Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

Finally, I got through and walked briskly through hordes of travelers and loved ones, flight attendants and pilots. No sign of Dugger. During the moments I’d lost sight of him he could’ve gone anywhere – the men’s room, a shop, any of the gates.

I strolled up the corridor trying to look casual, searching for a flash of tan jacket. Then I came to an elevator that led to the private lounge – the Admirals Club. Members Only. A woman sat behind a counter to the right, busy at her computer.

Dugger was a rich kid – why not? Affluence could also explain no luggage: He might have turnkey access to hideouts in Aspen, the Hamptons, Jackson Hole, Santa Fe.

As I approached the elevator the woman behind the counter smiled. “May I please see your membership card, sir?”

I smiled back and walked away. The elevator was in open view of the terminal’s main artery. If Dugger was in there, I had no way to observe his comings and goings without being spotted myself… No, there he was, twenty feet in front of me, stepping out of a men’s room.

I ducked behind an automated insurance machine and pretended to estimate actuarial odds as Dugger whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose. A nice, heavy rush of newly arrived travelers added further cover. Dugger stashed the hankie and consulted his watch again. Paused at a bank of TV monitors set into the wall, resumed walking.

Checking arrivals.

Not going anywhere. Meeting someone.

I stayed behind Dugger as he entered the main reception area – a wide, circular, noisy space around which the big-bodied jets docked. He bought a pretzel at a kiosk, took a nibble, frowned, tossed what was left into a trash basket.

Yet another consultation of his watch.

Nervous.

A newsstand-sourdough bread outlet occupied the center of the terminal, and I stationed myself at the paperback rack, pulled out a Stephen King, and stuck my nose between the covers. I had a good clear view of Dugger as he made his way to Gate 49A, walked up to the glass wall that offered a view of the landing strip, and peered through. A big, fat 767 sat in the bay.

He walked over to the desk, asked the ground clerk something, remained expressionless as she nodded. Plenty of empty seats in the arrival lounge, but he stayed on his feet. Paid further homage to his watch. Took another gander at the plane.

Very nervous.

I was too far away to read the flight information at 49A. Placing the book back on the rack, I edged closer. The flight numbers remained blurry, but I was able to make out “New York.”

Dugger remained near the glass wall for a while before pacing some more. Tugging at his collar. Rubbing the crown of his scalp where the hair had deserted it. When the door to 49A finally opened, he gave a small start and hurried forward.

He edged to the front of the greeting crowd, standing with three uniformed livery drivers holding signs and a young, shapely woman rocking two-year-old twins in a dual stroller.

The limo drivers’ clients emerged first – a white-haired couple, a bespectacled black giant in a five-button cream-colored suit, and a bedraggled, sallow, unshaven wraith in his twenties, wearing dark shades and a food-stained T-shirt, whom I recognized as an actor on a cheesy TV comedy.

Then Dugger’s quarry.

Thickset, swarthy man in his mid-forties, wearing a well-cut black suit and glossy black silk shirt, buttoned to the neck. Black hair in a dense, dark crew cut. Beetle brows, simian hairline – only inches from the shelf of his brow.

Not tall – five-eight or -nine – but at least one ninety, maybe more. A dense, cubic mixture of muscle and fat. His brown neck bulged over the collar of the silk shirt. Suggestions of upper-body bulk and massive strength were enhanced by good tailoring. Flat, prizefighter’s nose. Huge hands. Squinty eyes, thin lips.

He toted a single piece of carry-on: a sleek black-leather bag that Dugger offered to take.

Black Suit refused, scarcely nodded at Dugger. Barely touched Dugger’s hand as they shook. No smiles exchanged, just a curt nod from Black Suit and the two of them were off, Black Suit running a palm over his bristly head.

Dugger hurried to keep pace as the stocky man pressed toward the GROUND TRANSPORTATION/BAGGAGE CLAIM sign. Then Black Suit pointed to the newsstand. Looked right in my direction. Said something. Changed direction and headed toward me.

How could he have seen me – No, there was no alarm in his eyes, just that same solid… flatness.

I backed away just in time to find an observation point behind a support column as the two of them reached the newsstand. They didn’t enter, remained near the register – in front of the candy rack, where Black Suit stopped and considered chewing gum options. Lifting packs, reading ingredients. Finally, he settled on a double-decker Juicy Fruit, popped two sticks in his mouth, pocketed the wrappers, chewed energetically as Dugger paid the cashier.

The two of them exited the reception hall.

Black Suit’s luggage was among the first to bounce down the ramp onto the carousel. A pair of midsized valises in that same expensive-looking ebony leather. Probably calfskin. First Class tags. Once again Black Suit rebuffed Dugger’s attempt to tote, swinging the strap of the carry-on over his shoulder and hefting a suitcase in each hand with no apparent strain. I’d hovered at the neighboring carousel, well concealed among a group of arrivals from Denver. Keeping Dugger and Black Suit in steady view – trying, without success, to read their lips.

Very little conversation anyway. Mostly one-sided: Dugger made an occasional comment while Black Suit chomped his gum and played Sphinx.

I stuck with them on their rapid march to the parking lot, was two minutes behind the Volvo as it left the airport.

Back on the 405 freeway. North. Return to L.A.

This time Dugger took the Wilshire west exit and drove into Brentwood, and I assumed he’d be heading for his L.A. office – soon to be the exclusive headquarters for his alleged consulting group.

But once again he proved me wrong, passing the black-and-white office building and continuing into Santa Monica. Back to the Ocean Front high-rise? Then why hadn’t he switched to the 10 west? No, he was swinging a quick right onto Nineteenth Street.

I turned too, in time to see him hook another right.

Nosing into an alley that fed into a parking lot behind several storefronts. Stationing the Volvo in an empty slot behind a rear door.

Red, white, and green sign: BROOKLYN PIZZA GUYS. Plastic pie above the lettering.

I stopped, backed up to the mouth of the alley, the Seville’s grille barely extending past a drive-up dry cleaners, just close enough to see the white car.

Dugger stepped out of the Volvo, looked at his watch yet again. Black Suit was more relaxed than he’d been at the airport, swinging his legs out with unexpected grace, looking up at the sky, stretching, yawning. Still chewing like mad.

Dugger made for the door to the restaurant, but Black Suit just stood there, and Dugger stopped.

The thickset man squeezed his eyes into slits. Scratched his head. Buttoned his suit jacket and rolled his neck. Working out kinks after the cross-country flight. But other than this gesture showing no signs of discomfort. No anxiety, either, on his broad, brown mask of a face. Mr. Tough Guy.

He said something to Dugger, who returned to the car and produced a white tissue. Black Suit extricated his gum, wrapped it in the paper, placed the paper in his pocket. Then he nodded, waited as Dugger held open Brooklyn Pizza Guys’ back door and passed through with an imperial air.

Gourmet lunch for a goombah? The guy had Brooklyn all over him.

The way she was hog-tied and head-shot tells me this was all business.