"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."
CHAPTER 51
Sandy, with considerable flourish, tugged at the corner of the cloth, and it fell away to reveal the new label of the Kinsolving Vineyards. There was enthusiastic applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sandy said, "from this moment this vineyard has a new name. In the autumn, after our first harvest, we will make the first wines bearing this label, which my wife designed. Cara and I are so pleased that each of you could join us for this occasion, the beginning of a new marriage and the beginning of a new tradition in the growing and making of fine Napa Valley wines."
More hearty applause. No one showed the slightest interest in driving back to San Francisco, so the party continued. Sandy whispered to Mike Bernini to bring more wine from the cellars.
Shorty Barnum finished his runup and held short of the runway. "Cessna one, two, three tango foxtrot ready for takeoff," he said to Santa Monica tower. "VFR to Oakland."
"Cessna one, two, three, tango foxtrot, cleared for takeoff," the tower responded. "After takeoff turn right to three six zero and expect vectors to the VFR corridor."
Shorty lined up on the runway center line, did a final check of the panel, and pushed the throttles gradually forward. "Tango foxtrot rolling," he replied.
The twin-engined aircraft quickly picked up speed, then lifted from the runway and rose above Santa Monica Beach. Shorty set eight thousand feet into the altitude preselect, turned the heading bug to three six zero degrees, and punched on the autopilot. He took his hands off the yoke, and the airplane began to fly itself. He glanced next to him at Prendergast, or whatever his name was. The man had removed his hat and the wig was now clamped onto his head by a headset.
"That was very good, telling them you were a Cessna," Prendergast said. "Keep up the good work."
"Sure," Shorty said, and turned his attention to looking for traffic. He did not like flying through some of the world's busiest airspace VFR, and he had on the aircraft's nav lights, its strobe lights, and its landing and taxi lights. Tonight, he wanted to be seen by everything flying. He received a vector that put him on course for Oakland, and soon he leveled off at eight thousand feet.
Prendergast glanced at his watch by the glow of the instrument panel. "Yes, yes," he said. "Looking good."
"I told the tower Oakland," Shorty said. "Thought that would put us generally on the right heading. Now, you want to tell me where are we going?"
"A very nice little private field," Prendergast said, handing over a slip of paper. "These are the coordinates."
Shorty fed the coordinates into the Global Positioning System receiver in his panel, pressed the direct button twice, checked the heading, and looked at his chart. "We'll need to fly east of our course to get around San Francisco's Class B airspace," he said. "I want to talk to as few controllers as possible, and anyway, they'd just vector us all over hell and back if we tried to fly through their airspace."
"Good thinking, Shorty."
"GPS puts our ETA at one hour and thirty-four minutes; we've got a little tailwind."
"Very good."
"You a pilot?" Shorty asked. The guy certainly knew something about flying, but he wasn't sure how much.
Prendergast remained silent.
"I've got some music aboard," Shorty said. "What's your pleasure?"
"Please yourself," Prendergast replied, gazing out at the night. They were leaving the lights of LA. behind, and those of Santa Barbara lay ahead.
Classical, Shorty figured. He switched on the radio and pressed the CD button, and behind his seat, the player loaded a CD into the remotely mounted player. His passengers always loved this. Vivaldi's Four Seasons flowed into their headsets. Shorty didn't know a damn thing about classical music, but a woman of his acquaintance had suggested a few selections.