The Buddha saw no viable purpose in lethal weapons. Which explains why he was the Buddha. I see firearms as tools, as practical as any saw or drill; they can come in quite handy when bad people need killing. This difference of opinion served to underscore how many of the Buddha’s precepts, in my flirtation with them, did not come naturally to my Western military mind. How does a man prone to violence by nature and training embrace a religion that preaches peace above all else?
Kneeling there on the floor, my surgically reconstructed knee aching, I debated before forcing the Buddha’s teachings down like medicine, the taste of which you hopefully get used to. I stuffed the revolver between my mattress and box spring, then drove to the airport.
The Buddha, in this instance, had no idea what he was talking about.
Four
Air Traffic Control directed me southbound at 9,000 feet across downtown Los Angeles, en route to the Seal Beach VOR. There were planes big and small all over the sky, whose altitudes and headings all seemed to converge with mine. On my GPS, the Ruptured Duck’s ground track looked less like the crow flies than a game of Pac-Man.
“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn right 20 degrees, vectors for traffic, a 7-6-7 at 11 moving to your 10 o’clock position, same altitude.”
“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, turn left 10 degrees for a King Air, 12 o’clock, four miles northbound, 500 feet above you. Report him in sight.”
“Cessna Four Charlie Lima, descend and maintain 7,000 feet. I’ve got a Baron at your 6 o’clock, five miles in trail, same altitude. He’s showing 40 knots faster.”
The air over the City of Angels was hazy brown with smog that reduced visibility to a couple of miles at best. And did I mention the turbulence? By the time I climbed, dove, and zigzagged my way down the coast to land nearly two hours later at Montgomery Field on the northern fringes of San Diego, my left hand was cramped so badly (all pilots learn to fly using their left hand only, leaving the other free for important activities like adjusting throttles and picking noses) that I nearly had to pry my sweaty fingers from the yoke.
I taxied in and parked on the ramp in front of ritzy Champion Jet Center where a stringy brunette was working the front desk. The gold name tag pinned to her navy blue blazer identified her as “Kimberly.”
As I walked in, she gestured out the window in the direction of my forty-year-old Cessna and smirked as if to amuse. “That,” she said, “is one homely beast.”
Kimberly was a fine one to talk. To be sure, her skin was not trimmed in oxidized orange and yellow paint, or peeling in spots like a molting snake, as was my airplane’s. But with her overbite, limp pageboy haircut, and a pointy snout that would have looked right at home on an Irish wolfhound, homely was as homely said. Was I put off by her making fun of the Ruptured Duck? Does it rain in Oregon? Nobody insults a pilot’s personal plane, even if that plane does happen to resemble a homeless person with wings. I was about to verbally lay her out, but I didn’t. I decided I would take the moral high ground, turn the other cheek instead. I was proud of myself. Maybe this Buddhism thing is working after all.
“I’d like both tanks topped off, please, 100 low lead,” I said with saccharine sweetness. “And I’ll need to rent a car for a few days, if you’d be kind enough to make the arrangements.”
“Certainly. I’ll be pleased to help you with that, sir. I assume you’ll be requiring an economy car during your visit?”
“What would make you assume that, Kimberly?”
My accusatory tone caught her off-guard. “Well, I mean…” She glanced toward the Duck, dwarfed among sleek, multimillion-dollar private jets, then back at me, as if to say, any nitwit could plainly see that I would be needing an economy car given the pile of junk I flew in on.
I planted my forearms on the glossy mahogany counter and leaned deliberately, threateningly, into Kimberly’s personal space.
“I’ll be requiring a Cadillac Escalade… Kimberly.”
Her tongue darted nervously over her thin lips and she hunched her shoulders — sure signs of fright, which was exactly my intent.
“My pleasure, sir.” Kimberly snatched up the phone and called Enterprise, if only to escape my steely gaze.
No one requires a three-ton sport utility vehicle whose gas mileage can be measured in negative integers. I had impulsively demanded an Escalade only because I didn’t want some washed-out counter clerk who normally catered to zillionaires thinking I was one step removed from personal bankruptcy, even if in truth I was.
The Escalade was a black gunboat with chrome rims, heated steering wheel, refrigerated cup holders, burled walnut trim, in-dash satellite navigation system, and an imposing rearview mirror presence that screamed, “Get the bleep out of my way.” I felt every inch the stylin’ pimp daddy as I cruised westbound along Interstate 8 through San Diego’s Mission Valley. I had to admit: it was a darned comfortable ride.
I stopped off for a late lunch at El Indio, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where I’d eaten frequently when I was still with Alpha, conducting joint training ops with the SEAL teams out on Coronado. We shared with the Navy guys some of our tactics — wearing ballet slippers, for example, instead of standard-issue combat boots, when sneaking up on enemy outposts. They, in turn, introduced us to their favorite watering holes, and to El Indio. I sat outside under a hazy sun and inhaled four Baja-style fish tacos. Each was as exquisito as I remembered. After I’d had my fill, I called and left another message for federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio. But not before I belched. Then I headed downtown.
Charles Dowd practiced law in a twenty-three-story bank tower adjacent to Horton Plaza, which had once served as San Diego’s bum central before the strip clubs and dive bars all gave way to swanky eateries and a gentrified shopping mall. I forked over ten dollars and my car keys to an indifferent Salvadoran parking attendant in the basement and rode the elevator to the ninth floor.
Dowd’s office was located among a warren of suites with a communal conference room and a shared receptionist — a cost-conscious arrangement intended by independent practitioners like Dowd to convey the scope and power of being associated with a swanky major law firm without actually working for one.
The receptionist was bosomy and sharp featured. She put down her copy of Entertainment Weekly, pushing a strand of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear and touching the side of her neck with her head slightly cocked.
“May I help you?”
Her gestures conveyed sexual interest. I once might’ve followed up on them, before Savannah became a constant on my mind.
“Cordell Logan to see Charles Dowd.”
“Is Mr. Dowd expecting you?”
“He is.”
She picked up her telephone, tapped a couple of buttons with the eraser end of a pencil, keeping one eye on me, and let Dowd know I was in the lobby.
“Down the hall. Last door on your right.”
“’Preciate it.”
“Anytime,” she said with the hint of a smile.
Definitely interested.
Dowd was waiting for me outside his office in his shirt-sleeves, red suspenders, and a bright paisley tie, hanging loose. The fingers of his right hand clutched a fat, unlit cigar. He was paunchy, on the north end of sixty, and wore what remained of his hair in a ragged gray Afro that brought to mind an aging, black Bozo. Nobody, however, would’ve characterized his temperament or intellect as clown-like.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”