‘No,’ Hodges says.
The man in the coverall takes the fifty. ‘I’m supposed to bring that Navigator around for him. Right where you’re parked. That’s the only reason I gave you grief about it.’
Now that Hodges thinks of it, that’s not a bad idea. ‘Why don’t you go on and do that? Pull it up behind my car, nice and tight. Then you might have business somewhere else for fifteen minutes or so.’
‘Always stuff to do in Hangar A,’ the man in the coverall agrees. ‘Hey, you’re not carrying a gun, are you?’
‘No.’
‘What about the guy in the KingAir?’
‘He won’t have one, either.’ This is almost certainly true, but in the unlikely event Madden does have one, it will probably be in his carryall. Even if it’s on his person, he won’t have a chance to pull it, let alone use it. Hodges hopes he never gets too old for excitement, but he has absolutely no interest in OK Corral shit.
Now he can hear the steady, swelling beat of the KingAir’s props as it taxies toward the building. ‘Better bring that Navigator around. Then …’
‘Hangar A, right. Good luck.’
Hodges nods his thanks. ‘You have a good day, sir.’
6
Hodges stands to the left of the doors, right hand in his sportcoat pocket, enjoying both the shade and the balmy summer air. His heart is beating a little faster than normal, but that’s okay. That’s just as it should be. Oliver Madden is the kind of thief who robs with a computer rather than a gun (Holly has discovered the socially engaged motherfucker has eight different Facebook pages, each under a different name), but it doesn’t do to take things for granted. That’s a good way to get hurt. He listens as Madden shuts the KingAir down and imagines him walking into the terminal of this small, almost-off-the-radar FBO. No, not just walking, striding. With a bounce in his step. Going to the desk, where he will arrange for his expensive turboprop to be hangared. And fueled? Probably not today. He’s got plans in the city. This week he’s buying casino licenses. Or so he thinks.
The Navigator pulls up, chrome twinkling in the sun, smoked gangsta glass reflecting the front of the building … and Hodges himself. Whoops! He sidles farther to the left. The man in the coverall gets out, tips Hodges a wave, and heads for Hangar A.
Hodges waits, wondering what Barbara might want, what a pretty girl with lots of friends might consider important enough to make her reach out to a man old enough to be her grandpa. Whatever she needs, he’ll do his best to supply it. Why wouldn’t he? He loves her almost as much as he loves Jerome and Holly. The four of them were in the wars together.
That’s for later, he tells himself. Right now Madden’s the priority. Keep your eyes on the prize.
The doors open and Oliver Madden walks out. He’s whistling, and yes, he’s got that Mr Successful bounce in his step. He’s at least four inches taller than Hodges’s not inconsiderable six-two. Broad shoulders in a summerweight suit, the shirt open at the collar, the tie hanging loose. Handsome, chiseled features that fall somewhere between George Clooney and Michael Douglas. He’s got a briefcase in his right hand and an overnight bag slung over his left shoulder. His haircut’s the kind you get in one of those places where you have to book a week ahead.
Hodges steps forward. He can’t decide between morning and afternoon, so just wishes Madden a good day.
Madden turns, smiling. ‘The same back to you, sir. Do I know you?’
‘Not at all, Mr Madden,’ Hodges says, returning the smile. ‘I’m here for the plane.’
The smile withers a bit at the corners. A frown-line appears between Madden’s manicured brows. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The plane,’ Hodges says. ‘Three-fifty Beech KingAir? Seating for ten? Tail number November-one-one-four-Delta-Kilo? Actually belongs to Dwight Cramm, of El Paso, Texas?’
The smile stays on, but boy, it’s struggling. ‘You’ve mistaken me, friend. My name’s Mallon, not Madden. James Mallon. As for the plane, mine’s a King, all right, but the tail is N426LL, and it belongs to no one but little old me. You probably want Signature Air, next door.’
Hodges nods as if Madden might be right. Then he takes out his phone, reaching crossdraw so he can keep his right hand in his pocket. ‘Why don’t I just put through a call to Mr Cramm? Clear this up. I believe you were at his ranch just last week? Gave him a bank check for two hundred thousand dollars? Drawn on First of Reno?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Smile all gone.