Flat Spin (30 page)

“What about my student?”

“You were pilot in command. As far as we’re concerned, the student was just along for the ride,” Fargas said. “We released him two hours ago.”

The news media was gone by the time I was let go. I walked to Larry’s hangar, unlocked the door, and dropped off my flight bag inside my office, suddenly feeling very exhausted. The light was flashing on my answering machine. There were three messages: one from some attorney representing Savannah’s father who asked that I return his call at my earliest convenience; one from Eugen Dragomir saying he still wanted to go flying with me, assuming neither one of us went to prison; and one from my landlady.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, “that somebody threw a bomb in your apartment. But don’t worry, Bubeleh. We’re still having brisket Monday night.”

E
IGHTEEN

M
y first thoughts when notified that my apartment had been torched were of Kiddiot’s welfare. OK, that’s not entirely correct.

In truth, my first thoughts were, “Gee, I hope all my stuff didn’t burn up because I really can’t afford to buy all new stuff right now,” followed by, “Gee, I wonder who did it?” Not that I didn’t concern myself with the safety of my ungrateful, indifferent feline roommate. But I figured that if anybody could survive a firebombing, like a cockroach, it was him. He’d probably slept through the whole thing up in his tree.

I pulled up and parked Savannah’s Jaguar in front of Mrs. Schmulowitz’s house. “Your kitty’s A-OK,” she said as she met me outside. “I made some tuna noodle casserole for him. Does he eat any of it? Not a bite. He’s on the divan, taking a nap. He was exhausted.”

“You’d be exhausted, too, Mrs. Schmulowitz, if you slept twenty-two hours a day.”

I asked Mrs. Schmulowitz if she was A-OK. She assured me she was. She’d been down at the beach, going for a run, she said, when the fire apparently broke out. An eighty-nine-year-old woman jogging along the sand in Lycra shorts and a sports bra. I wondered how many tourists took pictures.

I followed her through the side gate and into her backyard. Yellow “Do Not Cross” police tape encircled what little was left of the garage Kiddiot and I once called home. All four walls, though scorched, were still standing. The roof was caved in. What was left of the rafters jutted skyward at crazy angles like spars from some giant broken umbrella. Fortunately, the firefighters had kept the flames from spreading to Mrs. Schmulowitz’s house.

“A
feier zol im trefen,
” Mrs. Schmulowitz said. “He should burn up, whoever did this, the Nazi
gonif
.”

From the alley, I looked in through the shattered window of the garage door, through which a makeshift bomb had obviously been tossed. There was nothing I could see inside that the fire hadn’t blackened. The stench of burnt wet wood crawled into my head and for a moment I was transported back to a dank Central American jungle. In a monsoonal rain, we’d chased a high-level cocaine kingpin into a small village. He’d taken refuge in the village church and refused to come out. Echevarria pumped in an incendiary rifle grenade, hoping to get him to rethink his position. The church went up like a tiki torch and the kingpin came out firing. I shot him in the neck. He was the first man I ever killed close enough to see his face.

Mrs. Schmulowitz handed me the business card of a Detective Ostrow from the Rancho Bonita PD.

“He wanted you to call him as soon as you came home,” she said. “They think it was arson.”

“You haven’t asked me who I think did it,” I said.

Mrs. Schmulowitz shrugged. “If I thought it was any of my business, Bubeleh, I would’ve asked. What’s important is, nobody got hurt.”

I put my arm around her bony shoulder. I told her I was sorry for bringing trouble into her life. Not to worry, she said. Insurance would replace the garage. My personal possessions were another matter.

“Please tell me you didn’t have anything valuable in there.”

“It’s only stuff, Mrs. Schmulowitz.” I gave her a wink to let her know that stuff really didn’t matter.

If you’re a Buddhist, you believe greed and dependence on material possessions are the basis for most human suffering. The more simply you live, the more enlightened you become. I felt very enlightened at that moment. My home was gone along with all my clothes except those I was wearing. What few sentimental touchstones I’d kept over the years—a photo of my biological parents, my degree from the Air Force Academy, the first pilot wings I ever pinned on my uniform, my marriage certificate to Savannah— were all gone. All I had left was the
Duck
, a truck with 176,000 miles on it, and a cat that showed me about as much loyalty as a hooker at a Shriners’ convention. Mrs. Schmulowitz offered to let me stay rent-free in her house for as long as I wanted, but the thought of spending even one night on her mohair sofa gave me hives. I thanked her for her kindness and said I’d make other arrangements.

A news van from one of the local TV stations turned down the alley as we were talking and stopped in front of us. An on-air reporter less than half my age hopped out in a suit coat and tie, cargo shorts and running shoes. The top half of him looked like he was on Wall Street; the bottom half, like he was heading off to play beach volleyball. He spewed his words like a high-velocity assault weapon.

“What’s up folks Chip Pfeiffer Action News can you tell us what happened do you live here we’re doing a story for the five o’clock broadcast we heard it might be arson do you know why anybody would want to burn down this garage you mind if we get a few shots Heather do me a favor and start us off over there with a two-shot of me interviewing these people.”

Chip’s videographer, Heather, was already roaming the backyard like she owned the place. She had close-cropped brown hair and thighs like a short-track speed skater. The firefighters had somehow managed to avoid Mrs. Schmulowitz’s precious geraniums while dousing her burning garage; peering through her viewfinder, Heather seemed to trample every one of them. Mrs. Schmulowitz seemed not to notice or care, dazzled as she was by the sudden presence of the news media.

I was less than dazzled.

“You’re on private property,” I said.

“We’re just doing our job trying to report the news, sir,” Chip said.

“What you’re doing is invading this nice lady’s privacy. And I’m about to invade your rectum with my foot because a) I don’t care for your attitude and b) you presume that microphone gives you the right to do whatever you want. I’ve got news for you. This just in: it doesn’t.”

“It’s OK, Cordell,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, making goo-goo eyes at Chip. “These sweet young people can film all they want.”

“The first thing these sweet young people are going to do is apologize for nuking your flowers,” I said. “Then they’re going to courteously ask your permission to access your property.”

Heather looked at me indignantly. Chip tried to stare me down, then realized I wasn’t screwing around. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, sufficiently cowed, and said deferentially to Mrs. Schmulowitz, “We’re very sorry for messing up your flowers, ma’am. My station will be happy to replace them. Would it be possible for us to get a few shots of your garage from inside your yard? We’d also like to interview you on-camera—if that’s OK with you.”

“You want to put
me
on television?”

Mrs. Schmulowitz beamed like Mr. DeMille had just called for her close-up. She said she needed to go put on something more appropriate if she was going to appear on camera, and breathlessly hurried inside.

I waited in the hallway outside her bedroom while she changed out of her sports bra. She told me how she long ago dreamed of a career as a stage actress, but shelved her budding Broadway ambitions when she married and became a mother. Now, seven decades later, here she was again, standing at the precipice of fame.

“I’m sorry all your stuff got charbroiled,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, “but that cockamamie garage burning down could be the best thing that’s happened to me in years. It just goes to show you, Bubeleh, there’s a reason for everything.”

The number of rungs on the ladder of celebrity between the Great White Way and an appearance on Rancho Bonita’s local five o’clock news could be measured in light-years, but who was I to burst an old lady’s bubble? I asked her for a favor. The reporter, I said, would likely inquire as to why anyone would’ve wanted to burn down the garage. Did it have something to do with her tenant? What did he do for a living? Who did he know who might’ve done such a horrible thing? It was the reporter’s job to ask questions. The best thing to do, I suggested, was to be polite in response but vague, to tell Action News that she wasn’t really at liberty to discuss specifics, and to refer the reporter instead to the police.

Mrs. Schmulowitz emerged from her closet in shiny white boots and a sparkly red leotard with a matching sparkly skirt, like something a baton twirler might’ve worn during halftime at the Rose Bowl, circa 1950.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Bubeleh,” she said, admiring herself in a full-length mirror hanging from the back of her bedroom door, “but don’t you worry, your secret, whatever it is, is safe with me. Loose lips sink ships. You sure you don’t want to sleep on my sofa until you can find somewhere else?”

“That’s Plan B. I’ll let you know if Plan A doesn’t fly. But thanks, in any case, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

A sad thought came to her. She turned slowly from the mirror to face me. “If you go, who will I watch football with on Monday nights? Who will I cook brisket for?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy. You’ll still see me on Mondays. Giants, baby, all the way.”

Mrs. Schmulowitz patted me on the cheek, relieved, then turned back to the mirror.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think your star on the Walk of Fame awaits.”

She blew me a kiss and strode outside in her baton twirler outfit to meet her adoring public.

I called the number on the business card she’d given me from Detective Ostrow of the Rancho Bonita Police Department. Ostrow’s machine answered.

“Hi, this is Kyle Ostrow. I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 9-1-1.”

He sounded like he was in his twenties. Laid-back California surfer-dude inflection. I said why I was calling and left my cell number. My next call was to Savannah. She didn’t answer, either. After the beep, I said, “It’s me. I’m returning your car.”

Nobody followed me down to LA.

S
avannah wasn’t home. Her housekeeper, Alameda, informed me through the speaker box at the security gate that the lady of the house had taken a taxi to go counsel a client. Alameda wasn’t sure when she’d be home. I told her I’d be back.

The “Find Shopping” feature on the Jaguar’s dash-mounted GPS guided me out of the Hollywood Hills, past the CBS studios, and down to the flats of Los Angeles’ Fairfax District, to a Kmart on 3rd Street. Into my shopping cart I tossed a six-pack of boxer shorts made in China, a twelve-pack of crew socks made in Costa Rica, three short-sleeve polo shirts made in Vietnam, two pairs of cargo pants and a pair of jeans made in Malaysia, a gray pullover fleece, also from Malaysia, about a month’s supply of toothpaste, mouthwash, a comb, deodorant and razors, and a medium-size Little Caesars vegetarian pizza from the kiosk near the store’s entrance. As I was loading my toiletries and new wardrobe into the trunk of Savannah’s Jaguar, I realized I’d forgotten a toothbrush.

I went back inside, picked out a blue toothbrush with one of those rubber gum massagers that I can never figure out how to use correctly, and walked to the check-out counter. My phone rang while I stood in line.

“Mr. Logan, hey, what’s up? This is Detective Kyle Ostrow, Rancho Bonita Police Department. Got a sec?”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Well, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware by now, your apartment got burned pretty bad. We’re looking at it as a possible arson.”

“So I heard.”

Forensics, Ostrow said, confirmed that someone had lobbed in a makeshift firebomb. Gasoline had been used as the accelerant. He asked if I knew of anyone who would’ve wanted to do me harm. I suggested he contact Czarnek at the LAPD who could fill him in on the whole story.

“What story would that be?”

“The one I’d prefer not having to spend the next twenty minutes rehashing when Detective Czarnek can provide you all the pertinent details.”

“I’m just trying to help, Mr. Logan. I’m on your side.”

One must be nicer to his fellow human beings if one hopes to return in the next life as something other than a telemarketer or a snail
. An earnest, hardworking cop like Ostrow didn’t need another impertinent asshole giving him grief, I realized, so I offered him the Cliffs-Notes version of my resume. About doing things to bad people in the name of national security. About Echevarria’s murder. About the bomb inside Bondarenko’s chest. About being chased on the ground and, while I couldn’t prove it, in the air.

“Wow,” is all Detective Ostrow could say when I was finished.