60
Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch
Mary Jean sat behind a desk fashioned entirely of rose quartz veined with fool's gold and stared out the window at the Houston skyline. A brown haze had risen to the level of her fiftieth-floor office as the exhaust of a million cars huddled against the stratosphere and curled around the city like a huge rusty cat looking for a place to nap. It just made her made as a cowpoke wearing bob-wire pants, but not mad enough, of course, to sell her shares of GM and Exxon. Blue chips was blue chips, after all, and the great state of Texas ran on oil.
The intercom beeped and Mary Jean keyed her speakerphone, not because she needed her hands free to work, but because the phone receiver either got caught in her hairdo or her clip-ons rattled against it making all sorts of distracting racket. There'd been a time, before Prozac, when she'd thought for six months that the FBI was tapping her phone line, only to find out it was a pair of twenty-carat ruby cluster earrings banging against the earpiece.
"Yes, Melanie."
"Tucker Case on the phone, Mary Jean. He's been calling all day. I've tried to put him off, but he says that people are going to die if you don't talk to him."
"Does he sound drunk?"
"No, Ma'am. He sounds serious."
Mary Jean took a deep breath and looked up at the Monet hanging on the far wall. Twenty million dollars, depreciated as office furnishings, ap-preciated to twice its value and donated to a museum as a donation write-off at full value, with no capital gains, and there
it would hang until the day of her death when it would go to the museum.
And it also matched the couch.
"Put him through," she said.
"Mary Jean, it's Tucker."
"I was just thinking of you. How are you, sweetie?"
"Mary Jean, I'm stone sober and I need you to listen."
"Go on, Tucker. I got more ears than a cornfield in June."
"First, I know that there were never any criminal charges filed, and I don't blame you for trying to get me out of the way. But I could really use some help."
Mary Jean blanched. "Can you hold one second, darlin? Thanks." She pushed the hold button and then the intercom. "Melanie, dear, would you mind bringing me a couple of number five Valiums and a little glass of juice? Thank you." She clicked back to Tuck. "Go on, honey."
And Tuck did, for fifteen minutes, and when he finished, Mary Jean said, "Well, that's just not right. That's just terrible."
"Yes, it is, Mary Jean."
"We just can't have that," she said. "You give Melanie your number there. I'll see what I can do."
"Mary Jean, I really appreciate this. If I could go to anyone else, I would."
"And hurt my feelings? No, you wouldn't. Tucker Case, I've been selling the power to change yourself for forty years. Now, if I don't believe in the power of redemption, then I'm guilty of false advertising, aren't I? You sit tight, now. Bye."
She clicked the intercom. "Melanie, get me Jake Skye on the line, please. Thank you, dear."
61
Roundhouse Aloha
Tuck stood at the arrival gate amid a group of Hawaiian college students wearing grass skirts and sarongs and festooned with leis they were draping on tourists as they came out of the tunnel from the 747. Tuck spotted Jake Skye well before he came out of the tunnel. He was a head taller than most of the tourists and one of the few who had a tan. Tuck waved to him and Jake tossed his head to show he'd seen him. He came out grinning with his hand extended.
Tuck smiled and hit Jake with a roundhouse to the jaw that knocked him back into a group of pseudo hula girls. Jake apologized to the girls and rubbed his jaw as he turned to Tuck.
"We done?"
"I guess so," Tucker said. He knew that Jake would never apologize for selling him out.
Jake fell in beside Tuck and they walked through the terminal. "I didn't see that coming. You've changed, buddy."
"I guess so," said Tuck. "Thanks for coming."
"I'm just here to take you home." Jake pulled two airline ticket folders out of his shirt pocket. "Mary Jean says you can bring your new girlfriend."
"I'm not going home, Jake."
"You're not?"
"No. I need your help, but I'm not going back to Houston."
"There's a stop in San Francisco. You can get off there."
"No. I've got some things I need to do."
"Buy me a drink." Jake turned and walked into an open cocktail lounge where a twenty-foot waterfall fell over black lava rock among
a forest of bromeliads and orchids. "Cool airport," Jake said, pulling a stool up to the bar. "You ever think about living in the tropics?"
Tuck whipped around on his stool and Jake held up his hands in surrender.
"Just kidding. Okay, what's the story?"
This time Tuck told the story leaving out none of the details, and to his credit, Jake did not call him crazy at the end. "So what do you think you can do?"
"Well, first, I thought you could hack the doctor's computer and erase the database. It might slow up the process if he has to do all the tissue types again."
Jake was shaking his head, "Can't do it, buddy. Even if I wanted to."
"Why not? I've got the password."
Jake drained off the last of his third Mai Tai. "He's on a satellite uplink net. The connection only goes two ways if he wants it to. I won't be able to get in. Besides, it's not in the mission parameters. I'm supposed to come here, get you, and take you home. Period."
Tuck dug a slip of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. "I've got these. Maybe they can help."
Jake was still shaking his head, but he stopped when he saw the numbers written on the paper. "Where did you get those numbers?"
"They were on the bottom of a desk drawer in Curtis's clinic."
"They're not computer codes, Tuck. You see those letters at the end? BSI? You know what that is?"
Tuck shook his head.
"Banc Suisse Italiano. Those are Swiss bank account numbers." Jake tried to snatch the paper and Tuck pulled it out of his reach.
"You willing to expand the mission parameters?" Tuck said.
Jake was staring at the paper in Tuck's hand. "How much?"
"Half."
Jake scratched his three-day growth of beard. "And they were getting how much per kidney?"
"Half a mil."
Jake cringed, then relaxed and put his hand on Tuck's shoulder. "What did you have in mind, partner?"
"I want to get the Shark People off the island."
"How many? Three hundred and change? Hire a ship."
"I want to go sooner. I want to fly them off."
Jake smiled. The wheels were working now. "It's going to take a big plane: 747 or L-1011. That island got enough runway for something
that size?"
"Can we get something that size?"
"Not legally," Jake said.
"I'm not worried about legally. I'm worried about logistically."
Jake stood up. "I'm not flying it. I get you a plane, I get half. Deal?"
"I'll give you one of the account numbers as soon as we get the plane. You take your chances whether there's money in it or not. If I don't make it, and the money's in my account, you're screwed."
Jake considered it, then nodded. "I can live with that. Let's go watch the big planes take off."
Tuck was amazed at the way Jake's mind worked. The second he'd accepted that they were going to steal a 747, it became a problem, and when it came to solving problems, Jake was the best. They stood on an open walkway that overlooked the tarmac, watching the 747s taxiing into the terminal.
"The best thing," Jake said, "about stealing a 747 is that no one assumes that anyone is crazy enough to try it."
"I thought people tried to steal them all the time. It's a league sport in the Middle East, isn't it?"
"They hijack, they don't steal. With hijacking, you have to take a pilot with you." Jake pointed to a row of planes docked at the terminal by rolling walkways. "These guys? Out of the question," he said.
"Why?"
"Because they've just come in and they're low on fuel or they're being fueled to take off again, and most of the time, if you can get in them, there's a crew on board." He pointed to some jets parked near hangars at the far side of the airfield. "Those are our babies. They've got fuel, but they're waiting for a crew and passengers. After midnight nothing goes out of this airport except FedEx. The advantage of a vacation destination. Nobody wants to fly in our out at night."
The planes were a good half a mile away. "That's a long way to go across an airfield without the tower seeing us and calling security. And we have to drive a ramp over to it to get inside."
"No, we don't. There's an emergency escape hatch for the pilots in the roof over the cockpit."
"That's four stories up. How are you going to get up to it?"
"Down to it," Jake said.
"Down?"
"The problem is how to get the hatch unlatched. They only open from the inside."
"I'm still a little unclear on the 'down' part of the plan," Tuck said. At some point he was going to be on top of a 747 and heights made him nervous.
"Let me worry about that," Jake said. Then he snapped his fingers as if conjuring the answer to his problem out of thin air. "I've got the answer right here in front of me. What was I thinking? I'm working with the master."
Tuck looked around, thinking that Jake was talking about someone else. "Are you talking about me? I don't know how to do anything."
"But you're wrong, Tuck, you're wrong. For this part of the plan we need the cooperation of a flight attendant. Come on, let's get my bag. I've got an extra change of clothes you can wear."
"What's wrong with these clothes?" Tuck asked. He was still wearing the oversized and now distressed hand-me-downs of Sebastian Curtis.
"Like you have to ask."
Jake spent an hour studying flight schedules and talking to counter people at the different airlines. Tuck took the opportunity to call the hotel to check on Sepie. She answered on the second ring. "Hello. How much is washer-dryer combination?"
"What?"
"Maytag washer-dryer combination with minibasket and wrinkle guard. How much?"
"I don't know. Maybe a grand. Are you okay?"
She'd put the phone down and he heard her shouting at the TV, "Is a grand! Is a grand! You fuckin' mook! Oh, no." She picked up the phone again. "You wrong. Is eleven nine nine suggested retail. You lose."
"You're watching 'The Price Is Right'?"
"They give you things if you know how much. Is very hard."
"Do you need anything?" Tuck asked. "I can call room service from here and have them bring you some food."
"Perfume and lipstick," Sepie said.
"That'll have to wait. I'll be back soon, okay?"
"Okay. Tuck?"
"What, Sepie?"
"What is washer-dryer combination?"
"I'll explain later. I have to go now."
She hung up on him. Evidently, her fascination with plumbing and television didn't extend to the telephone. He found Jake talking to a girl at the United counter who was obviously taken with the grungy pilot's charm. He saw Tuck and said good-bye.
"I've found our plane and the crew assignments. We have a ten-minute window to get to Gate 38 so you can work your magic."
The plan was for Tuck to spot a flight attendant coming off the plane, get to know her, and convince her to go back into the jet and throw the latch on the emergency hatch before the plane was cleaned and moved away from the terminal. They waited at the tunnel into Gate 38. The passengers had long since deplaned, as had the pilots.
"Remember, you want to go ugly," Jake said.
"I know," Tuck said. He'd changed into Jake's clothes, which fit him, at least, even if he looked like a guitar player for a Seattle grunge band.
"And old if you can get it."
"I know," Tuck said.
"You want a woman who looks like she couldn't get laid in a men's colony."
"I know," Tuck said. "Would you back off? I haven't done this in a while."
"Like riding a bicycle, buddy."
The first flight attendant out of the tunnel was a pretty blond woman, about twenty-five. "Pass," Jake said.
The next was a man, and the next a tall black woman who could have been a runway model.
"They're killing us here," Jake said. "How would you feel about going for the guy? He's our best chance so far."
"Fuck off, Jake."
"Just an idea."
They waited for five more minutes before a tired-looking woman in her fifties came down the tunnel pulling her flight bag behind her.
"Go to it, stud," Jake said. He gave Tucker a little shove.
Tuck shoved back without taking his eyes off the woman. "I can't do this, Jake."
"What?" Jake Skye grabbed Tuck's wrist and pretended to be taking his pulse.
Tuck pulled away from him. "I can't do this."
"Don't pull this shit on me, buddy. She's getting away. This is what you do."
"Not anymore, I don't."
"Well, I sure as hell do." Jake pulled off the flannel shirt he was wearing open over his black T-shirt and threw it to Tuck. "Go back to your hotel and wait for me to call. What room are you in?"
"Twelve-thirty."
Jake pushed the T-shirt sleeves up just enough for his biceps to show and took off down the concourse after the middle-aged flight attendant.
Tuck went outside and found the shuttle to the Hyatt Regency. During the ride back to the hotel, he realized that he had no idea how to explain a washer-dryer combination to someone who had never worn shoes or a shirt until two days ago. He decided to go with magic.
