“You kept the sunglasses on at all times?”
“Yes.”
“Even while signing the credit card receipt?”
“Especially then.”
“Where did you change clothes?”
“Same place. Ruggles elevator.”
“And you wore the black wig when you left?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thanks. Maybe we’ll pull this off after all.”
“You actually did it? You killed Roy?”
Willow doesn’t think Gwen would tape her conversation, but you never know. To be on the safe side, she simply winks. Then she reaches into the back seat for the bag, and changes clothes before getting dropped off a half-block from the mall. She walks back to the mall, retrieves the shopping bags from Victoria Secret and Sea’s Harvest, then goes to valet parking and spends the next thirty minutes learning her car might have been stolen.
After the valet parking attendants have exhausted their search, Willow gets directory assistance on the phone, and has them dial Lyndon Rental Cars. When the Lyndon rep answers, the parking attendants hear her say, “Yes. I hope you can help me. It appears someone may have stolen my car…Willow Breeland…No, I don’t have the paperwork. I left it in the glove box…I’m staying at the Fairway Inn, here in town, but that’s not where the car was stolen. Assuming it’s been stolen…This morning at ten I drove it to the Fashion Show Mall…No, I used their valet service…No, I’m still here…Yes, of course they’ve been searching. You want to talk to the parking guy?”
She hands him the phone.
He talks a few minutes, then hands it back.
“Yes, I’d very much like another rental car…What? No, I’ll just take a cab…Okay, thanks.”
She hails a cab, catches a ride to the airport, repeats her story at the car counter, then gets her new rental, swings by her room at the Fairway Inn, takes a shower, and changes clothes.
Then she drives to the Venetian, to meet Carmine.
37.
Willow & Carmine.
Present Time.
“YOU KILLED ROY? Are you crazy?”
“I killed him for you.”
“You’re definitely crazy!” Carmine says.
“Crazy about you. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Roy’s a made man. If anyone finds out-”
“They won’t.”
“Your fuckin’ name’s on the car!”
“My rental car was stolen, far as the police know.”
Carmine’s taking it worse than she expected. She says, “Roy told some of the girls he was going to take you down. I couldn’t sit by and let that happen. Plus, he threatened me.”
“I told you to watch your step. He ain’t right in the head.”
“I know.”
“You shot him?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you get the gun?”
“It was Bobby’s.”
“The boyfriend? Wait. You didn’t kill him too, did you?”
“Of course not! Jesus, Carmine!”
“Hey, I had to ask.”
“I guess.”
“And Gwennie helped you?”
“Yes.”
“But how? You only blew into town how many days ago?”
“Four.”
“And you met me three days ago.”
“So?”
“Now you’re hotwiring cars, killing made men, turning Gwennie into an accomplice. Next thing you know-”
“I hired Gwen.”
“You what?”
“Hired her. To run the girls. For the Top Six.”
“How the fuck?”
“I told you I’ve got a wonderful business sense.”
“Gwen’s going to run my girls?”
“Gwen and I are going to triple your business. If you’ll give us the chance.”
“How?”
“We’ve got plans.”
“You’re making me very nervous, young lady.”
“Can I be frank? You’re acting like an atheist at a Pentecostal convention. But think about it. Roy was your biggest threat. I got rid of him. Gwen coming back was your greatest wish. I got her for you. I was your greatest desire, and now I’m yours. Anything you want, anything you need…you get. No matter what it takes. Just let me in, sweetheart. Let me into your business.”
“You can hotwire a car?”
“Yes.”
“Will you teach me?”
“If you’re a good boy.”
He leans over, kisses her breast.
Then says, “That took balls, killing Roy.”
“You see any balls down there?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe you should take a closer look…”
38.
Donovan Creed.
Cincinnati.
THE PILOT TURNS and points a grim finger at the fighter jets on the runway.
“We should wait till they move, sir.”
“Yeah, but I’m in a hurry.”
“They’re blocking the runway.”
I’m running late because of some work I had the geeks perform this morning, and Callie just called to say she’s on her way to the private airfield in Cincinnati to pick me up. Due to a faulty igniter, the jet I flew in on has been grounded. It’s forty-five minutes to the nearest airport, and they don’t have any private jets currently available for charter anyway. So I found an old Cessna 1SP in the hangar that can be legally flown by a single pilot. Since one of the private pilots has to stay with the broken plane, I hired the other one to fly me to Cincy in the Cessna. We wasted thirty minutes fueling and checking the systems, and now the fighter pilots are back on duty, sitting in their cockpits, twiddling their thumbs. They’re not in my chain of command, which means they don’t move unless the defense department tells them to.
Unfortunately, it’s lunch hour at the Pentagon.
So here at Sensory, the fighter jets continue to sit at the far end of the runway, blocking our takeoff.
“You’ve got plenty of room, don’t you?” I say.
“Technically, yes. But it’s never a good idea to take off on a runway that’s in use. I could lose my license.”
“Those fighter pilots think they’re hot shit,” I say.
“They do indeed, sir.”
“You know they’re sitting there laughing at us.”
“I expect you’re right, sir.”
I move from the cabin to the cockpit and strap myself into the co-pilot’s chair and say, “What’s your name, son?”
“James Rogers.”
“What do your friends call you, Jimmy?”
“Buck, sir.”
“Buck Rogers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like that.”
“Are you planning to fly us, sir?”
“No. But maybe it’s time I asked you a question.”
“Sir?”
“Who’s the real pilot here, son? You? Or those guys?”
“Me, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s show ’em what we’re made of.”
“For real?”
“You know you want to.”
“I do. But you can’t just go around doing whatever you want all the time.”
“Of course not. But you can do whatever you want when your cause is just.”
“What is our cause, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“True love.”
“Sir?”
“Can there possibly be a more noble cause?”
“Uh…”
“Light the fires and kick the tires!”
“Sir?”
“Make them shit their pants, son.”
“Yes, sir!”
He revs up the engine and taxis onto the runway. Then looks at me and says, “Aren’t you even the least bit nervous?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Can I ask why?”
“Only three runways in the world make me nervous, Buck. One, Paro, in Bhutan, where only eight pilots in the world are certified to land, and even they can’t do it without setting off all the cockpit warning sirens. Two, Matekane, in Lesotho, where the too-short runway suddenly ends at the edge of a 2,000-foot cliff and your plane is forced to plummet downward until it gains enough altitude to clear the mountain in front of you. And three, Barra International, in Scotland, where the runway is made of sand and disappears twice a day at high tide. These are tough runways, son. Not this one.”