dozen miles older with nothing to show.
It beat sitting around the house working at mellow.
But instead of continuing to Orange County, he exited at Century Boulevard and continued west.
LAX signs all over. Flying somewhere? I hadn’t seen luggage, but perhaps the car was already packed.
He headed into the airport. Maintaining the three-car shield, I stayed with him as he entered a parking lot opposite Terminal 4. Several airlines shared the lot, most prominently American. The driver in front of me had trouble figuring out how to take the ticket from the machine, and by the time I got inside the Volvo was nowhere in sight.
No parking spaces on ground level, and I took the ramp down, hoping Dugger had done the same. Sure enough, I spotted the Volvo’s square back just as Dugger nosed into a corner space between two SUVs. He got out and alarm-locked the car, carried no luggage as he headed for the elevators. I chanced parking the Seville in an illegal space and hurried after him.
I hid behind a concrete pylon as he stepped into the lift. Ran over in time to read the illuminated numbers. Two flights up. The footbridge to American Airlines. Vaulting up the stairs, I cracked the stairwell door and saw him lope past. But he didn’t take the right turn toward the escalator that led down to the ticket gates. Continuing straight toward the army of phony nuns and preachers hawking for nonexistent charities, he dropped a coin in a cup and walked hurriedly to the metal detectors.
Long queue of travelers at the single device in service and one sleepy-looking security attendant, so no problem putting space between us there. I watched Dugger place his wallet and keys in a plastic dish and keep his eyes on them as he sailed through. But the two people in front of me set off the machine, and I was forced to cool my heels as Dugger disappeared around a bend.
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,
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
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
