"Malavida's all the way out in California. How're we going to get there? We'll never get reimbursed for airfare."
"That's the easy part. We'll use the DOC's personal jet. His pilot is an old friend of mine."
"The Director of Customs?" She was shocked, but smiling. "You really do walk the edge, friend."
"Walking the edge is our basic Fort Nowhere operating philosophy," he said, and they shook hands.
Earlier that morning, he had called the DOC's pilot, Red Gustafson, in the Customs ready room at D. C.'s National Airport. Red and Lockwood had worked on a joint-op drug interdiction in Southern Florida and had become good friends. Red happened to have mentioned to him two days before that the Director's jet was due for an engine nacelle hot section sometime soon. All Customs planes were serviced at Lockheed in Burbank. Lockwood asked Red if he could make the trip that weekend, and if he and a friend could hitch a ride. Red had set it up and told Lockwood to come along.
Lockwood and Karen met Red at the Customs shed at ten o'clock Saturday morning. They walked through the humid heat to the blue-and-white Citation and got aboard. The Citation was the only jet in civil aviation that was rated to be operated with one pilot. They got in and buckled up; by 10:30 they were airborne, climbing to thirty thousand feet and heading toward California.
They settled back as Red made a banking right turn, leaving the National Airport departure pattern. The little jet hummed quietly. Lockwood could again smell Karen's perfume in the cramped cabin.
They landed seven hours later at Burbank Airport after refueling at Tucson. The L. A. time, was 2:30 in the afternoon. Red said that they would have to go back to Washington Sunday night. He gave Lockwood a rough departure time of six P. M. and a beeper number, then took off across the heat-shimmering pavement, looking for the crew chief in the Lockheed hangar.
They rented a yellow LeBaron convertible and put the top down. Lockwood drove onto the freeway with his jacket off. Karen had her head back, breathing in L. A.'s funky air. Lockwood had been stationed in L. A. for two years, so he didn't need a map. He used the downtown exit from the 110 freeway, on Sixth Street.
The Federal Building was between Fourth and Olive, near the L. A. library. It was a fifteen-story brown-brick structure with no architectural significance. The top three floors were given over to Assistant U. S. Attorneys for the Sixth District. Lockwood left Dawson in the lobby coffee shop and took the elevator up.
Harvey Knox was in a cubicle on the east side of the AUSAs' division on the fifth floor, surrounded by depositions. Short and plump, Harvey had one of those haircuts that have to be carefully arranged and then patted to cover a growing shiny spot. He was ten pounds heavier than when Lockwood had last seen him, five years ago. They'd worked an international business fraud case together. One of the U. S. Customs missions was to protect business from international counterfeit merchandise, and Lockwood had been working a big ring of counterfeiters selling knock-off Louis Vuitton luggage and handbags. This kind of fraud accounted for business losses of over three billion dollars a year and occupied a good percentage of Customs resources.
Despite the size of the operation, the case had ended like the last reel of a Marx Brothers movie. The Customs agents' inside man had notified them that the main counterfeiter, a Brazilian named Raul Ruiz, was supposedly at that moment standing in his East L. A. warehouse. Harvey and Lockwood decided to take the place down and make the arrest. They had everything they needed to take the case to trial, and the added bonus of having the Brazilian quarterback standing right in the warehouse with the offending merchandise was too good to pass up. Lockwood and his Customs team had gone in and made the arrests while Harvey was in a plain wrapper out front, writing the paper and identifying the suspects from surveillance photographs. They swept the place and lined everybody up, but there was no Raul Ruiz in the conga line. The warehouse was full of Mexican illegals. Lockwood had cuffed the Mexicans and was waiting for INS and an interpreter, when who should pull up in a rental car but El Jefe Grande himself, with two huge Latin bodyguards. Apparently, Ruiz liked gelato mexicano and had gone down the street for a cone. He saw all the activity in the parking lot and hit reverse. Harvey got out of the plain wrapper and ran toward the car, his coattails and comb-over hair flapping. He tried to reach into the driver's side window and yank the keys out of the ignition, but found himself looking down the barrel of a Ruger Red-hawk. The three-hundred-pound driver floored the car, but Harvey's sleeve got caught on the turn indicator, forcing him to run and hop alongside the rental, which was making a looping, tire-skidding turn out of the parking lot.
Lockwood heard the commotion and ran out just in time to take part in the Harpo Marx conclusion. He pulled his S amp;W long-nose and, with Harvey Knox hopping, running, and dragging ass alongside the car, Lockwood hit a Weaver shooting stance and fired one round. He'd never been a great shot. He'd been aiming at the driver, but he hit and blew the left rear tire. The car lost its rubber and skidded to a stop on the rim. The Customs team took everyone into custody. The shot had saved Harvey's life.
After he decompressed, Harvey ran around behind Lockwood like a puppy. He told Lockwood he was going to name his firstborn after him. Lockwood said, "Not necessary." Then the AUSA said he was going to buy him a trip to Hawaii. Lockwood said, "Not necessary." Then he said, "What can I do? You saved my life. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here."
It was then that Lockwood said, "Let me think about that and get back to you." Now, five years later, in Harvey's little cubicle at the Federal Building, he was about to try and collect the debt.
"Shit, Johnny, how you doing?" Harvey said as he clambered up from behind his depositions, briefs, and yellow pads. He pumped Lock-wood's hand endlessly and Lockwood grinned, glad to see the little attorney.
Harvey was still trying to hide his bald spot under strands of wispy brown hair, but the battle lines were widening, and Harvey and his hair stylist were losing.
"How you been? Jeez, good to see you," Harvey said. "I got your message on my machine you were coming. But it didn't say what time. You gotta let me buy you dinner… I'll call Ann."
"I have to go up to Lompoc tonight and I'm gonna try to see Heather and Claire before I leave; then I have to get to Burbank by six tomorrow to get my ride back to D. C. So it might have to wait."
"What's up?"
"I need a favor…"
Harvey grinned at him. "I remember your style, Johnny, so I hope this favor won't cost me my career."
"What I have in mind is a little slick," Lockwood admitted.
Harvey looked at him, shook his head. "Hey, you name it. I wouldn't even be standing here if you hadn't defrocked that Goodyear radial."
"There's a guy up in Lompoc named Malavida Chacone, a computer cracker. He's doing a nickel. But I checked and he's getting one for three on good behavior, so he's 'short,' less than eighteen months to go. I need to get him a coffee break parole for a few days, and I don't wanna fuck around trying to get a furlough request verified."
"You want me to write a Special Circumstances Release on a Federal prner?" he said, the smile drifting sideways on his friendly face.
"You don't have to do it, Harvey, 'cause I know it's kinda between the cracks… but I'm under a lot of pressure here."
"Why? What's the reason?"
"Classified. I need him for an interview on a very important case. I'll lock him up every night. But he has information critical to my investigation."
"Shit, John, that means I'll have to lie on the SCR, say it's life or death, or some damn thing…"
"That's what it is. I shoulda mentioned that." Lockwood grinned. "And you can't tell me what the case is?"