Читать книгу The Fall and Rise of Cain - Greg T. Nelson - Страница 4

"My punishment is more than I can bear.

Genesis 4:13

Richard:

It was July 11, 2006.

Tuesdays from 10 a.m. to 11 at Barnaby’s Grill had become part of my routine. I nurse a Seagram’s and Diet Coke while scanning the day’s racing form. Barnaby and I are a good fit. For six months I’d come in once a week, sit for one hour and two drinks and leave a ten on the bar without so much as a “How’s the weather?” from him. The best kind of bartender tends his glasses and knows which customers don’t want conversation. I only assumed his name was the same as the sign out front because it said “BARNABY’S” on his shirt. I had grown to like routine, Mondays at the hospital working the leg, Tuesdays at the dog track, Wednesdays back to the Hospital and Thursdays through Sundays in the Bossier City casinos. Monday I get up and start all over again.

“Get yourself a routine,” the Doctor had said, “If you just sit in front of a television or worse just sit, the depression will get worse and worse till that’s all there is. The amount of trauma you’ve been through does more than just hurt physically, you know. I still think you should try seeing a psychiatrist.” That bit of feeble advice had come when I told the good doctor I was having some trouble sleeping, I didn’t tell him I still had nightmares of a dying partner and laughing Russians. I don’t have anything against Shrinks, but there was no way I could say those dreams out loud. I’d found my own cure, I guess. When I was sweating through the leg exercises or concentrating on a card game or half buzzed on whiskey. It was only then that I couldn’t hear the sounds from the dream. I couldn’t hear Judith dying.

So there I sat not thinking about anything except greyhounds and keeping my cigar lit when my whole day went sour in a blast of sunlight. The front door was open to Fort Worth in July and a large man stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim bar light. I ignored him and turned back to the racing page of the Star-Telegram but just out of habit I glanced at the mirror behind the bar. I was annoyed to see that the big man was looking directly at me instead of the thirty feet of vacant bar space or Barnaby who had stopped sweeping to wait for the guy to order.

I kept my head down towards the paper but let my cigar rest in the ashtray and lowered my hand to the Bersa .380 tucked into the little holster in my waistband. Not a real bull stopper of a gun but a lot more comfortable to carry than my usual 40 caliber. I really didn’t think anyone was out to get me but waiting to find out for sure is something dead guys did. It's been a while since anyone actually tried to kill me.

The bar got dark again as the big man finally loosed the door and my vision took long enough to adjust that he was almost beside me before I got a clear look at him. I had the Bersa halfway out of my belt but still hadn’t looked around. Barnaby approached but the guy spoke before he got close, “Just water please.” As Barnaby moved down to the tap, the stranger spoke to me.

“You won’t need the gun, Mr. Cain. I’m here to offer you a job.” I believed him, mostly, but instead of returning the gun to its holster I palmed it onto my thigh and reached for my Cojimar with my left hand. Turning slightly, I looked the man up and down as I drew from the cigar. He was a fish out of water. Big black guy, close to sixty but built like a linebacker and stuffed into an expensive suit. He was holding a metal briefcase and I noticed the tail of a tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of his left wrist. I tagged him as either a convict or a mercenary. I’d seen him before, but where? Most of the convicts I know became convicts because of me and the mercs I know are assholes that’ll do anything for money. Not much difference really.

He was standing about three feet away and facing me square on, feet apart like he was on a parade ground prepared to stand still for hours. As Barnaby put the glass of ice water on a coaster, the man put a dollar bill down and stuck his hand towards me. “My name is Clifford Childs. I work for General Phillip Granger. I believe you know him. He has a job offer for you.” That’s it. I’d seen him at Granger’s house a few times. Back then I pegged him as a flunky, always standing around answering the phone or reminding Granger of some meeting. I couldn’t shake hands without putting down the gun so I just turned back to my paper.

“Tell Philly I’m retired.”

Childs sighed like I was telling a joke he’d heard already. “He said to give you this and wait.” Reaching into his coat pocket he retrieved a thick manila envelope and put on top of my racing form, barely missing the ashtray and my drink and then turned and sat three stools down from me. Keeping the gun against my leg I clamped my teeth on the cigar and flipped the packet over where it had neat printing.

“A thousand for coming to hear me out. Clifford will drive you to the airport, my jet is waiting.” --Granger.

I flipped it open and saw a stack of hundred dollar bills bound by a bank wrapper.

I puffed my cigar back to life and glanced sideways at Clifford. “You know what this is about?” I said as I picked up the money and held it in his direction.

“Yep” was his only reply. And the way he sipped his water told me he would not be answering any questions. I do ok on my pension, no bills to speak of and 48 years old with a limp means I don’t go dancing. I didn’t need the money, but it was time to go back and finish things. It had been time for a while. I was always going back to Houston. But I had put it off, telling myself the leg would get better or the FBI would catch the Russian’s boss for me or I’d stop being so afraid. As I stared at Philly’s note I realized, as I did every day over drinks, the leg was still lousy, the FBI wouldn’t catch the asshole that made it that way and I was still scared shitless. Sometimes I make decisions quickly. Sometimes it takes a couple of years.

I dropped the envelope back on the bar and slid it down towards Clifford. I spoke around the cigar clenched in my teeth, “Like I said, I’m retired.” For a moment he acted like he hadn’t heard me. He just took another sip of his water and looked at me in the mirror. Then in a fluid motion, he snatched the packet off the bar and stood up with it like he had just walked in. He seemed to think for a half second, then dropped a business card next to my drink and started to speak but caught himself. I thought maybe he was smiling just a little. Then he turned and I watched him leave the way he had come in. I waited for about a minute before dropping the cigar in the ashtray and holstered the Bursa. Grabbing my cane from the stool to my left and laying a ten-dollar bill on the bar I eased myself off the stool. I read the card before putting it in my back pocket,

GRANGER INDUSTRIES

Clifford Childs Loss Prevention Manager

713-555-9022

I turned and walked out. I could feel my heart pounding as I reached the front door and almost went back for another drink, but it was time to go.

My Impala was already oven hot inside so I rolled down all four windows as I pulled away from the curb and drove east towards my apartment. I still didn’t think of it as home, just a place to mark time between physical therapy and the crap tables. I pulled through the open gate that was supposed to always be closed and parked in my assigned space. I had paid extra for a ground floor furnished place, away from the pool but close to the parking lot. Worth a few dollars for shorter walks and no stairs.

As I unlocked and entered the front door, I noticed for the thousandth time how dreary the place was. Furnished for an extra forty dollars a month, the place consists of cheap carpet over a small living area, a bedroom and a kitchen all used by me and me alone. The only other person who had been in was the maintenance guy to spray for bugs and he did that when I was gone. I had a phone but I just used it to pay bills or place bets, there was no one I had wanted to talk to for a long time. The kitchen had a coffee pot and an ice bucket. I lived on Pizza and Chinese food.

I had planned this trip the day I moved in and a hundred times since, so getting ready was easy. Pulling a soft duffle bag from the hall closet, I packed quickly. Some jeans, shirts, underwear and a shaving kit. I threw the .380 under the jeans and put my Beretta .40 cal on a right hip holster and covered it with a lightweight denim jacket. Adding six full clips to the bag, I was ready to go.

I hesitated at the bathroom then reached into a drawer for the bottle of Vicodin. It had been a year since the surgery and I’d been trying to cut back on the pills but Houston was a long way and better safe than miserable. I’m pretty sure I take them for the pain and not the peaceful haze and sounder sleep. I sat on the couch and made the calls I needed too. One to tell Peggy at the Hospital I wouldn’t be in for therapy this week or until I called back, then another to the apartment office so they could get my mail. I was still holding the phone trying to decide if I should drive or book a flight. Flying meant checking the guns through luggage but driving meant five hours without stretching. That’s hard on the leg. I was about to call Ed and ask him to pick me up at the airport when the knock came at the door. I yelled a reflex “Who is it” and had started to stand when the door exploded.

I was on the floor with the Beretta in hand trying to take stock. Lots of smoke, wood chips still drifting down and my ears were ringing, no pain but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hit, no time to check now. Must have been a shotgun aimed at where my chest would have been if I had made it over there. I held the pistol at arm’s length and risked a peek around the sofa. The door was still closed but there was a head-sized hole in the center of it. Hoping the shooter would look through the hole I held my aim there for a moment, trying to keep my breathing quiet. The hole stayed empty and my mind raced. Going out the door after him or them was no option. I’m too slow and there were too many unknown factors like how many and how good were they. The windows, they were barred against burglary, I couldn’t get out but someone might shoot through one of them. No back door. I had to wait for them to come in or help to arrive. I tried to estimate and finally decided, it had been ten seconds since the shot. The ringing in my ears faded to a dull hum and I heard a slight tap as the barrel of a shotgun pushed the door open. As it swung back, I took aim at a spot on the wall to the left of the gun barrel and fired two shots into the plaster. In the movies, bullets bounce endlessly off brick walls but here in real life, most brick is just cheap decoration and the forty caliber steel balls punched through in a cloud of cement dust. A second later, a beat up 12 gauge fell across the doorway, then a second later a man. He landed on his shoulder, both hands holding his throat and bright red blood pumping between his fingers. Our eyes met briefly before a cloud settled over his and as the crimson slowed to a steady flow I heard myself sarcastically mumble, “Hello Jimmy”. A few seconds later I heard sirens.

I couldn’t be sure the dead man was alone but I could be sure that if a young beat cop saw him dead and me with a gun I could get just as dead. I waited until I saw a uniformed officer pass the window and then tossed the Beretta about half the distance to the doorway as I rolled over on my stomach and put my hands on the back of my head. I wasn’t surprised when they came in and handcuffed me.

I was searched and then moved to the bedroom where my driver’s license and gun permit were taken and my story heard. Then a polite Sergeant removed the cuffs and stationed a rookie to keep me company, casually leaving my cane against the doorjamb, out of reach. I sat on the edge of the bed for an hour watching down the short hallway as a well-practiced team measured, photographed and discussed my apartment. It was all familiar, the chatter and the careful collection of evidence.

I’ve seen maybe a hundred homicide scenes as a cop, maybe half of those as the guy in charge. This was different. I was just a spectator as the CSI team found and picked up the spent brass casings from the Beretta. I watched with interest as one of them pushed a long sharp thermometer through Jimmy’s stomach and into his liver and made careful note of the reading that would tell within a few minutes what time his heart had stopped. I found I was staring into Jimmy’s dead eyes and asking myself the same questions over and over. I was jarred back to myself when two men with a rolling stretcher were heaving Jimmy into a black vinyl bag and another of the team pushed a laser pointer into one of the bullet holes in my wall. A red dot fell on the carpet within an inch of where I’d fired from and more pictures were taken. As the team finished their assigned task and began packing gear, a rumpled man of about sixty wearing slacks and a white cotton shirt came in the front door and was shown around by the Sergeant who told him my tale in hushed tones and gestures as the Detective made notes in a small book. Then he nodded, asked a few questions as he leaned over and looked at Jimmy with a practiced eye before letting the two men zip up the bag and roll the corpse away. Speaking to the Sergeant one last time he looked carefully at the pool of Jimmy’s blood. As the team of uniforms filed out the door, the rumpled Detective moved towards me and the rookie that was still standing nearby. He spoke to me as he came to the bedroom door, “Sergeant Cain, my name is John Hershaw, and I’m a lieutenant in the Homicide Division, Fort Worth PD.”

I stood and shook the offered hand, “I’m retired, Lieutenant, just a civilian now.” Up close, I could see he was past sixty by at least ten years; unusual for a cop still working in the field. He looked like he expected me to keep talking when I didn’t, he smiled.

“Ok, Mister Cain, as I’m sure you know, you’re not under arrest but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what happened here?” he said gesturing for me to sit back down. I did and he leaned back against the dresser and crossed his arms.

I spoke carefully and politely. The last thing I wanted to do was piss off a Fort Worth Cop. I doubted I could be convicted of anything. But a day in an interrogation room could easily be arranged. “I was packing for a trip when he knocked at the door, before I could get there he shot through it. I got to the floor and fired twice. He dropped the gun and fell where your guys found him.” Just the facts, no thoughts or suspicions.

Hershaw waited to see if I was finished and I saw him start to smile again. “You ever see him before Mister Cain?”

If this had been a poker game I would have pegged the smile as Hershaw’s tell. It would mean he had an ace in the hole and wanted me to bluff a big pot. I didn’t have time to play, I needed the Lieutenant to believe me and move on so I spoke without hesitation.

“He looks a lot like a guy I arrested a few years ago, Jimmy Pecos. If it’s him he should be in prison.”

Hershaw fished a plastic card from his shirt pocket and held it up for me to read. I had seen many cards like it, “TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS” and under that, a picture of Jimmy Pecos, probably taken on the day he was released. Below the picture was the word “PAROLE” and a bar code Jimmy would show when he visited his Parole Officer and went for whatever drug test or polygraph the board had ordered. The card was dated July 9, 2006, two days ago. Hershaw slid the card back into his pocket, “I called TDC. Pecos was released two days ago from the Darrington unit in Rosharon. He got early parole in exchange for information that busted some guards that were smuggling crack and cell phones into the maximum-security wing. Judging from the date, he came looking for you straight away. Musta really had it in for you. Did he ever make any threats at his trial maybe?” I thought about the times I’d been face to face with Jimmy Pecos. Some of those times I was undercover as “Danny Janas”, a name I had used occasionally, but the last time I had seen him was in the park when I had arrested him for murder and gunrunning. He had been crying like a baby and the only threats he ever made were to report me for breaking his nose.

I weighed what Hershaw might know against what I wanted him to know and replied. “There wasn’t a trial, he confessed and pled out to manslaughter and robbery, sentenced to twenty-five years, I think.” Hershaw had taken a small notebook from his pocket and was scribbling as I spoke. When I stopped talking he wrote a few more lines and looked up at me. “Anything else you think I need to know?”

“Before he started robbing dealers, Jimmy was a pretty good car thief, you might check around the parking lot for a hot car.” As I spoke the grin came briefly back and he glanced back at his notebook. “Yeah, a Ford Pickup, stolen from a Houston parking lot early yesterday, it’s parked next to your Impala. Your boy Jimmy had about forty five hundred in new bills in his pants pocket along with 300 grams of meth and a piece of paper with your address on it.”

Hershaw was saying that a run of the mill dirt bag had gotten out of jail and come seeking revenge and from his point of view it made perfect sense. By giving me all this information he was also saying he didn’t have any suspicion that I’d done anything wrong. I didn’t need John Hershaw to know what I knew. Jimmy Pecos was scared to death of me and wouldn’t have come looking for me unless not killing me was even scarier. I also didn’t need him to know Jimmy never had more than a few hundred dollars at any one time in his life and if he had meth-amphetamines he would have holed up and used it unless he needed it for something else. I wondered to myself what this or any detective would have thought, faced with my corpse on the floor with a bag of meth and a wad of cash in my pocket. Old burnout of a cop killed in a drug deal maybe? Out loud, I decided to agree with the theory on the table, “Looks like Jimmy held a grudge.”

Hershaw looked pleased and turned to the rookie, “You can leave Officer, it’s nearly time for shift change.” Without a word the kid nodded at me and walked out. Hershaw turned back to me, “You still planning to leave town, Mr. Cain?”

“I can come down and give a sworn statement before I leave if you want,” I said standing and hobbled over to retrieve my cane.

Hershaw smiled again, “Oh that won’t be necessary”, taking a small digital recorder from his front pants pocket, “You have any objection to my using what you’ve said here in the official record?”

It was my turn to smile. He knew as well as I that my objections didn’t mean a thing. Texas, unlike some other states, requires that only one person in any given room need know about a recording device to make it perfectly legal. “Single Party Consent, Lieutenant, how about my gun?” I asked but I knew the answer.

He turned to leave, “Sorry, it’s being booked in as evidence until after the District Attorney gets the report. We left the .380 in your bag. You been in many gunfights Mr. Cain?”

He was looking towards the front door where the maintenance man had appeared with a hose to wash Jimmy’s blood away. I couldn’t see his face but his tone told me the smile was back and that recorder was probably still on. I replied as I moved around him and towards my bag. “Call me Rich, Mister makes me feel like a suspect”, I said smiling. “Just one, right before I retired.”

He moved to the front door and continued watching the blood that was now streaming into pale brown strands to the edge of the walkway. “Yeah, I remember hearing about that. I wondered what had happened to you. How come you to be here in Cowtown?”

I was taking off the Beretta holster and replacing it with the smaller one for the Bursa, “I grew up in Fort Worth. Been doing rehab at Harris Hospital. I’m moving around better now, thought I’d get the rest of my stuff out of storage in Houston, maybe say hi to some friends.”

Hershaw was leafing through the notebook again. “Yeah, we found some old file stuff on you. Seems you messed up a couple of bouncers pretty good in a bar fight back in the seventies.”

I had to work a little not to react at how fast he had gotten my history. It helped that I was putting my sports coat on to cover the gun. I remembered that night in County Jail with a swollen hand I had broken on Jake Fallon’s head. The police report wouldn’t say that Fallon was a bully I’d known in high school. I hit him because he grabbed the breast of the girl I was at Billy Bob’s Texas Bar with. The second bouncer just had the bad fortune to grab me from behind as I was wailing on Jake. Too long a story to give Hershaw. I gave a simpler answer. “Yeah, I was twenty-three, guess I had a kinda short fuse.”

He stuffed the notebook back inside his coat. “So tell me, how does a guy with a felony arrest for Assault get on with HPD?”

I pulled out a fresh cigar and reached for a book of matches, “Well they did drop the charges after some of the witnesses spoke up. I may have given them the impression I was leaving town unless trial dates kept me around.”

I picked up the duffle and my cane and headed for the door, stopping to speak to the maintenance man. “Sorry about this, tell the manager I’ll pay for the door.”

I couldn’t remember the guy's name but he stopped spraying water long enough to answer me, “I wouldn’t worry about it Mister Cain, that guy drove through the broken front gate that the manager is too cheap to get fixed. He’s more worried that you’re gonna sue him.”

I thanked him for his trouble and made a mental note to give him something extra at Christmas. Hershaw was still waiting and fell into step as I moved towards the parking lot. “Here, I almost forgot. You might need this,” he said holding up my driver’s license. I took it and put the bag down so I could fish out my wallet. Picking it back up, I started towards my car and saw a wrecker backing up to hook up the stolen ford that Jimmy had come in. I slowed as I caught sight of my car. A 1968 Impala, jet black and the only one I had seen outside a car show since I was a kid. It had been my fathers and I had taken it to Houston after he died. I hadn’t driven it much when I was a cop since I always had a city car, but now it got regular use. Looking at it now I was imagining how easy it would be to describe to someone who needed to find me or someone who was waiting for me to get home.

Hershaw surprised me with the same notion, “You know, it occurs to me Rich, whoever told Pecos where to find you just might have told him what a sweet car you ride around in. Need a ride to the airport?”

I looked at the rumpled shirt and cheap slacks and thought to myself that John Hershaw was probably a lot smarter than he let on, a good tactic for any Detective. I still didn’t want him documenting any suspicions that Jimmy Pecos might have been paid to kill me. That would mean there was a live suspect for him to find and maybe Richard Cain needed to come downtown for a more thorough interview. “I kinda doubt there’s anything to worry about. If you have time, though, I could use a ride to Barnaby’s Pub. It’s out by the Dog Track. A friend is meeting me there.”

He gave me the ace-in-the-hole smiles again, “Sure, get in.” I tossed my bag into the back seat and buckled myself into his plain looking Taurus. Hershaw eased through traffic with little regard for the speed limit and sounded casual when he asked, “So, quite a coincidence this asshole showing up the same day you’re headed to Houston?”

I kept my eyes on the road since he seemed not to want to and I kept to the strategy of the fewer words the better. “Yeah, Jimmy never was too bright. He probably got someone to look me up on the Internet and just drove straight here. Guess I’m lucky I hit him at all.”

This time instead of a smile he laughed, “Lucky, no I don’t think so. That Sergeant who was at your place, his name is Bailey. I broke him in when he was a rookie and I trust his instincts. Right after he got there, he called me and told me the story you told him. I called the Houston Chief of Detectives and asked him about you. Luck didn’t enter into his description.”

When I didn’t say anything he continued. “According to Chief Howell you are ill mannered, ungrateful and kinda mean but not once did he say Lucky. In fact, I do believe he also mentioned you beat him at shooting competitions five years running.” He stopped talking long enough to floor the accelerator and move around a city bus. He pulled out the micro recorder and handed it to me, “put that in the glove box, will ya.” I noted it was off and apparently had been since we left my place and did as he asked. “No, it looked to me like you saw where that gun barrel was, made a pretty good guess where ol’ Jimmy was standing and put two shots less than an inch apart right through his neck. That about how it went, Rich?”

It was my turn to smile, “Yeah John, except I was hoping for a headshot.”

The rest of the ride was pretty quiet. John Hershaw and I had come to an understanding of sorts. As long as I wasn’t a criminal, he was satisfied to let me go my own way and I wouldn’t insult his intelligence with any more bullshit.

As we pulled to the curb in front of Barnaby’s I looked at my watch, two fifteen. Just under four hours since I’d left, it seemed longer. As I got out and retrieved my bag, Hershaw rolled down the passenger window, “Hey you got a cell phone number just in case the DA has any questions?”

I smiled again, “Nope, haven’t had one since I left the job but if you need me, call Ed Forney at the Houston Police Academy, he’ll know where to find me.”

Hershaw wrote down the name and then leaned over to look me straight in the eye. “One more thing Rich, do any of your plans for the next few days involve Fort Worth?”

There was no trace of the smile now and I chose my words carefully. “No John, everyone I need to see is in Houston.”

He held the gaze a moment longer then straightened up in the seat. “Well then, you enjoy your visit. Give me a call when you get back and I’ll see about returning your gun to ‘ya. He gunned the car with a backhand wave and I waited until he turned the corner then walked across the street to Main Street Pawn.

I’d been there once before when the track had been closed and I’d gone in to kill time. What I needed was still there in the showcase, a brand new Beretta model 96, just like the one Sergeant Bailey had taken to the Fort Worth Police evidence room. It was priced at six hundred, about a hundred more than I would have paid if I had time to shop. A lot of cops are lovers of fine guns, I never was. I’d only owned two guns my whole life, the Beretta, and the Bursa. I had only bought the Bursa when HPD began requiring off-duty officers to carry a gun. This didn’t seem like the time to learn my way around a new pistol. While the store owner was checking my permit and filling out a form, I fished out Clifford Child’s card and used the phone on the counter to make the call.

He answered the phone with a monotone, “Childs.”

I answered in kind, “This is Cain, are you still in Fort Worth?”

There was a pause, then, “Yes, I’m about to leave, why?”

“Because I’ve changed my mind, pick me up at Barnaby’s” and without waiting for an answer, I hung up. The paperwork was completed and I took my purchase and went back across the street to the bar. I ordered a Whisky and went to the men’s room where I switched out holsters again and loaded the new Beretta from the extra clips. Then I went to the bar and nursed my drink. I had time to think while I waited. I thought about Houston and my last day on the job and I thought about Judith. Things changed so fast that day. Then I thought, with some self-pity, that today’s conversation with Lieutenant John Hershaw had been the most I’ve talked to another person in over a year. I found myself thinking my way down a long list of crappy things and had just settled on remembering the day Katy left me when Childs appeared beside me and again dropped the envelope on the bar. This time I took out the money, stuffed it into my bag and leaving a five for Barnaby, I followed Childs to the front door.

There was a blue Lincoln at the curb and when Childs reached for the driver’s door, I walked around and got in, putting my bag on the floor between my feet. I noticed my heart was racing a little. Fear, I guess. There were too many unknowns. Who would or could get Jimmy to try and kill me and why Philly Granger would want me back in his corner of Texas? Most importantly, why on the same day? Granger had hinted to me the day I headed north that I would likely live longer if I stayed away from him. Could be he even arranged for Jimmy to pay me a visit. But if so, why send Childs with cash?

I spent some of the ride evaluating Clifford. Stoic would be an understatement. He even drove at attention. Hands at 10 and 2 and seat set in the upright position. I revised my earlier evaluation. This was no convict. I tested my guess, “How long since you left The Company?” His eyes popped right just enough to let me know I was right. My chauffeur was a for real retired spook. The only unanswered question was the nature of his retirement. Secret Service, C.I.A, NIS all the best spy machines our great land has to offer, they don’t hire many quitters but they do sometimes fire people. Clifford had the darting animal eyes of a Special Forces man, always checking, always aware. Philly Granger had gotten himself a killer.

Finally, Clifford replied to my question, “The General said to bring you to Houston, he didn’t say we had to talk.” He whipped the car onto hanger row at Meacham Field and pulled to within thirty feet of a Lear 60 that was parked, door open and engines rumbling on the ramp. He left the car running and without waiting, got out and walked straight up the stairs onto the plane. I noticed again that for a big man he moved easy, like an athlete. I also noticed as the jet wash blew his jacket back he was packing an old fashioned locked and cocked Smith & Wesson .45 under his left arm. The modern spy’s idea of nostalgia.