eight
If Lonesome Fred was an unprepossessing sort of pilot, his twin-engine prop plane was even less encouraging. Both of them were beaten, battered, and had clearly seen better days. Lonesome Fred had a stubble of beard, mirrored sunglasses, and spoke in a laconic, stoned voice; his plane was decorated with decals, bullet holes, and the hardly reassuring painting of a mule on the fuselage.
She turned accusing eyes on Mack. “I can’t say much for your transportation,” she muttered under her breath as Lonesome Fred busied himself with a casual check of their flying machine.
He shrugged, his smile warm in the bright Texas sunlight. “What can I say? He assures me the plane flies like a dream and we’ll be in Honduras in a matter of hours. Given the worth of his usual cargo, I’d expect it to be reliable. Come on, Maggie, you know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. She’s probably got the cleanest engine this side of a factory.”
“I checked while you were busy giving Lonesome Fred his exorbitant fee. It’s absolutely filthy, gunked up with oil and crud, and we’re all going to die,” she said prosaically.
Mack grinned at her. “At least we’ll die together. Chin up, Maggie. We’ll be safe enough.”
“Sure we will,” she said in a gloomy voice. “I think I’ll walk.”
She wasn’t serious, but his sturdy hand beneath her elbow didn’t leave her much choice. “All aboard, Maggie May.” He pushed her up into the plane, shoving her butt with unnecessary force. She stumbled into one of the seats, grimacing at the smell of fuel and vegetation and stale beer. Mack took the seat behind her, leaning back with a casual air she envied.
The engines could have sounded smoother, but at least both were working. And despite Lonesome Fred’s unpromising demeanor, he seemed to know what he was doing once he climbed into the cockpit of the plane, his sweat-stained Stetson pushed back on his lined forehead, his mirrored sunglasses balanced above the grubby, weak chin. He was smoking as the plane took off, roaring down the runway and bouncing over potholes, and Maggie turned away to stare fixedly out the greasy window.
“I didn’t know you were afraid of flying, Maggie.”
“Along with being scared of the dark?” she snapped back. “I’m not a bundle of neuroses, Pulaski.”
“I didn’t say you were. Are you afraid of flying?” he persisted.
“No. I’m just a few hours short of getting my license. I’m afraid of death traps and strange pilots and … oh, my God.”
“What?”
“Lonesome Fred is smoking a joint the size of a cigar!”
Mack shrugged. “He says he flies better stoned.”
“Hey, passengers,” Fred’s sleepy voice issued from the pilot’s seat. “You guys know how to swim?”
“Why do you ask?” Maggie demanded in a dubious voice.
“I don’t carry parachutes. I figure it shows a lack of basic trust in my baby.” He patted the instrument panel and some of the ash fell from the thick joint. “So just in case we have any trouble, I like to fly over water.”
“Do you often have any trouble?” Maggie had to ask.
Lonesome Fred shrugged, and the plane lurched as it continued its unsteady ascent into the bright Texas sky. “Now and then,” he said dreamily. “Now and then.” And he began to whistle the theme song from The High and the Mighty.
“Great,” Maggie said, sinking back. “Pulaski, I’m too young to die.”
“Don’t worry, Maggie. He may not carry parachutes, but he has life preservers.”
Maggie sneered, leaned back in her seat, and tried to ignore the rough-sounding engines, the inane whistling from their stoned pilot, and the man behind her. She traded one set of worries for another. Jeffrey Van Zandt would be somewhe
re in Honduras, most likely near the border. Someone had mentioned a little town, and if she had a moment of peace and quiet it might come back to her. Though how helpful Van Zandt would end up being was always questionable, unless he thought they might have something to offer in return.
No, she was being too harsh. Van Zandt was the one who’d brought Pulaski to Third World Causes, Ltd. in the first place. He had responsibilities, and an interest in the outcome. Besides, he’d know better than anyone how deep the rebels were involved in drug smuggling. And how tolerant the U.S. Government was of that involvement.
What if they didn’t find Van Zandt? What if they ended up in a camp of rebels, all with a grudge against a man who’d seen more than he was supposed to have seen? A lot of people wanted Mack, and most of them wanted him dead. The CIA, the rebels, the Mafia, and now the Houston police. And the only chance they had of getting them all off their tail was to find out who was behind the drug deal and get him to call off his vultures.
That had to have been Peter’s plan. As far as Maggie could see, there was no way out of the mess Mack had unwittingly landed himself in without very careful negotiations and access to the source of power behind it all. Peter had had access, and had died because of it. Van Zandt would have knowledge and access, and if he failed them she didn’t know what else she could do. Except find some place to hole up with Mack until the heat died down.
Damn, she hated feeling so helpless. But Peter’s death had thrown everything in an uproar, and she had to face the fact—even with Van Zandt’s help her time with Mack was far from over. It was going to be a long time before she saw her mother’s swimming pool in Laurel Canyon.
Not that a few weeks with her mother was the answer to her need for peace and quiet. Sybil Bennett wasn’t a restful woman. Exuberant, loving, and imaginative, yes. Feckless, ruthlessly self-centered, and narcissistic, yes. But never restful.