Redwood Bend (5 page)

“I get that,” Walt said. “What’s up with the company, Dylan? Last time we rode together, you couldn’t shut up about it. This trip, you’re not talking in a real obvious way.”

Dylan took a long drink of his soda and lifted his head. “Sales are way down,” he said. “In this economy, not only is fuel too expensive to run a cost-effective flying operation, but people don’t hire charters as often. They fly their executives commercial. Coach. We’re not profitable—we’re barely above the red line.”

It was quiet for a minute.

“Bummer,” Walt said.

“We’re probably going to have to downsize. We’re going to have to give up the BBJ.”

“Oh, no!” Stu wailed. “Not the BBJ!”

That made Dylan smile. As a mechanic, Stu so loved that BBJ.

“What’s a BBJ?” Walt asked.

“A Boeing Business Jet—737 configured for luxury business travel. Instead of 120 passengers, more like 60. Perfect for a sports team, a group of executives, a rock band. We’ve been leasing it.”

“It’s sweet,” Stu said mournfully.

“We managed without her for a long time,” Dylan said. “And we talked about this before—that’s a damned expensive jet for a small company.”

“I don’t know if this’ll help,” Walt said. “My dad is real successful in lots of different businesses and one thing he taught me—always have an exit strategy. Just in case your current plan doesn’t work, always know what your endgame is and where you’re going next.”

“What’s your exit strategy?” Dylan asked.

“That’s part B of the plan,” Walt said. “My plan probably won’t work for anyone but me—but I never put all my eggs in one basket. I invested outside my franchises as well as in them, so I’d have a little nest egg in a worst-case scenario. The idea of being a president and CEO doesn’t mean anything to me—the only thing I’ve ever cared about are the people and the bikes. So with a little nest egg as a cushion, I can be real happy as a wrench. It’s what I’m best at anyway.” Walt took a long pull on his soda. “You just have to be clear about what drives you.”

“I like to fly. I like living in Payne. I don’t know what else there is.”

“I’m a different animal, Dylan. As long as I have my little house, my bike, my parents in good health, my brothers on my nerves and Cassie in my bed, I have just about everything I need. I can always find work. It wouldn’t be high dollar work, but it would be honest work.” His cell phone twittered and he pulled it out of his vest pocket. “Speak of the devil,” he said, grinning like a fourth grader. “Hey, baby…” Then he walked away from his group to have a private conversation.

And after all that baring of souls, all Stu had to say was, “God, I’d hate to lose that BBJ. She’s
sweet!
”

The afternoon ride was not only beautiful, but silent. That part was typical as bikers didn’t have conversations when they wound noisily around the mountain curves and broke single file for logging trucks. They ended their day as they had the three days before—at Jack’s.

“Has Preacher got the bouillabaisse going?” Walt wanted to know, because he’d been to the marina and delivered the seafood components.

“I think you’ll be satisfied,” Jack said. “I’ve been helping and I’m satisfied.”

“And how do you help?” Dylan asked.

“Every so often I wander back there, scoop out a little and let him know how he’s doing.”

They all laughed. Jack served up a couple of beers, a cup of coffee for Walt and a cola for Lang. By now, given the end of their fourth day in town, when people stopped by the bar, they wanted to know what the bikers had seen that day. And the men were more than happy to describe their ride, the views, the little towns they rode through, the other riders they ran into and sometimes rode with for a while.

They raved about the stew, had some coffee and dessert, and eventually said their goodbyes because they were heading out in the morning. There was a lot of handshaking all around. Preacher came out of the kitchen where he and Walt grasped fists and pulled each other shoulder to shoulder like brothers.

“You come back,” Preacher said.

“Absolutely,” Walt promised. “And you know how to reach me if you ever feel like a trip to the valley. I have some places I’d love to take you for dinner.”

And then they retired to the cabins.

When they got there they found Luke was just stirring up a fire in a shallow pit in front of his porch and it was natural to wander down that way. Luke’s wife, Shelby, sat in a chair on the porch and their handyman, Art, was beside her. Luke welcomed them all to join them and before long Walt had himself a chair by the fire while Lang, Stu and Dylan stood around with Luke. They talked about nothing in particular—weather, fishing, the long ride back to Montana. Little by little they broke up—Shelby went inside, Art retired to his cabin, Walt decided to turn in. And finally Luke indicated a bucket of sand.

“I’m calling it a day, boys. When you’re done with the fire, bury it. We’re coming up on fire season.”

“You bet,” Dylan said. “If we don’t see you in the morning…”

“I’m up early,” he said. “Knock before you go. It’s been a real pleasure.”

And then they were left, the Childress Aviation management, sitting on the porch steps in front of a small fire. A few moments of quiet passed before Lang asked, “So…this is really it for the company, huh?”

“Not necessarily. We’re definitely gonna have to lose the BBJ,” Dylan said, “but that should give us six months to figure out the next move. Either we find some charters for the Bonanzas and the Lear to keep us going or, the next step is, alternate work plans. We have a snowplow for the runway—maybe we start a little plowing business in the winter.”

Lang laughed. “I’ve been using that plow on my road anyway.”

“If you two can manage to find Montana on your own, I want to spend a little more time in California,” Dylan said. “I’m going to check out the smaller airports around here, see if there’s any work for our charters, any interest in a partnership. We have some things in common—charters into the mountains and isolated hunting and fishing locations. And also…” He paused. “I’m considering another idea. Sometimes over the years I’d hear from an old friend of mine, a producer, that he’d like to do a movie, if I had any interest. Jay Romney—he’s one of the good guys. I should listen to his ideas. It could keep us in business.”

“Make a movie?” Stu asked, suddenly interested.

Dylan lifted a corner of his mouth in a half smile. “I’ve made a couple of movies. And had that long-running sitcom as a kid.”

“Yeah, but make a movie now?” Stu asked.

“I could,” he said. “If the terms are right.”

“Would actresses be involved?” Stu asked.

Dylan laughed and Lang gave Stu a wallop to the back of the head.

“Hey! I’m just saying…”

“There would undoubtedly be actresses, but I have no idea what he has in mind. Could be a totally ridiculous sitcom reunion show of some kind, or it could be something else. But if there’s significant money, I should talk to him. Could buy Childress Aviation a couple of years and give the economy time to turn around.”

“I hate to think of you doing anything you hate,” Lang said. “Life’s too short.”

“What’s the big deal?” Stu asked. “Make a lot of money, date actresses, have some fun… Tell him I’ll do it.”

Lang and Dylan had been best friends since college, so Lang knew everything there was to know about Dylan’s childhood, but Stu didn’t.

“My experience as a child actor wasn’t good,” he said. “I thought it was at the time because I was spoiled and could have anything I wanted as long as I did the job I was paid to do because a lot of other jobs depended on it. But I was an ass. Every kid on that set was an ass and we were pure trouble—I’m sure people hated to deal with us. By the time I was thirteen my best friend, Roman, and I were fooling with liquor, pot and girls when we could get away with it, which was often. We pulled pranks, we busted up property, made off with cars we weren’t licensed to drive. I thought we were screwing around and having fun. We were cocky. Immune to failure. I didn’t really get that Roman was in over his head. He died of an overdose at the age of sixteen—he took a bunch of his mother’s pills and washed ’em down with rum, looking for a high. He had been my closest friend for a long time. We weren’t together the night he died. I was fifteen. The whole thing—it almost destroyed me.”

Stu was younger than Dylan and Lang and hadn’t been up to speed on the gossip surrounding Dylan’s Hollywood career. Plus, being a guy, he had no fascination with another guy’s antics. He merely whistled.

“My grandmother flew back to L.A. from London, took me to Roman’s funeral and got me out of Hollywood. She put her own career on hold and raised me in Payne until I went to college. She probably saved my life. So, going back to that lifestyle…”

“Yeah, but you’re not stupid anymore,” Stu said. “You’re older now.”

Dylan opened his mouth to speak, to explain that it was more complicated than that, that he had an entire family there in various levels of fame and infamy, from his half sister’s chronic problems with drugs to his half brother’s long running habit of trashing hotel rooms in which porn stars or hookers always seemed to be present. One stepsister was in drug treatment and a stepbrother in jail for dealing. And that was not to mention his mother, who he considered the worst of all. But before he could say any more, Lang put a firm hand on his shoulder and, in the dark, gave his head the smallest shake.

Don’t bother,
he was saying. “All Stu wants is a girl to spend the night with. He’s not going to understand any of this.”

“Right,” Dylan said. “So I’ll get in touch with Jay and find out if this is just a lot of talk or if there’s real interest with a contract and money attached. And if it’s a way to keep us afloat a couple of years, I’ll consider it.”

Stu grinned hugely and stood up. “Call if you need backup on that movie or at some Hollywood parties!”

“You’ll be the first,” Dylan said drily.

And Stu ambled off to his cabin.

It was quiet around the fire for a minute before Lang said, “You probably should’ve told him you’re not keeping the BBJ, even if you get an Oscar.”

Dylan laughed.

“Don’t do this unless it really feels right,” Lang said. “Don’t do it for me. I can always manage, you know that.”

“Yeah? You have a wife and five kids.”

“Five brilliant kids. I’ll rent ’em out. Sell ’em to the circus.”

Dylan laughed with a shaking of his head. Lang and Sue Ann were the most devoted and conscientious parents Dylan had ever known.

“Seriously.”

“Yeah, trust me—I’m not stupid anymore,” he said, echoing Stu. “I’m older now.” And then with a touch of solemnity he said, “Trust me. I take this very seriously. Jay Romney’s a decent guy or I wouldn’t even talk to him.”

Lang stood up. “Do what you want, I’ve always got your back. But I’m with Walt—it doesn’t take that much to keep me happy and working. I’d be happy to run that snowplow around town until Childress Aviation gets on its feet again. I’m better at driving a snowplow than running a company anyway.”