strong north wind by six a.m. It would be a swift trip to Ocean Springs, but I'd pay the price returning home. One can't have everything.
The phone rang as I started out the door.
'Hello, flyboy. What's going on?'
'Steve. How you doing?'
After our usual ritual, I explained the situation. He promised to make some inquiries and be in touch tomorrow night.
Steve was good at his job. He would stick his neck out for you if he liked you, but it did not pay to be on his wrong side in Dade County, Florida. Not your standard five-foot nine, one hundred and sixty pound fighter pilot, he was six foot one with broad shoulders and possessed the strength of a grizzly bear. Even the Cubans feared Steve Henderson.
The Cuban Mafia was powerful in the Miami area, much more than people realized. Steve said they were using the millions made in the Snowpowder business to expand into legal enterprises. Organized crime had been doing this for thirty years, but the Cubans were making money so fast that they were able to do in ten years what it took other crime families decades to achieve. This made the northern factions quite angry. A lot of blood was being spilled in the streets of Miami. Steve Henderson was acquainted with every drop of it.
Turning off the lights, I locked the door on my way out. At home, I poured a snifter of Martel Cognac and cut the end off one of my favorite Ernesto P. Carrilos, handmade, long filler, fifty-four ring, Charlemagne cigars. They are made in Miami on Calle Ocho by Old World Tabaqueros. A beautiful cigar touches all my senses. Cigars are simple yet complex. A good cigar can be differentiated from a bad one by observing the leaf, the color of the ash and the burn rate, and by tasting the smoke for complexity and richness. By doing these things, you will understand the quality of your cigar. You exhale and let the smoke out, and there is great peace in the silence. The cognac and cigar are a combination that helps me think a case through. This was one of those times when I needed to do a lot of thinking.
CHAPTER THREE
Arriving at the airport at six a.m., I found the sky as predicted, a Gulf Stream blue, the air cold and crisp. The line crew left my airplane up front in the hangar as requested.
With today's technology in aviation, nearly all aircraft are capable of climbing above most weather, but small airplanes like mine rarely go higher than ten thousand feet. Flying days like these are to be cherished.
The wind was blowing at twenty-five knots. Taking off to the south on runway 17, I experienced a rough ride up to five thousand feet. After that the air smoothed out and visibility was unrestricted. Leveling at eight thousand five hundred feet, the coastline at Gulfport, the skyline of New Orleans off to the southwest, and Mobile Bay to the southeast was visible. Below, the stark brown of winter fields contrasted with the green of the pine forests. The land seemed to breathe in the early morning sun. Today was a halcyon day for a pilot.
It had been a long time since I'd seen Guy Robins, so I decided to land in Gulfport, visit with him, then drive over to Ocean Springs for the meeting with Glossman.
Guy came out to the airport and we had a short, pleasant visit. He had clients all day, but graciously offered the use of his automobile.
'Please take care of it, Jay. It's brand new.' It was a silver Jaguar, the first he'd been able to afford.
Guy and I had known each other all of our lives. We went to the same college, played football together, even dated the same girl. She showed her intelligence by marrying Guy. They have three beautiful children. I'm their Godfather.
Guy built a thriving law practice in Gulfport. He managed to stay away from large law firms who handled people and types of law he did not care for, and there were lean years, but slowly the business grew as people learned of his unyielding veracity, integrity, and rectitude.
When I went into the aviation consulting business, Guy sent me a lot of work, and it was he who recommended I get licensed as a private investigator, advising that the license would facilitate access to places I would otherwise be denied. He was right, and informed other attorneys on the coast about me and, as my office was in the state capital, I got a lot of legwork from that area of the state. During lean times, this paid the bills.
The drive over to Ocean Springs along the coast took me past white sand shorelines that, though not natural, were still amazingly beautiful. A string of barrier islands six miles offshore prevents the natural buildup of sand; it is dredged up from the seabed and spread by machine to make the beach. Old majestic water oaks line the once quiet waterfront highway on what used to be a pleasant, peaceful drive. Today it is a nightmare of heavy traffic leading to and from the many gambling casinos being built along the ocean side of the highway. It reminded one of the Las Vegas strip. Dockside gambling arrived with a thunder. It's been good for the economy, but the idyllic life has changed.
Passing by the Biloxi lighthouse, I remembered the artist-in-residence on the Mississippi coast, Joe Moran, a distant cousin of Bill Moran, whose studio and home is just off the beach, telling me of finding seaweed on top of the lighthouse after hurricane Camille in 1969. The lighthouse is forty feet tall.
Crossing the bridge to Ocean Springs, I could see the family compound of Walter Anderson, the tormented genius who painted life along this coast so brilliantly. His wife, Agnes Grinstead Anderson, died recently. A fine lady whose book, APPROACHING THE MAGIC HOUR, is a magnificent, heartrending memoir of her husband.
The morning breeze ruffled the water of Biloxi Bay causing the reflecting sun to turn the wave tops into a blue field of sparkling diamonds. There are some things even man cannot screw up.
Walking into Joe Glossman's office at precisely ten o'clock, his secretary politely offered me a seat. Mr. Glossman would be with me in a few minutes. The gray walls of the office had time to work me over, leaving me with a feeling of inadequacy in the presence of such wealth and power.
Glossman and Bill Moran were seated in the plain, functional inner office when I walked in and, much to my chagrin, so was Lynn Renoir. She didn't smile, her face appeared inanimate, but the eyes had a brilliant clarity. Interesting, I thought to myself, she doesn't listen. When this meeting is over, someone else can locate her sister.
My thoughts must have showed.
Glossman spoke, 'Now take it easy, Jay. Don't blame Lynn. She told me that you didn't want her involved. I called her last night and asked that she be here today. I sent one of the planes up to get her this morning.'
Nodding, I didn't say anything. Looking around at Glossman's office, I noticed that it contained nothing but a few pieces of furniture, all harshly simplified down to their essential purpose, though exorbitantly expensive in the quality of material and skill of design. On one corner of a desk was a piece of George Orr pottery. Behind Glossman's head was an oil painting of a Biloxi Schooner under full sail heading into a setting sun. It was a Joe Moran work.
'There are some touchy things here, Jay.' Glossman continued. 'Lynn should be present when they are discussed. Max Renoir set up this estate, and one of the stipulations was that it not be communicated with anyone outside the family, except for myself and Bill.'
'I'm listening, Mr. Glossman.'
'Max was worth a lot of money. He thought carefully about what was to be done with it in the unlikely event of the death of both he and his wife. Since Lynn was the oldest of the two girls, and the fact that Rene had a problem of a nature that will not be discussed, Max left control of everything to Lynn. The Will further states that Bill and I are to control the business and its assets as if they were ours, unconditionally, until Lynn reached her twenty-sixth birthday. At that time, control would go entirely to her. There are complex instructions as to how Rene is to be merged into the company, provided she meets certain conditions.
Lynn crossed her legs with a swishing of nylon, put both hands in her lap. We all turned and looked at her. She smiled.
Glossman said, 'Both Lynn and Rene were informed of certain parts of the Will when each reached the age of twenty-one. That's why Lynn has been working in the bank in Jackson. She's been handling the accounts of her family business. We thought it the best method of letting her see how we were running the company.'
