A Wild and Lonely Place (33 page)

“We’ve got an engine out,” I went on. “No reason to worry, the other’s still good, and we’re very close to the airport. It
might make for a rough landing, though. I need you to see that your belt and Hy’s are fastened tight. And I need you to be
very quiet so I can concentrate.”

Silence.

“Will you do that for me, Habiba?”

“Yes.” There was no tremor in her voice, no threat of tears. The kid had guts, for sure.

“Thanks. I’ll have us on the ground in no time.”

I reached toward the radio, flicked on the mike, and began my transmission. “Bakersfield Tower, this is Beech-craft four-eight-three-three-Echo.
I’m VFR three-zero miles southwest with my starboard engine out and a seriously ill passenger. Request assistance.”

Static.

“Bakersfield Tower, acknowledge.”

“Roger, three-three-Echo. Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Affirmative, Bakersfield.”

“Three-three-Echo, are you able to maintain altitude?”

“Affirmative.”

“Three-three-Echo, plan straight in to runway three-zero right. You’ll be number one. Do you request an ambulance for your
passenger?”

“Affirmative, Bakersfield. And I’ll need assistance on this landing; it’s a first under these conditions.”

“That’s what we’re here for, three-three-Echo. Three-zero right is ten thousand feet, so you’ve got plenty of runway.”

I acknowledged and heaved a sigh of relief.

7:01
A.M.

Phrases from the emergency flight manuals I’d studied over the past year filtered through my mind as I approached Bakersfield.

When making an engine-out landing, keep your pattern close to the runway, and lower landing gear at the normal point in the
pattern.

“Three-three-Echo, are you able to lower your gear?”

Dammit, I didn’t know which engine the landing-gear extension system operated off of. If it was the starboard…“Sorry, Bakersfield,
I had to take over for the pilot, and I’m not familiar with the system.”

“What is your full aircraft designation, three-three-Echo?”

“Beechcraft Delta-five-five Baron.”

“Stand by.” Half a minute elapsed. “You’re in luck, three-three-Echo. Gear operates off the port engine.”

“Thanks, Bakersfield.” I waited till I was two miles out, then lowered the gear and cranked in fifteen degrees of flap.

Maintain blueline airspeed and delay final flap extension until you are established on final approach.

The runway stretched ahead of me. I kept my approach fast and high.

“You’re doing fine, three-three-Echo. Suggest thirty degrees of flap.”

If you have trimmed the rudder to counteract yaw from the out engine, the rudder pressures will change once the flaps are
down.

I had, and they did.

Over the tarmac now. Totally focused. Nothing in the world but this aircraft, the voice from the control tower, and me.

Once the flaps are fully extended, there is no possibility of a go-around. You are committed to land.

I pulled back on the power.

Close to the normal touchdown point now.

“Doing just fine, three-three-Echo.”

Past the touchdown zone and still floating!

“…doing fine…”

End of the runway coming up, and beyond it there’re trees!

…
you are committed to land…

In the trees? In the fucking
trees?

“…easy now, three-three-Echo, easy…”

A sudden spine-jarring thump. The Beechcraft yawed violently, but I controlled it, braking gingerly. And then we rolled to
a stop—as if this were the perfect finish to a perfectly routine hop.

Except the end of the runway was only yards away.

“You did good, three-three-Echo, and your ambulance is on the field. Taxi to crosswind runway and hold.”

I taxied to the runway and brought the plane to a stop. Shut down all systems, leaned my head against the controls, and burst
into tears.

“Ambulance is on its way to you, three-three-Echo.”

I sucked in a sob.

“Acknowledge, three-three-Echo.”

I choked out the words, “Roger, and a
big
thanks, Bakers-field.”

Habiba’s hand touched the back of my head. “Sharon, don’t cry. Hy’s awake!”

I raised my head and swiveled around, mopping tears from my cheeks as I stared at my lover. He looked even worse than before:
sweat sheened his gray pallor, and his eyes were bloodshot and dull. His droopy mustache twitched as he tried for a smile,
and when he spoke his voice rasped painfully.

“McCone,” he said, “that was the lousiest landing you’ve ever made, and I loved every second of it.”

Northern California

May 28 – 30

We spent a couple of hours at Bakersfield Memorial Hospital getting Hy admitted and conferring with the attending physician.
The bug he’d caught in Nicaragua was rare but—now that it had been properly diagnosed— treatable with sulfa drugs and would
require a few days’ stay. After I finished with the doctor I went to Hy’s room; when I told him Habiba and I would be leaving
for San Francisco, his droopy mustache sagged lower.

“Jesus, McCone, I never thought you’d abandon me in
Bakersfield!”

“You’re in perfectly good hands and, besides, what’s wrong with this town?”

“Well, when I was a little kid in Fresno, my daddy used to say that on a clear summer night you could sit on your front porch
and listen to Bakersfield suck.” He paused. “Of course, that’s what the porch-sitters in Bakersfield were saying about Fresno.”

“Then you’ll just have to let go of your old prejudices and rivalries, because the people here have been really good to us.
I’ll keep in touch by phone and be down to get you as soon as you’re released.”

“In the Citabria?”

I hesitated.

“Planes’re like horses, McCone. You’ve got to climb right back on.”

“All right! I’ll pick you up in the Citabria.” Quickly I kissed him and got out of there before he could extract any further
promises from me.

* * *

I collected Habiba from the nurses’ station, got a cab back to the airport, and dealt with the necessary formalities—including
notifying the aircraft rental agency of the whereabouts and condition of the Beechcraft. Then, at the suggestion of the air
traffic controller who had talked me down, we rented a limo from a firm called Bring ’em on Home, whose drivers wore western
attire rather than uniforms—Bakersfield being the country-and-western capital of California. Habiba and I slept all the way
to the Park ‘n’ Fly near SFO where—eons ago—I’d left my MG.

* * *

Anne-Marie Altman and Hank Zahn lived in a two-flat building on Twenty-sixth Street in the Noe Valley district. It was the
safest haven I could think of for Habiba.

I hadn’t bothered to call ahead; my former boss and his wife were my best friends and advance notice wasn’t necessary. Anne-Marie
came to the door of the lower flat wearing her usual at-home attire of a knee-length Tee and leggings; her normally pert blond
hair stood up in little points and she had on no makeup. She didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me, but she did glance
at Habiba with ill-concealed displeasure.

Anne-Marie, an attorney for a coalition of environmentalist organizations, claimed to hate children more than strip miners
or clear-cutters, but I knew better. Babies didn’t interest her—to tell the truth, I don’t find them all that interesting
myself—but she’d often betrayed a liking for children who were on the cusp of becoming fully realized individuals. In no time,
I was sure, Habiba would ingratiate herself and join the select ranks of young people whom my friend respected and was even
fond of.

“So who is this?” she demanded.

“Habiba Hamid,” the little girl said, extending her hand.

Way to go, I thought. The kid had a good sense for what worked with people.

Anne-Marie shook with her, somewhat nonplused. “And to what do I owe the honor?”

I said, “It’s a long story. You have any coffee?”

She waved us inside and led us to the kitchen at the back of the flat. The coffeemaker was on, so I poured cups for both of
us, listening as my friend stiffly asked Habiba, “Would you like some milk? Or juice?”

“Coke?”

“Diet?”

“Yes, please.”

Anne-Marie fetched it, and we sat down at her butcher-block table. “So what’s the long story?” she asked.

“I don’t have time to go into it. Habiba can fill you in later.”

“Later?” There was a touch of alarm in her voice.

“Yes. I need you to put her up for a while.” Before she could protest, I asked, “Is Hank around?”

“He went upstairs to shower a couple of hours ago, but I think he got sidetracked because I’ve been hearing Thelonious Monk—a
new sound-enhanced compact disc he bought on Friday. You want me to get him on the intercom?”

“Yes, ask him to come down here, if you would.”

Anne-Marie and Hank are one of those married couples who found out early on that they can’t live together. She’s what he calls
a cleanliness Nazi; he’s what she calls a slob. Separate flats in the same house and frequent conjugal visits have proved
their ideal solution.

She went to the intercom that joined the flats and spoke in hushed tones. Half a minute later Hank came through the door from
the interior staircase. He wore a terry bathrobe that gave evidence to an impressive number of spills and clutched a big coffee
mug that said Superlawyer. Behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses his eyes were sleepy; he’d probably been napping to Thelonious.

As he sat down I introduced him to Habiba, adding, “She needs an attorney.”

Hank studied her with mock severity. “What’s she done? I don’t defend litterbugs or people who fail to return their library
books.”

Habiba giggled.

I said, “She may be seeking a divorce from her father. Perhaps her grandmother as well.” Briefly I explained the situation,
omitting only the part about her father being a murderer. I’d fill him in on that outside the little girl’s hearing.

Hank listened thoughtfully, running his hand over his curly gray-brown hair. “Is this what you want, Habiba?” he asked.

“Yes. My dad scares me, and Grams will insist I go back to Jumbie Cay with him.”

“What if we could arrange it so you could remain with her?”

“That’d be okay.”

“And you want me to represent your interests?”

“Yes, please.”

“In that case, you’d better give me a retainer.”

She frowned and looked at me.

“I’ll loan it to you.” I picked up the tacky shell-encrusted bag from where I’d shoved it out of sight under the table.

Anne-Marie asked, “Where the hell did you get
that
?”

“It’s a small part of the long story.”

“Habiba will definitely have to tell all.” She unbent and smiled at her. Habiba grinned slyly in response.

I asked Hank, “How much?”

He calculated. “Seventeen bucks’ll do it.”

“Why such an odd number?”

“It’s the cost of a complete meal for three from El Pollo Supremo. Anne-Marie tells me Habiba’s visiting for a while, and
that’s what I think we should have for her first dinner chez Altman-Zahn.”

“Fair enough.” I counted out seventeen dollars and handed the bills to Habiba. She in turn gave them to Hank and they shook
on the transaction. I added another ten to the pile.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“A bottle of wine, on me. By way of thanks for helping out.”

“I don’t know, Shar.” Hank folded the money and stuffed it in his bathrobe pocket. “You’re getting too high-toned for us.
Ten bucks might even buy a bottle with a cork.”

* * *

Ten minutes later I was driving along Mission Street toward Bernal Heights and trying to raise people on the car phone. No
answer at Mick’s cellular unit; none at his home, my home, or the office. Greg Marcus was off duty and away for the weekend.
I even tried Joslyn, on the slim chance that the posting on the Web had been a hoax and my friend would be in her kitchen
feeding Charley his Sunday dinner.

No answer anywhere.

The intersection at Mission and Army was blocked by an accident. One of the big articulated Muni buses sprawled across the
south-bound lanes, a van was pinned against a power pole, and police officers, SFFD rescue crews, and paramedics scurried
around. I looked for an escape route and spotted an alley several yards ahead. To reach it, though, I’d have to drive over
the curb and across the sidewalk, exposing my nearly new tires to possible damage.

“Screw it,” I said and snapped on the radio. It was after three; maybe there’d be something on the news—

“…a sheet of flames, and firefighters are battling to control it. The bomb squad is on the scene, as well as personnel from
the Diplo-bomber Task Force, and the mood here on Jackson Street in Pacific Heights is one of—”

“Oh, my God!”

To hell with the nearly new tires. I eased the MG forward, bumped up onto the curb and across the sidewalk. Gunned it down
the narrow alley all the way onto Valencia Street and headed across town to the Azadi Consulate.

* * *

I couldn’t get anywhere near Jackson Street, so I finally detoured around Lafayette Square and double-parked beside RKI’s
mobile unit. It was locked and deserted. I scribbled a note and stuck it under the car’s windshield wiper: “Consular security
vehicle. Please do not tow.” Then I ran along La-guna to where it crossed Jackson.

People jammed the intersection and sidewalks there, trying to see past the barricades. A reporter with a Minicam stood filming
on top of a Channel Five van. A still photographer had shinnied up a plane tree in the fenced front garden of a white Victorian;
a second man, probably the house’s owner, was shaking his fist and yelling for him to get down. A pall of smoke lay on the
air, tinged with evil-smelling chemical fumes. For an instant I flashed on the explosion at Bootlegger’s Cove, then I put
the memory behind me and pushed through the crowd to the barricade. I showed my I.D. to the uniformed officer there, explaining
that I worked for RKI. He shouted, “What?” and leaned closer. I repeated my explanation, but he wasn’t impressed. He shook
his head and turned his back.