Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“Listen, fella, just talk to me, okay?”

“Roger. I mean, sure.”

I hadn’t been concentrating, and the plane wandered off. But the controller said he had me on radar and gave me a vector, as he called it, and soon I was circling over the facility again.

“Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. It might get a little tricky,” the controller said.

“Listen to the guy, Jimmy. We’ll hit a mountain.”

“Dammit, Rita, I told you to shut up and I mean it.” She hit my shoulder with her fist. I pretended it didn’t hurt and pressed the mike button again. “I’m ready.”

As instructed, I maneuvered the airplane until it was on the runway approach, fifteen hundred feet in the air and a couple of miles away from the end of the landing strip. I trimmed the elevator tab and the plane began a shallow decent. I settled in and flew straight, aiming right for the touch-down zone. It would’ve been pretty cool, sailing on a wing over the ground at ninety knots, as graceful as a gazelle and feather light-if I wasn’t scared out of my wits. Captain O’Brien at the controls, bringing her in on one engine.

But immediately reality hit.

“Jimmy! We’re gonna crash!”

“Pull up!” the controller shouted. “You’re below my radar. Are you still with me?”

My heart stopped. We were too low, skimming over a building that somehow managed to move itself right to where the runway should’ve been. I dropped the mike, tugged back on the control and goosed the throttle. The plane jumped. We soared over the roof and continued to climb.

At three hundred feet above the ground, just when I thought I had everything under wraps, the plane veered off to the right with the wing low. Careful, I told myself. If I don’t fix it in about five seconds, we’ll hit sideways and flip.

“Hey! Why are we on our side?” Rita covered her eyes.

I stepped on the left rudder and turned the wheel at the same time. Oops, overdid it. I yanked the wheel back… easy, baby. Now the plane was sinking, dropping fast and out of control again. More power! Isn’t that what Susie used to say? The plane ballooned and became squishy.

Then it nosed down. I was now two hundred feet in the air and moving fast, dropping, flying crooked with that damn wing low. We flew perpendicular to the landing strip, the ground tilting every which way. Correct it, get it straight; okay, okay… steady. Now hold it, hang on, we’re going to make it. One wheel hit the ground, banged hard-the plane bounced and was in the air again. I cut the power and we were suddenly falling. Rita remained silent, her hands planted firmly on the dashboard. She stared at the ground coming up fast.

“Come in, aircraft transmitting on 121.5! Are you with me?”

“Jimmy, my God , do something!”

Wait! Don’t cut power, add power! Susie’s nagging voice filled my head. I jammed the throttle to the wall. It felt like the knob was going to push right through my palm and come out the other side of my hand. The engine roared.

“Answer me, Cessna!”

The strident rush of the wind, the crackling radio, the engine screaming, and Rita’s fear caused my head to spin, the world a blur. Vertigo! Snap out of it and fly the goddamn plane!

“Aircraft on 121.5! Are you still with me?”

“Rita!” I shouted. “Reach down and find the mike, tell the guy I’m too busy to talk.”

Rita grabbed the cord and with quick hand-over-hand movements she pulled the mike off the floor. “Jimmy, you’d better talk to the guy. It’s probably a Federal reg or something.”

She held the mike out to me, but both of my sweaty hands were busy turning the wheel, trying to keep the plane from doing a flip. “Just tell the guy I can’t talk now.”

The plane responded. Finally we were stable and I heard Rita say, “Sir, the idiot… I mean the pilot at the controls is tied up for a moment. Could you call back?”

Christ, Rita made it sound like I was out going to the potty. “Give me that damn thing,” I told her. “Hey, L. A. Center, this is the pilot talking. Over.”

“Look, guy. We’re going to start over, now listen to me-”

I dropped the mike and looked up. We were heading straight for the runway, zooming over the threshold.

At the last second, I let go of everything. The little plane straightened, plopped down, stayed down, and rolled effortlessly along the runway. The guy was right: these things did land themselves. I’d keep that in mind for the next time. Well, I’d just keep it in mind.

When we finally stopped with a few inches of runway to spare, Rita leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Hey, Flyboy, not too bad. Sky King couldn’t have done any better.” I managed not to roll my eyes.

Several patrol cars rushed up on the runway and surrounded us. I glanced out at the cops moving toward the plane and whispered to Rita that we’d talk about that partner thing later, just as soon as the cops let me leave. Sooner than twenty-five to life, I hoped.

On Sunday, a week orso later, Rita and I were having brunch at Rocco’s, celebrating our victory over Moran and the demise of his organization. Jeanine brought my coffee and Rita’s iced tea. After the waitress left, Rita sat quietly for a moment. Then she raised her glass. “You saved my life. Thank you again.”

I smiled and clicked her glass with my cup. “Here’s to the future of our little firm. Oh, and that’s the three hundredth time you’ve thanked me.”

“You look a little down, Jimmy.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Hey, shall we discuss that partner thing now?”

“I don’t think so. Why don’t we let it lie for a while?”

“Why, Rita? I though you wanted to be my partner.”

“Jimmy, I need time, that’s all.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to think. I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” she said. “You weren’t exactly honest with me. Letting Mabel hide your gun, then not informing your lawyer-me.”

“Yeah, I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry. But it all worked out okay.”

“Well, I may have been your lawyer, but I didn’t really help you. Without Moran’s guards spilling their guts to the D.A. and the kids talking, you’d still be a suspect.”

“Rita, you did a great job. You fought the D.A., came up with a plan, and if it had gone to trial, I’m sure we would’ve won. And now you’re going to represent me at the inquest.”

Although there would be an official inquest into Moran’s death, I was assured by the San Bernardino D.A. that the ruling would be self-defense.

“Jimmy, you know that’s a done deal. The authorities want us out of their sight as fast as possible. The shooting will be ruled justifiable, but don’t expect any accolades.”

She was right. Sol and I wouldn’t get medals for our involvement in the affair; medals are rarely given to those who expose corruption existing under the watchful eyes of the bureaucracy. I knew the system, and I knew what to expect. When the public had learned about Moran’s enterprise a firestorm had ensued, the populace demanding heads. Government agencies from the FBI on down were scrambling, running for cover, pointing this way and that, and promising intense investigations. The hoi polloi, always curious about the efficiency of their government at work, demanded to know how all of this could’ve been going on under the agencies’ collective noses. When the smoke cleared, heads would roll-at least, one head. As usual, it’d probably be some guy way down the political food chain with little to do with the business who’d take the fall-probably a lowly clerk in the fishing license bureau or something. After all, he should’ve known. He should’ve stopped Moran early on. Wasn’t it common knowledge that he was using illegal bait, longjaw mudsuckers, in waters where such bait was not allowed? An early retirement for the clerk, the rabble would have their bloodlust satisfied, and that will be that.