LAUNDRY MAN (A Jack Shepherd crime thriller) (30 page)

Ike did a quick walk around, wiggling the wing flaps and poking at some other parts I couldn’t identify. When she actually did kick the tires, I almost laughed out loud. Eventually, Ike pulled herself up on the wing, climbed from there into the cockpit, and strapped herself into the left seat. I followed, the duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

Strapping myself into the right-hand seat and stowing the duffle under my feet, I slammed the cabin door and snapped the bolt into what I hoped was the locked position. Ike fired the starter and a couple of minutes later she was gunning the engine and dancing down the bumpy asphalt strip. We were airborne.

The little plane climbed out quickly, its engine pulling more powerfully than I would have thought possible for its size. Below us was a monotonous configuration of brown and green sheets streaked with shards of muddy water. They were rice fields mostly: long, narrow strips laid out between widely spaced roads like the lanes in a giant’s bowling alley. The flat, marshy land surrounding the delta of the Chao Phraya River was an ideal place for growing rice. Building a city there, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely.

After a few minutes we popped like a champagne cork out of a marmalade-colored layer of crud and Ike leveled off in deep blue skies that seemed to go on forever. She nudged our course to the west, pointing us directly across the narrowest part of the Gulf of Thailand and toward the neck of land about fifty miles on the other side that connected Thailand with Malaysia far to the south. Off on our right, Bangkok spread all the way to the horizon. The place was a colossus, a thick forest of towering, mostly egg white buildings that choked the marshy plains as far as the eye could see. When you were on the ground, the city enveloped you, taking away your sense of perspective. Only from the air could you grasp the magnitude of it, and it never failed to overwhelm me.

Ike didn’t seem to have anything to say, so I kept quiet as well. We had flown in silence southward along the western edge of the Gulf of Thailand for almost an hour when I spotted the virtually uninhabited necklace of limestone islands that made up the Angthong National Park. As we came abeam of the islands, Ike pushed the Cherokee’s nose to the west and we headed inland over what I was pretty sure was the town of Surat Thani. Tracking to the southwest, we crossed over the isthmus toward the Andaman Sea where Phuket lay just off the coast.

Ike reached out, twisted some dials on the instrument panel, and pulled down the microphone.

“Phuket Center, Cherokee Hotel Sierra Golf Zulu X-ray is with you inbound thirty miles north of the airport at five thousand with negative traffic.”

“Hey, Ike. How’re you this morning?” an American-accented voice responded. “Ah… nothing in our pattern at this time, but we’re painting a northbound Thai heavy climbing through flight level one two zero at four miles ten o’clock of your position. There’s also a Bangkok Airways Otter about one four miles to your six o’clock at eleven thousand.”

Ike bent down and twisted her head to look up through the Cherokee’s left window.

“Got the heavy, Center. Zulu X-ray out.”

“Roger, Ike. Contact Phuket tower on one twenty three point seven. Have a nice day. Phuket Center out.”

“That didn’t sound like a Thai on the radio to me,” I said.

Ike’s eyes flicked over at me. “You’re not nervous, are you, hotshot?”

“No, I’m… yes, of course I am.”

Ike nodded as if that satisfied her, then she reached across and patted me on the knee.

“Relax, son. Aviation talk’s always in American. Prab went to the University of Oklahoma. Take it from me, he’s as Thai as tai chi.”

“Tai chi is Chinese.”

“You know what I mean.”

The fragile limestone stacks and placid surface of Phangnga Bay were coming up just left of our nose and beneath us was an unbroken carpet of mangrove trees.

“The Phuket airport doesn’t seem to be a great place for me to slip onto the island without being seen,” I said to Ike with what I hoped was an appropriately diplomatic note in my voice.

“It’s not. That’s why you’re not going there.”

“But weren’t you just talking to somebody about landing there?”

“Yep, because
I’m
going there. Just trust me, son. You’re in good hands.”

I figured Ike would explain what that was supposed to mean when she was good and ready.

Below us I watched the Phuket highway twisting south toward the Sarasin Bridges, the twin roadways that were the island’s only connection to the mainland. Off to the left Krabi’s famous beaches were strung out like pearls tucked into pockets of green satin. Waterfalls gushed down from the low mountains and in some places I could track the course of the rushing streams through the thick jungle canopy until they reached its edge and fell into the sea.

Ike changed some numbers on her dials again and took down the microphone.

“Ah… Phuket Tower, this is Cherokee Hotel Sierra Golf Zulu X-ray with you. I may have a little problem here.”

I stopped admiring the beaches and waterfalls and started listening very carefully.

“Go ahead, Zulu X-ray.”

“I’ve got a rough engine and… ah, I’m losing power pretty fast.”

The engine sounded okay to me. I looked at Ike sitting placidly to my left.

“Are you declaring an emergency, Zulu X-ray?”

“Negative, Phuket Tower. Not at this time.” Ike absent-mindedly keyed the mike three or four times. “Let me stay with it and see what happens. Be advised that I’m losing altitude and may be off your radar shortly.”

Ike pushed the nose of the Cherokee over gently, nudged our course back toward the east, and settled into a gradual descent in the general direction of Phangnga Bay.

“Can you make the field, Zulu X-ray?”

It was a different voice on the radio this time.

“Ah… say again, Phuket Tower. You’re breaking up.”

I’d heard every word. The radio sounded fine to me.

“I asked if you can make the field, Ike.”

“Cannot copy, Phuket Tower. Repeat. Zulu X-ray cannot copy.”

Ike reached for a toggle switch on the instrument panel to the right of the radio. When she flipped it, the dials went dark. Then she turned to me and winked.

With a snap of her wrists on the control wheel, Ike rolled the Cherokee up onto its left wing until we were ninety degrees to the horizon and then she peeled off like a World War II dive bomber making an attack run on a battleship. Another snap of Ike’s wrists and the little plane leveled off about fifty feet above the water. Before I could say anything, she banked through a hundred and eighty degrees and crossed inland over a beach. Then she banked steeply again just above the tree line and a short, empty stretch of asphalt road abruptly loomed up in the rainforest right in front of us.

As we roared over the end of the road, Ike hauled the plane’s nose up to a forty-five degree angle and jerked on a lever between our seats that looked a great deal like a parking brake but which I devoutly hoped wasn’t anything of the sort. Her right hand shot straight out, chopping off the throttle, and as the engine dropped to a purr I heard first the left and then the right landing gear squeal onto the road.

Ike pumped her toe brakes a few times and the little plane stopped rolling almost immediately. Gunning the throttle while she held one brake, Ike spun the Cherokee smartly on its left gear until it was lined up on the roadway pointing back in the direction from which we had just landed.

She reached over, popped my harness release, and shoved open the passenger door. The pulsing of the plane’s engine filled the cabin as she leveled her index finger toward the wing. I got the idea quickly enough and scrambled out, dragging my duffle bag.

“Don’t fall in the prop, son!”

Ike slammed the door shut behind me and I slid off the wing to the ground just as the engine gave another roar and the Cherokee began its take-off roll away from me. The whine of its engine made it sound like a very large and angry lawnmower and I clapped both hands over my ears to avoid the worst of the racket.

That was why I didn’t hear the jeep as it drove up behind me.

“She’s a hell of a pilot, yes?” a man’s voice shouted over the noise.

I turned around and saw a man wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette slumped over the steering wheel of an open jeep that was dented and covered with dried mud. His accent was thick and French and sounded like stale smoke.

“Now she’ll call the little fuckers in the tower with some stupid story about dirt in her fuel or some shit like that and then fly right on into Phuket just like nothing ever happened. Nobody will ever know she was here.” The man shook his head in admiration. “Big balls for an old lady. Big balls.”

I walked around the jeep and pulled myself up into the passenger seat. Pushing my bag onto the floor, I looked the man over. At a glance I took him for forty-five, maybe fifty. Fit looking and wiry with a bit of a burn on his face and forearms, his hair was very long and gray and it hung in a thick mop down to his shoulders. He was wearing a crisp khaki shirt with epaulets, matching shorts, and ankle boots with floppy green socks.

“Welcome to Phuket,
Professeur.
Just think of this as Casablanca with no fucking heroes.”

The man straightened up, flicked away his cigarette, and threw me a professional-looking salute.

“I’m Captain Tom, a genuine civilian no longer affiliated with any military unit, government agency, or other form of socially oppressive organization.”

“Captain of what?” I asked.

“Ah well,
merdé
…”

The man shrugged in that elaborate sort of way that only looks right on a Frenchman.

“They used to call me Major Tom, but that sounded too bourgeois so I busted myself down to captain.”

Christ, another one
.

The man checked his watch. “Enough of the small talk,
Professeur.
We shall go, no?”

CAPTAIN TOM DROPPED
the jeep into gear and accelerated up the road.

There was no sign of life around us, but the foliage was so thick that the Taj Mahal could have been a hundred yards off in either direction and I would never have spotted it. As we came to the end of the asphalt surface, a track continued straight into the dense rain forest. I braced myself when we left the roadway, but the dirt was unexpectedly smooth. Captain Tom never even slowed down.

We drove for a few minutes in silence and then Tom glanced over and pointed to the storage space in front of my seat.

“
Monsieur
Emmanuel said to get that for you.”

There was a dark blue nylon pouch in the open compartment. I pulled it out and unzipped it. Inside was a map of Phuket, a gold American Express card, and a California driver’s license with a picture that looked as much like me as any driver’s license photograph ever had. The credit card and the license were both in the name of Benny Glup, and the driver’s license had an address in Redondo Beach, a place just south of the Los Angeles airport where I had actually been once back in another life.

I held up the license and gave Captain Tom a look. “Benny
Glup?”

Tom shrugged again, perhaps a little less elaborately this time since he was driving.

“It’s a name. You have a problem with it?”

“Probably no more than the real Benny Glup had, whoever the poor bastard is. Or was.”

“He never existed. The license is from of a batch of DEA covers a pal of
Monsieur
Emmanuel’s gave us.”

The shifting alliances among the players in Southeast Asia were a slippery thing, particularly when you were mostly on the outside looking in. I didn’t even want to try and guess what Manny might be doing for the DEA in return for a big bag of cover IDs.

I reached down between my legs and pulled out the duffle bag with my dirty clothes in it. Unzipping the duffle, I tossed the dark blue pouch inside.

“Those glasses are for you, too,” Captain Tom said, pointing to a pair of dark gray night-vision field glasses tucked under the edge of my seat.

When I added the field glasses to my duffle bag, something made me lift out the .45. Mostly I just wanted to see what Tom would say when he saw it.

His glanced over, but only briefly.

“Piece of faggot shit,” he said, hardly batting an eye.

Without slowing down, Tom bent forward and reached around to the small of his back. Lifting his shirt, he produced a black automatic with a nasty profile.

“Now take this sweet
bébé
here. Glock 30. All polymer. Even with a fifteen-round magazine it weighs less than thirty ounces and it’s got a trigger pull that’s silky as pussy hair. Load it with 230-gram hollow points and you can stop a truck if you can handle the kick.”

Tom shot me a quick look to check out my reaction.

“I could loan it to you. Better than that fucking piece-of-shit .45.”

“Couldn’t you just get me a bazooka instead?” I asked.

Tom tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and thought for a moment. “It’s no problem if you can give me a couple of hours.”

“That was just a joke, Tom.”

“Oh,
oui
,” he said, but he didn’t laugh.

After another twenty minutes the track we were following suddenly emerged from the folds of moist greenery and intersected a well-maintained asphalt highway with very little traffic. We turned south and before long I saw a pair of bridges up in the distance.

“Those are the Sarasin Bridges,” Captain Tom said when he noticed me looking. “Phuket is just on the other side, but Nai Harn Beach is all the way down at the south end of the island. We’ve still got at least another hour of driving.”

“Is that where Barry Gale is?”

“That’s where the Phuket Yacht Club is. Benny Glup has a room there.”

“I wondered what the credit card was for.”

“The room’s already taken care of—
Monsieur
Emmanuel’s got a friend at the hotel—but use the credit card for anything else you want. Order some champagne if you want. The bills don’t go to us anyway.”

“Forget the champagne, Tom. What about Barry Gale? When are you taking me to him?”