Linda and Irene were among the last to disembark. The waiting SUV’s had whisked the other passengers to the registration desk while the two of them shouldered flight-bags and, with Irene leading the way, they made the ten-minute walk to Hobbit House. When they rounded the last turn and the enchanting fairy-book cabana came into view, Irene smiled. Home. And everything was just as she remembered, except for one detail: Ditz wasn’t there to greet her.
“Maybe she’s working her shift,” Linda offered.
“Maybe,” Irene said, looking past her roommate’s bedroom door, “but all her cosmetics are gone.”
“Her clothes?” Linda wanted to know.
“Some of her stuff is here but things are missing. Including the suitcase she keeps in the bottom of her closet.”
“She’s gone?”
“So it appears. But to where and for how long?” Irene changed the subject. “What do you need to get done?”
“Just collect Jordan’s home address from Personnel. There are photos I want to return and a few pieces of jewelry that I know her mom would want. And I need my computer.”
“Okay, way you go. I’ve got a call to make.” And she pulled out her phone.
As soon as Linda moved out the door Irene put in a call to Chicago. “Joe Roselli,” he barked.
“Mr. Roselli? It’s Irene.”
His voice brightened. “Irene. You’re back. I talked with Finley and he told me he got you out. Hope it wasn’t too awful.”
“Bad enough,” Irene replied. “But I wanted to call and thank you.”
“Not necessary,” he chuckled. “From where I sit, we are all square. Where are you anyway?”
“On Cracker-Jax.”
Roselli went quiet for a moment. “Look Irene,” his voice now full of concern, “how soon can you get off the island. It’s not safe.”
“But I just arrived.”
“I don’t have time to explain but something is about to go down. Scirocco is toast. The Colombians have his number and are about to take him out, with the full endorsement of my people. They will be sending someone to settle the score.”
“She’s already here,” Irene interjected.
“She?”
“Yes. I saw her on the plane. Recognized her. Don’t ask me how I know, but she’s connected.”
“Christ. The shit’s about to hit the fan. Big-time.”
“One other thing,” Irene asked. “My friend from the Casino. Ditz. She seems to have disappeared and I’m a bit concerned for her. You don’t possibly know…”
Roselli cut her off with a laugh. “That’s an easy one. She’s sitting right here. Across from me.”
Irene’s voice registered surprise. “She’s in Chicago?”
“Yep. Brought her in to introduce her around and provide a little training.”
“You said training?”
“Sure,” Roselli said. “Ditz knows the operation, knows the players, she’s smart and I trust her. As soon as Scirocco hits the floor, Ditz takes over. She’ll handle the day-to-day operations down there.” He paused a moment. “Now you watch yourself Irene,” he repeated, the concern back in his voice. “I’m deadly serious, here. When the bullets start flying, I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. Keep well away from Scirocco and get the hell off the island as soon as you can.”
“Thank you, Mr. Roselli.”
“Call me. Keep in touch.” And he disconnected.
The phone had become sweaty in Irene’s hand. There wouldn’t be a return flight, at least not until tomorrow. And she had things to do. She checked her appearance in the mirror, touched up her lipstick and ran a brush through her hair. When she was satisfied, she picked up her bag and hurried along the path back to the airstrip.
Irene found Toby with a grease gun in his hand. He was crouched down between the wheels of the Gulfstream.
“Hey Toby. You still got a job, I see.”
Toby looked up, the color draining from his face.
“Surprised to see me?” Irene wondered if it was because he thought he saw a ghost or maybe was looking at someone he hoped never to see again.
But Toby recovered quickly: “Irene. They told us you went down in the mountains. That you was gone.”
“Not quite.” Irene tapped the Gulfstream’s fuselage. “Who owns this thing, anyway?”
“Technically the Casino. But Scirocco is the only one who uses it.”
“And Brad English is his pilot.”
She got a shrug from Toby.
“You know, we’ve known each other a while now, Toby,” Irene turn her attention back to the short man, “and you never mentioned a last name.”
“It’s Cole ma’am. Toby Cole.”
M-C, Irene acknowledged the fact, Mechanic-Cole. “Did you know that a Treasury Agent has been on the island for the past four months, Toby? That he’s investigating Scirocco’s involvement in cocaine smuggling?”
Toby looked like he had been jabbed in the guts.
“Look Toby, I’m not a cop. But someone blew up my plane and I want answers.”
Toby went on the defensive. “What makes you think I know anything?”
“Because Scirocco needed someone on the ground. That’s what the Treasury Department called it: Someone on the ground. That’s you, Toby. My girls told me about you flying with them to South and Central America. They laughed, thinking you liked the Spanish girls. But that wasn’t it, was it Toby? You were sent on those trips. Someone had to receive the shipments of cocaine, stow it aboard the Bikini-Bus. Then unload after returning here. But somewhere along the way, some of the cocaine went missing and the Colombians got short-changed. They were pissed. I know most of it, Toby, so don’t bullshit me.”
Toby slumped against the Gulfstream’s tire. “This is just between you and me?”
“I told you. I’m not a cop and not a snitch. But I do want answers.”
Toby took in a breath and exhaled slowly. “Scirocco wanted me to build a false compartment. In the Bikini-Bus. Christ, I knew what he was up to but he was paying good money so I added a fake bulkhead in the cargo-hold.
“Yes, I found it,” Irene encouraged him. “Then what?”
“Well we was flying regular-like to Colombia, Nicaragua, Mexico, Jamaica, a bunch of places. I’d go along, like the girls said, and receive a shipment and stow it behind the bulkhead. I didn’t think much about it, really. It was a bit of a lark, until that girl pilot, Peterson, invited me for drinks. She had guessed that she was flying more than vacationers and their luggage.”
“Wait a minute. Peterson invited you for drinks?”
“Yeah. I should have been smarter. But there I was in this posh bar with this great looking blonde and feelin’ like I was in the game, you know?”
Irene nodded, feeling a touch of sympathy for the rotund little guy.
“Well I’d had a few of the brandies,” Toby continued. “She was a looker, and kept playing with the buttons on the front of her blouse. So I spilled. I told her about the false compartment.”
“And she saw a way to make some extra cash.”
“Something like that. She said she was screwing a guy who might help. She called him English and I figured the guy was from the old country and I thought good on him. But he wasn’t. His name was English; a pilot and a Yank, and he knew someone who was connected with a Cuban drug syndicate in Miami.”
“That would be the mechanic, Hanz,” Irene remarked. “So you formed a partnership.”
“Yep. We was all one happy family. Peterson would fly the plane and before the dope was stashed behind the bulkhead, I would pass along a small portion and she would take it with her on her next trip to Miami and give it to her mechanic.”
“But what about security at Miami International?”
“Never a problem. They’re pretty lax with the pilots anyway, but Peterson would take off her top before leaving the cockpit. She wore her vinyl slicker with the buttons undone and called the security boys by their first names. You never met her. She was a good looking girl and as smooth as glass.”
Irene thought of Alex. “But someone snitched.”
“Yeah. The DEA got wind of it somehow and now Peterson’s in prison. So Brad English found you to fly the plane. But you wasn’t to be cut in, see. I would remove the drugs and pass them to English to be flown to Miami in the Gulfstream. But English got wind of this volleyball junket, got greedy and he and Hanz decided to make the big score. They had access to the bulkhead in Cartagena and the connections in Miami. They were going to make off with the entire shipment and enjoy a long retirement.”
“So that’s why Brad was so intent on being my co-pilot. I thought it was just to impress the ladies.”
“Well I’m sure that was part of it.” Toby nodded his head. “But by now, the Colombians had figured out why their shipment was arriving light. And they suspected English.”
Irene’s chin came up. “So Brad was the intended victim, not me.”
“Right. The Colombians recruited Hanz to sabotage your plane. I didn’t work the first time when Hanz put a crack in your turbofan so they got more aggressive. When I realized Hanz was playing both ends against the middle and intended to cut me out, I hit him while I was showing him the fake bulkhead. I was carrying a crescent-wrench to loosen the bolts and got him from behind.”
Irene’s heart did a little number. “The last time I talked to you, Toby, just after I saw you with Hanz. Christ. You had a wrench in your hand.”
Toby’s face told the story. “I tumbled him into the false compartment but I didn’t kill him; he was still breathing.”
“But at forty-thousand feet, on the way to Cartagena, he suffocated,” Irene added.
“Don’t know how, but the Colombians got an explosive aboard the Bikini-Bus; positioned in the rear john, is my guess, next to the engine pylon and well, you know the rest. You crashed and the Colombians came looking for their dope shipment.”
“They forced Brad to reveal the hiding spot, then killed him.”
“That’s what happened? Hell! What a fuck-up. I’m sorry for all of it.”
Irene was still mulling it over when Toby’s head came up “Who the hell?” His attention was focused behind and he straightened. “Miss?”
Irene turned. A little girl in a very sexy white cocktail dress was marching toward them. Irene experienced a wave of panic but before she could say anything Toby had stepped to meet the girl. “Miss? You can’t…”
Cherries lifted a hand. The pistol was so small, Irene didn’t even see it. But she heard the decisive pop. Toby arched over backwards and lay still on the grass.