail number to the tower, don't you?"

"That's right; in fact, I give it to the ground controller before we get cleared to taxi."

"But at night, if the number were off by a digit or two, nobody in the tower would notice, would they?"

"I guess not, but why would I want to give the tower a false tail number?"

Prendergast held up the envelope. "To double your fee," he said. "Shall we make it an even three thousand?"

Shorty peered at the man. "Where we going, Mr. Prendergast?"

"To a private strip just north of San Francisco, Shorty, but I promise you, there will be nothing illegal about this flight, except of course our little fib about the tail number. And, as I mentioned before, this is a very confidential trip, and that means you'll answer no questions from anybody, and I mean anybody, about our trip."

"Mister, you're telling me the God's truth about this, now? I mean, I'm not looking to have the feds confiscate my airplane."

"I guarantee you, you'll have no problems with the feds or any other law enforcement agency."

Shorty decided to take a chance. "Mr. Prendergast, my fee for an absolutely confidential flight and VFR at night with a phony tail number is five grand, even." Shorty set his jaw and waited.

Prendergast tossed the envelope onto the desk. "Count it."