Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“What kind of activity?” Tommy asked.

“He didn’t get any further than that before he lost his signal, and I couldn’t get him back.”

“Okay, I’ll check it out.”

“My Mercedes arrived today. I sold it to Stone.”

“And I was so looking forward to driving it all over the place.”

“I couldn’t afford to drive it or have it driven. It’s for the best.”

“Then I’ll choke back my tears. Bye.” Tommy made a turn and headed for the airport.

He managed to get through the security gate and looked around for Jocko. Nowhere in sight. He drove slowly across the ramp and turned down the row of hangars. As he approached the one belonging to South Florida Import & Export at the end of the row, he could hear machinery noise coming from that direction. He parked a couple of doors away, took his weapon out of its holster, and put it in his front pocket, then he strolled toward the open door. The noise grew as he approached. He paused, listened, then took two quick steps and faced the inside of the hangar.

Inside, a man with an industrial-style vacuum cleaner was sweeping the concrete floor. Tommy holstered his gun. “Hey!” he shouted over the noise. No reaction. He thought of firing a round through the roof, but he knew that the bullet would come down somewhere. He walked up to the man and realized he was wearing a hearing-protection headset. Tommy tapped him on the shoulder.

Jocko simultaneously dropped the vacuum, spun around, and jumped back. When he saw Tommy he picked up the vacuum again and switched it off. “Jesus!” he said, whipping off his headset, “you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry about that, Jocko. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Cleaning up. They’ve sold the hangar, and I had to clean it out.”

“Clean it out of what?” Tommy asked.

“I don’t know, a lot of junk. It’s all in a dumpster around the corner.”

“Go ahead and vacuum,” Tommy said. He walked out of the hangar and around the building and saw the dumpster. He found a box to stand on and hoisted himself up. Junk was an accurate description of what was inside: chunks of plywood, unused stationery, a couple rolls of toilet paper. There were two pieces of luggage that interested him: one was an old typewriter case, the other an aluminum suitcase with a broken handle and some scars from having been opened by some method other than with the combination. He fished out both.

The typewriter was an old Royal, maybe from the thirties or forties, and seemed to be in working order. The Halliburton case was lined in foam rubber and had a not-unpleasant scent, slightly sweet, that he couldn’t place. He tossed the dead Halliburton back into the dumpster and took the typewriter with him.

Jocko had finished vacuuming and was closing the hangar door.

“Nothing else in there?”

“Not a thing,” Jocko replied. “Clean as a hound’s tooth.”

“Who bought the hangar?”

“Dunno.”

“Who sold it?”

“Dunno.”

“Swell,” Tommy said. “Back to square one.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He went back to the car and called Max. It went straight to voice mail.

Max leaned back in the passenger seat of the Mercedes 300S and let the wind blow through her hair. She liked riding in the beautiful car, but she was happy not to own it or to pay for the insurance. Stone was at the wheel, dressed in a business suit and a tie.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To an annual stockholders’ meeting,” he replied.

“Gee, that sounds like fun. Is that why I’m wearing a dress?”

“Well, you’d certainly look better without it, but we have to preserve decorum.”

“This is for the movie studio?”

“Yes, Centurion Studios. Have you ever visited a movie studio?”

“Nope.”

“It’ll be fun; trust me.”

“Okay.”

“You were crazy to sell me this car,” Stone said. “It’s wonderful.”

“I’m just as happy with the money as you are with the car.”

“Clark Gable used to own one just like it,” Stone said.

“Who?”

Stone looked at her as if she were crazy. “C’mon, you’re not that young.”

“I’m just twisting your tail a little,” she said. “I saw Gone With the Wind. ”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“On TV.”

“I hope it was a very big-screen TV.”

“Nope, but I liked it anyway. Scarlett reminded me of me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said, warily.

“I’m a little chilly,” she said, tugging at his jacket. “Do you mind if I put my hand in your pocket?”

Stone laughed. “You did see the movie, didn’t you.”

“I could recite it for you, if you like.”

“We don’t have time,” Stone said, turning through an impressive stone and wrought-iron gate and stopping at a security booth.

“Hi, there, Mr. Barrington,” the guard said.

“Hi, Tim. I need a new window sticker.”

“Got a new car, huh? Nice!” Tim affixed the studio pass to the inside of the windshield. “There you go, and here’s a visitor’s pass for your guest.”

Stone clipped it to Max’s dress and drove on. “I’ll give you the scenic tour,” he said.

“Oh, goody!”

He drove her through the streets of standing sets: a New York neighborhood, a courthouse, a small-town square with a fountain. They finished up at the administration building, parked in a space with Stone’s name on it, and went inside. They were directed to a large hall that was the executive dining room, except that today it was full of rows of chairs. The meeting was being called to order, and they took seats in the front row.

An hour later, as Max was about to doze off, the meeting adjourned and everyone streamed out of the building and onto waiting caravans towed by electric carts. They were driven to a soundstage and then walked onto the huge set of a barn. A country band was playing at one end, and a long table was set up with barbecued pork, beef, chicken, and all the trimmings. They got plates, filled them, and took seats on a bale of hay at the end of the table opposite from the band.

“These folks know how to throw a party, don’t they?”

“They certainly do.”

“Oh, I have news from Key West,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“Al Dix turned up, riding a bicycle on Duval Street with one arm in a sling, and very alive.”

“One mystery solved,” Stone said.

“Yes, but not all the mysteries. We still don’t know who South Florida Import & Export is, and they’ve sold their hangar — we don’t know who to.”

“Or what was in all those Halliburton suitcases.”

“My partner, Tommy, found one of those in a dumpster outside the hangar, after it had been cleaned out. Empty, of course, but damaged. Looked like somebody had opened it with a crowbar.”

“That’s what it would take, if you don’t have the combination.”

“Tommy said it smelled nice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stone asked.

“I have no idea, he just said it.”

“Well, anyway, you’re getting more police work done in L.A. than you did in Key West.”

“That’s because my partner is doing it. He also suspects our captain of being on the take.”

“Careful, there. Police captains don’t like being suspects. He might do something about it.”

“Don’t worry, Tommy’s experienced in the ways of superior officers.”

“I hope so. I got bounced off the NYPD by one or more superior officers, but at least I got a medical discharge with a nice pension attached to it. Tommy might not be so lucky, unless he keeps his mouth shut.”

“I’ll mention it to him when we speak again.”