The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 23

Part IV

Chapter 23

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Patrick/Frank Bullitt made his way from the lot as the loudspeaker barked his name once again: "Pat, report to Mr. Chalmer's office...Pat, report to..."

He stopped at the water fountain and took a long slurp before he resumed walking, anything to slow his way there - and several others around the showroom watched with knowing expressions on hand, hoping he'd be fired for this overt display of disobedience.

Because over the past week Patrick had sold nine cars, while all the other salesmen had sold...none.

And now, on this Friday afternoon - payday, of course - they wanted a comeuppance more than anything else.

So Patrick grinned knowingly as he walked into Paddy Chalmer's ornate office. "You need me for something?" he said, not a little insolently.

"Why yes, Pat, I do. Have you got something working?"

"Yeah, a broad lookin' at that last 914."

"Oh, well then, I won't keep you long. I need you to help me with an errand tonight. Got any plans you can't break?"

"Nope, I'm all yours."

"Okay, that's all then."

"Right."

________________________________

"After three months you'll get a take-home car," Paddy Chalmers told Patrick as they worked their way across the Bay Bridge - just as dark came on and a sudden fog rolled across the water like smoke. "Just one of the perks, I guess you could say."

"Okay," Patrick replied.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

Pat shrugged. "Nothin' much to say, ya know?"

"Carmine tells me you've put your hands in cold water."

"Did he?" and Pat replied cautiously now because this was slang for killing someone.

"And I was wondering. What if we need something like that. Should I come to you?"

"Depends on the money, I guess."

"And that depends on the hit. Yeah, I got that. So, what about a cop? You down for that?"

"A cop? You mean, like some guy walkin' a beat?"

"No, a police captain."

"High profile?"

"No, he's a paper-pusher, a real pencil-dick..."

"All cops are pencil-dicks, Paddy. How does fifty sound?"

Paddy nodded. "About what I figured."

"Okay, so next time I'll ask for a hundred."

And Chalmers laughed with him, then Patrick grinned - if only to seal the deal.

Once over the bridge, they made their way down to Hayward; Chalmers pulled into the airport and parked near a row of hangers.

"Now we wait," Chalmers said, leaning back with a sigh.

It didn't take long.

About a half-hour later a small twin-engined plane landed and taxied to the row of hangers; Chalmers got out, motioning Patrick to do the same, and they walked out to the plane just as the right engine shut down. The pilot climbed out the door on the right side and walked down the wing, then he went aft to the small luggage compartment. Chalmers handed over an envelope and the pilot opened the little door, reached in, took out two duffel bags; he handed one to Chalmers, the other to Patrick, and without a word the pilot got in and started the right engine and taxied over to a fuel depot - leaving Patrick to commit the airplane's registration number to memory.

Chalmers put the bags behind his seat, then they drove off northbound for Oakland, and, after a few minutes, they were winding through an area near the waterfront that seemed filled with abandoned warehouses, though there were still a few working enterprises here and there. Patrick watched Chalmers' eyes in the mirror; he was scanning to the rear, checking for a tail as he drove about aimlessly for a half hour.

Then, without warning, he flipped off the Porsche's headlights and turned hard into a darkened parking lot. Now, heading towards a closed-door Patrick expected an imminent crash - until a larger sliding door opened at the last possible moment...

...and as soon as the door slid shut behind them lights blazed-on and a huge warehouse full of men and painting equipment came into view...

Chalmers parked and got out of the Porsche, so Patrick followed...and it didn't take him long to spot Callahan, busily masking off the windshield on an orange Porsche 912. Without a word, Patrick fell in behind Chalmers as they walked to an office and sat down.

Patrick watched the Porsche they had just used drive off, but he saw that an older man now had the duffel bags, and this man disappeared into another part of the warehouse. A few minutes later a beat-up Chevy Nova appeared; Chalmers stood and made his way to the driver's seat, Patrick following close behind.

A few minutes later they were on the Bay Bridge again, headed back into the city.

But Chalmers drove through the park until he came to a house out near the cliffs, and parked there Patrick saw the Prussian Blue 911 he'd sold to Mrs. 'Kildare' - aka his handler. Chalmers then took out a set of keys and handed them to Patrick.

"Get the car and follow me."

"Right."

Patrick walked over to the Porsche and got in, started the motor, and as quietly as possible backed out of the driveway. The Nova took off and he followed; a few blocks away they came to what looked like a moving van, only the back doors were standing wide open and there was ramp sloping down to the street. One man stood by the ramp and indicated he should stop at the bottom, and after Patrick got out a second man got in and drove the Porsche inside while the first secured the rear doors. Chalmers pulled up beside Patrick and told him to get in; they sped off towards downtown in silence.

"Smooth, Patrick. Pretty smooth."

"Yeah?"

"Sorry, but I had to see how you handle a little pressure."

"Uh-huh."

"You know what I like about you, Pat? You don't ask questions. Yeah. I like that."

Patrick nodded. "Any place around here this time of night got a decent steak?"

And for some reason this made Chalmers laugh.

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Mason/Callahan had seen Bullitt get out of the car and what bothered him most was how recognizable Frank was, even with the long red hair and the natty Ray-Bans, so naturally, the first thing he did after Bullitt left was to go to the bathroom and look at his own disguise. Full, bushy beard, scruffy gray hair, and clothes that bordered on ragged...but, yeah, he was pretty sure he still looked like Harry Callahan. 'So the first thing I gotta do is stay away from cops, especially from San Francisco,' he thought as he looked at his reflection. 'Maybe I ought to go skinhead, chop the eyebrows a little?'

Then, banging on the bathroom door: "Mason, you in there?"

"Yeah man. Bad enchiladas..."

"Well, light a fuckin' match and hurry it up."

He flushed the old toilet and ambled out, still tucking-in his shirt, and Danson was there with one of the duffel bags that Bullitt had just delivered.

"What's up?"

Danson unzipped the duffel and took out what looked like a small vinyl pouch, just like you'd find in the trunk on top of a car's spare tire. "Take five of these and put them with the spare tires in those cars."

"Just lay 'em on top? That's it?"

"Yeah."

But for some reason Harry knew this was a test of some sort, that people would be watching him, checking to see if he tried to snoop around and see what was inside, so he went to each of the five cars that would go out tonight and dropped one pouch per car in the boot. When he was done he went back to masking off the latest 911, getting it ready for the paint booth - and he acted as if nothing unusual had gone down.

But the cop in Callahan had quickly deduced that the pouches were loaded with either heroin or hashish - the weight and feel unmistakable...

So, the group was not only moving stolen cars, they were also distributing narcotics; the obvious next question was simple enough: where were they getting their product from - because now he knew the 'real money' was in those black vinyl pouches...

When his shift was up he had just begun to put away his tools when Danson and two other men walked up.

"Got time for breakfast?" Danson asked.

"Yeah, sure. Can I wash up first?"

"Not necessary," one of the other men said.

"Okay, ready when you are."

They walked outside to a Caddie with blacked-out windows and Danson told him to get behind the wheel; once seated one of the other men instructed him to drive down to the airport in Hayward...

He noted it was a little past midnight and the sky was partly cloudy, the temp about 50 degrees...so it made sense they were going to meet a plane, maybe pick up more product?

But no one in the car said a word - until the turned into the airport...

"Turn left here," one of the men said, then: "go down to the far lot and park."

From there, all four walked out onto the ramp and out to what looked like a surplus Huey...

Then this same man, the one who appeared to be in charge, spoke again: "They tell me you can fly these things."

"Well, I..."

The man reached inside his jacket, like he was going for a shoulder holster. "Look, Slick, either you can or you can't. Which is it?"

"I can, but it's been a while," Mason lied - because Goodman had foreseen this moment, too.

"Prove it."

Harry walked around the Huey and pulled the covers, then up to the starboard side forward where he opened the pilot's door and climbed in; he heard the aft door port-side open, then it slammed shut after, presumably, the others clambered in and took their seats.

Harry reached for the overhead and flipped on the main bus, then he powered-up the ship's systems one by one. He got the interior lights on and set to red, then found the headset and got it settled over his ears...and as soon as he did the intercom chirped to life.

"You hear me okay, Mason?" he heard Danson ask.

"Yup."

"Okay, we're going to the north tower on the Golden Gate. From there, take a heading of 2-5-5 magnetic. I'll tell you when to stop."

"Okay, 2-5-5 from the north tower until advised."

"And, uh, no radios tonight, Mason."

"Got it."

Harry started the turbine and watched his pressures, then he flipped on the intercom again. "Uh, I assume no exterior lights?"

"You assume correctly," one of the other men said, his accent from south of the border.

"So, no transponder?"

"You got it, slick," Danson added.

Harry nodded...because that meant he'd have to keep the Huey under fifty feet, and at one in the morning. He dialed in San Francisco approach and picked up the barometric pressure, then set this reading on the altimeter.

"Y'all buckled in?" he asked as he pulled up sharply on the collective, and as quickly he dropped the nose and ran the throttle up smoothly until the flutterbug was racing across the bay...the skids maybe twenty feet above the waves...

'Goddamn, but it feels good to be up here again, even now...' he thought, realizing he missed flying more than he'd been willing to admit.

There were several small boats coming and going across the bay, mainly to and from Sausalito, and he kept well away from this traffic - but in the end, no one challenged him as he made his way across the bay to the bridge. There he set his heading bug to 255 degrees magnetic and drove the Huey out to sea.

"What's your airspeed," one of the other men asked.

"One ten knots," Harry replied.

"Slow to 20."

"20, Roger."

"Turn on your rotating beacon for thirty seconds, then power it off."

"Roger." Harry flipped the switch on the overhead as he watched the second hand on the clock countdown...

"There he is!"

"What?" Harry asked.

"Flashlight, at your ten o'clock," he heard Danson say, and then he saw it. One man in a very small Zodiac inflatable boat, more like a yacht tender, was about a hundred yards away.

"Okay, got him," Harry said as he turned to look at his passengers.

"Two of us getting out here, Mason. Thanks for the ride."

"Right," Harry said as he slipped over to the little boat. He heard an aft door slide open and prepared to counter the weight-shift, and when that was done and over with he turned to Danson. "Where to?"

"Mind if I come up?"

"Hell no! Come on, man...it's too quiet up here!"

Once Danson had settled in the left seat he asked again: "Where we headed now?"

"Back the way we came, down in the waves."

"Right."

"That was the best flying I've ever seen. Did you go through the entire Army flight school?"

"Yeah. But, well, I got kicked out."

"Army, huh? Hear that's pretty tough."

"The flying wasn't. All the other bullshit was."

"You instrument rated?"

"Yup."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"I guess you wouldn't mind doing more - errands - like this?"

"If the money's good enough, sure thing."

"Thousand bucks a run okay? In the beginning, anyway. Maybe some more on the big money runs."

"I'm in."

"You haven't asked what you'll be carrying? Why is that, Mason?"

"Because I don't give a flyin' fuck, Amigo. As long as the money's good, ya know what I mean?"

Harry could see Danson's grin reflected in the windshield, so he guessed that was the right answer...

_____________________________

Avi's head of security was allowed into the cardiac intensive care unit one morning, though he had been cautioned to keep things simple and stress-free...

"How is she?" was the first thing out of Avi's mouth.

"Fine, actually. Nothing to worry about."

"What about her cancer? What do we know?"

"She's had the surgery, and she did well. They'll commence with one round of chemo, then six weeks of radiation, beginning next week."

Avi took a moment to digest all that, wiping away more than a few tears in the process, before he continued. "Tel Aviv?" he asked.

"For now. But the doctors think she might be better off doing the whole thing at Sloane-Kettering."

Avi nodded. "See if you can expedite that, Lev."

"Yes, I will."

"And...is there any news about Harry?"

"Not much. He is flying helicopters now, at least once this week. Colonel Goodman is concerned, however. He thinks the equipment is too old to be used as it is."

"He'll just have to trust Harry, I assume. The rest of the operation?"

"Sam and Al are..."

"Who?"

"Al Bressler. You remember, the one who lights his farts?"

"Ah, how could I forget. Go on..."

"They followed a lead into Syria but it went cold. They are now in Venezuela."

"What the hell?!"

"A new lead. I don't have the details..."

One of Avi's nurses came in and went straight to the IV; she injected a sedative then turned and shook her head, implicitly telling Lev to cut his visit short.

"Well, I will find out what I can. I'll be back this afternoon; can I bring you anything?"

"A stripper with huge tits," he called out for the benefit of his nurses.

Both men smiled, then Avi continued in a lower voice: "Get Imogen to New York, would you? And find out what you can about Harry?"

"I will, my friend."

And Avi nodded, smiled a little before his eyes clouded over.

The nurse returned then: "I doubt he'll be awake this afternoon."

"So, I should return in the morning?"

The woman hesitated, then simply nodded.

"What are you not telling me?" Lev asked.

"Doctor Cooley thinks he may be rejecting the new tissue. There is a new drug he's trying to get approval to use, but if not, well, things could become very bad, very quickly."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you can get hold of a supply of this medicine."

"What is the hold-up?"

"Well, the drug is made by an Israeli company, but there's some problem with the import license."

"Indeed. Tell me more..."

___________________________________

She was having a good day. Lucid, the doctors called it, which meant she knew where she was and what time of the day it was outside her little cocoon. She'd just managed breakfast when she went to her Bösendorfer; once her hands hovered over the keys she closed her eyes and cast herself free of time - and she was soon adrift on a sea of memory...the Old Man in the Cape staring at her knowingly.

And von Karajan was agitated this morning, too. He wanted nothing more than to see where she was taking this monumental work, but most of all how she was going construct her conclusion. At the same time, he was growing more and more fearful of this piece, fearful of its underlying power. She had rescored key passages of the second movement only the day before, and as she worked through the closing passages he had found himself weeping uncontrollably, his hands shaking and his pulse hammering in his head. What would older musicians do when they encountered such raw power? Would they survive the telling of her story, indeed, their encounter with such deadly emotion?

Now he watched her hands.

Porcelain white, like purest marble under Michelangelo's hand, waiting to come to life again.

Then she looked up, her eyes roaming the room until she found him.

"You must not hear this, Herbert," she sighed. "Let it be a surprise."

"Imogen, are you sure?"

"I am, but help me with this notation before you leave me."

He came to her, paper in hand as she placed her fingers on the deepest keys, those leading down to the eighty-eighth key, and he watched as her fingers searched for the meaning passed down from the clouds...

He had never, not once in decades of conducting, seen anything remotely like what she was forming...then her hand found the eighty-eighth key and she played the chord...

He felt his breath sundered, his vision fading to a vast field of limitless white stars as he lost control of his legs and fell to his knees. He tried to write, tried to get these sudden fleeting images of death from his mind, but he found the effort almost impossible.

He stood, breathing again but with trouble, and he found her motionless - though her hands were frozen to the keys of her creation...and as he wiped tears from his eyes he finished the notation. But...this was just one chord, not a movement...

"Imogen?" he said quietly. "Imogen, are you with me...?"

Nothing. No movement at all, just a slab of cold, white marble...

Then, in a violent outburst, she grabbed the pages from von Karajan and began writing furiously, page after page taking form in the dead quiet living room of Avi's house in the desert compound. In less than an hour she poured out the final vital passages that lead her to the eighty-eighth key - her shattering finale - buried deep within that one shattering key...

...and then she stood back from her beloved Bösendorfer as if to leave, and then fell to the floor.

von Karajan ran and knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse...

...but there was nothing to be felt now, nothing of this life remaining in her discarded body, and he screamed for the security detail...

...but she was gone by the time they got to her. Dead and gone, and now only the final chord of her life lingered on in the air - apparent.

_______________________________________

Harry Callahan left his little apartment and made his way to Water Street, then walked along the waterfront past Jack London Square on his way to the ferry that connected Oakland to San Francisco. It was almost cold out in the twilight, and a thick fog was rolling in on the tide - making it difficult to see if there was anyone tailing him. Of course, his instructors had taught him the very basic tradecraft, including the most salient fact of all: stopping too often to check for a tail was a dead giveaway in and of itself, and anyone with even a basic understanding of the art would pick up on his evasions in an instant. So...

...he just ignored the possibility and walked hurriedly to the ferry, needing to make the 7:30 crossing...

And once inside the little pavilion he bought his ticket and was able to board immediately. He made his way to a seat with a decent enough view of his fellow travelers and watched them board, and as the ferry pushed away from the pier he got up and went for a coffee. He turned and began to walk away when he heard a voice...