“Another nice one,” Suzie commented as they rolled out. “It’s almost like you know what you’re doing now.”
“Almost,” he said with a chuckle. He was exceedingly grateful that Suzie had been along for the ride on this trip, was convinced he would not have been able to do it without her. He really had not thought the trip through when he had first planned it, had not really thought about the fact that he would be flying from busy international airport to another busy international airport, usually through legitimate IFR conditions due to the tropical cloud cover, skirting the occasional thunderstorm, and consistently having to choose between making a nearly blind ILS approach or not flying at all. Suzie’s presence had been a last-minute suggestion when Celia offered to meet them in Caracas and he now knew that without her by his side to talk him through the flights and the landings and to gently goad him into working on unfamiliar skills, he likely would have just ended up hiring someone to fly the plane home after all. But now, he had more than fifteen hours of challenging flying and six challenging ILS landings (including two high altitude airports) under his belt. He was much more comfortable with his new airplane and had already decided to embrace all of its capabilities now that he had some experience.
“Now it’s time for the interrogation,” Laura said sourly from her seat. She had slept almost the entire flight and had only awakened when she heard the flaps being lowered for approach. She was still a little groggy and out of sorts.
“Undoubtedly,” Jake said with a sigh as he turned onto the taxiway and started heading for the international terminal, where the general aviation customs checkpoint was waiting for them. The interrogation was something that had happened each time they had crossed an international border: in Caracas, in Panama, in Guatemala City, and in Mexico City. The aircraft they were flying on was flagged in pretty much every nation in the western hemisphere and everyone wanted to give it and its occupants the onceover. They had no reason to believe that San Diego would be any different.
It turned out it was a little different, but not in a good way. Instead of only customs agents and a drug-sniffing dog, there were two additional armed men waiting for them. These men were dressed in tactical gear. They wore baseball caps on their head with the letters DEA on them.
“This is going to be fun,” Jake remarked sourly as he went through the shutdown checklist.
The customs agents were polite, as they had been in every previous country. They looked at everyone’s passport, paying particular attention to the stamps, and then asked Jake what his business had been in South and Central America and Mexico. They listened to his explanation attentively, as if they did not already know what his business had been. The DEA agents stood back a few feet during this phase, unintroduced and saying nothing.
“Why did you pick the route home through Central America and Mexico?” one of the customs guys asked after Jake told his story. “Wouldn’t it have been easier just to fly directly to Miami and then work your way home from there?”
“Maybe,” Jake allowed, “but that would have been a long, overwater flight during thunderstorm season in an aircraft I am not all that familiar with. I have never done an overwater flight of that distance before and I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I was more comfortable with shorter hops that were always within a hundred miles or so of land.”
The agents nodded, giving no indication whether they believed him or not. They then moved on to the second part of the rituaclass="underline" opening up the suitcases and having the dog sniff them before rifling through their belongings. Like every other team of customs officers, they seemed to find something particularly interesting about Laura’s panties.
The agents then boarded the aircraft with the dog for their inspection and walk-through. While they were doing that, the two DEA agents finally stepped forward and introduced themselves. They were Special Agents Markley and Mendoza.
“We’re assuming that you understand our interest in you and your aircraft, Mr. Kingsley?” Mendoza, who seemed to be the leader, asked him.
“I do,” Jake said. “This plane used to belong to Eduardo Gomez, who is allegedly a particularly successful exporter of yeyo from South America.”
“That is correct,” Mendez said. “How well do you know Mr. Gomez, Jake? May I call you Jake?”
“You may,” Jake said. “And I don’t know Gomez very well at all. I had never even heard of him until my accountant discovered that he was trying to sell the very plane that I was interested in buying. And I had no reason to believe he was an international drug dealer until after I had already closed escrow on the plane and started working my way home with it.”
“But you’ve socialized with Mr. Gomez,” said agent Markley. It was not phrased as a question, but stated as a fact. One or more of the previous customs agents had undoubtedly been in contact with him.
“That is correct,” Jake said. “When I flew to Colombia back in May to inspect the aircraft, he made a point of coming to meet me. I’m sure you’re aware that I’m somewhat of a celebrity, right?”
“Oh yes,” Mendoza said. “We are aware of who you are. Intimately aware, you might say. And we know you have had some previous experience with yeyo yourself.”
“Yes, I used to snort a little coke back in the day,” Jake allowed. “Everyone who picks up an entertainment rag or reads the headlines in the supermarket knows that. But I haven’t used any in years now, not since the last Intemperance tour back in 1990.”
“Would you be willing to submit to a drug test?” asked Markley.
“No,” Jake said simply.
“Why not?” Markley asked.
“Because what is in my pee is none of your business,” Jake explained.
“If you’re not doing any cocaine, why are you unwilling to submit a sample?” asked Mendoza.
Jake sighed. “If you know me as well as you say, then I’m sure you’re aware that my father spent his career as an ACLU lawyer. Giving you my pee just to satisfy your curiosity kind of goes against the grain of how I was raised. If you want my pee, you’re going to need to get a judge to sign an order compelling me to give it. Good luck with that, gentlemen.”
The two agents looked at each other for a moment, passing some kind of silent communication back and forth. Mendoza then looked at him again. “You know,” he said, “it would be perfectly within our rights to impound this aircraft pending an investigation into whether or not it was purchased with drug money.”
“You think I purchased it using drug money?” Jake said with a laugh. “Seriously? I am a multimillionaire, gentlemen. I have money falling out of my asshole, all of which can be traced back to my primary income stream, which is KVA Records, which gets its income from the sale of music produced by myself, Celia Valdez, and a little group called Brainwash. I don’t know if you’ve checked with your friends over at the IRS yet, but I can assure you that everything is in order and there are no questionable income streams.”