Perpetual Motion (7 page)

“Excuse me,” he said, trying to give her his
best smile after he stashed his laptop overhead.

Giving him a curt smile, she rotated her hips
and turned her crossed legs, providing him the needed room to slide
in next to her. As he fell into his window seat, he rubbed the
rubble on his chin, wishing he had taken the time to shave.

“Tough trip to Vegas?” she asked.

“You could say that. Easy come, easy go,” he
said casually, like money was no object. He was, after all, flying
first class. “How about you? Were you here for business or
pleasure?”

“Business, I’m afraid,” she said, turning to
look at him. “I’m in the insurance business.” She smiled
pleasantly. “I know, exciting stuff.”

Seeing her close-up and full in the face
confirmed his initial suspicions. She was, in fact, beautiful.
Cool, smart, sexy, even age appropriate. And, if he wasn’t
mistaken, he detected a hint of danger lurking behind those cat-eye
frames.

“Do you live in LA?” Cynical asked
hopefully.

“No, I’m just going to do a risk analysis
report for a company we’re underwriting.”

“You’re an actuary?”

“Close enough. I warned you, it was
exciting,” she said playfully. “I’ll probably be in LA for a couple
of days before heading back home to Maryland.”

That was a bit of bonus information Cynical
noted as the flight attendant came up the aisle. “Would you like a
drink before we taxi out?”

“I’ll have a mimosa,” the woman replied.

The attendant looked at Cynical.

“Screwdriver.”

While they waited for their pre-flight
beverages, the woman opened the magazine she had placed on her lap
when Cynical had arrived. Not ready to let the conversation die
just yet, he put out his hand.

“Cynical.”

“Excuse me?”
“Cynical Jones,” he repeated. If nothing else, his name was an
ice-breaker.
“Oh,” she said, taking his hand. “Amanda Wilkerson.”

Her hand was soft, yet surprisingly firm, and
full of long elegant fingers. Glancing down, he noticed she wasn’t
wearing a diamond on her other hand.

“Please tell me your mother didn’t name you
Cynical?”
“No. I just picked it up along the way.” He shrugged. “It seemed to
fit.”

“What do you do?” she asked. “Professional
gambler? Hit man?”

“Close,” he said, already liking her sense of
humor. “I’m a private detective.”

She stared at him, as if waiting for the
punch line.

“Really,” he reassured her.

Reaching behind him, he pulled out his wallet
and handed her a business card. In plain black type it read,
“Cynical Jones, X-Detective” followed by a phone number and a post
office box.

“What does the ‘X’ mean?”

“Oh, it’s an inside joke, mostly between me
and myself,” he said. “I used to be a detective with the LAPD. But
no more. Hence the ‘x.’”

“Here you are.” A hand descended from above
with bright orange drinks.

Cynical looked up with a “thanks” at the
flight attendant before she buzzed away to deliver nectar to the
other first class flowers.

“Mind if I keep this?” Amanda asked with the
hint of a smile on her lips. “You never know when I might need a
good x-detective.”

“Please do.”

Giving his seatmate a sidelong look, Cynical
settled back in the soft leather chair, took a sip of the drink,
and buckled his seat belt. Maybe he had this all wrong; maybe
flying first class wasn’t so bad after all.

Conversation flowed between Row 5, seats A
and B, looks lingered and, despite ample seat size, elbows lightly
touched. Amanda was a good listener, or maybe Cynical just needed
to talk. Another round of drinks at high altitudes probably didn’t
hurt either. In a short amount of time, he had talked more about
himself than he had in years.

“It’s a cliché, but Ilene and I grew apart,
if we were ever really together,” Cynical said. “We were both
miserable, so I finally called it. I wasn’t prepared on how tough
splitting up could be. She got a good attorney and really kicked me
around.”

“It was during all that mess that I was
involved in a shooting while on the job.” He hesitated; then
clarified. “I was the shooter. The suspect made a move and I
discharged my weapon. There was an internal investigation.”

“What happened?” Amanda asked. “Did you get
fired?”

“No, it was eventually ruled a clean shot,
but I lost some of my enthusiasm for work. Some say I developed a
bad attitude; hence my nickname.” He smiled wearily. “So, I quit.
It was probably a stupid decision but, at the time, I just wanted
out.”

“I’m sorry,” Amanda said, putting a
sympathetic hand on his arm, her fingers delicately petting him.
“It sounds like you’ve been through a tough time.”

As she looked deep into his eyes, he felt
vulnerable. It was a position he never allowed himself to be in,
and yet, he found himself wanting to tell her more, confess his
deepest sources of pain. But then they were on the ground, and
everyone was suddenly unbuckling, and gathering up their personal
items in a rush.

“I really enjoyed the flight,” she said from
the aisle, leaning down toward him.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Cynical said. “I’m sorry
if I bored you by talking so much. I feel like you know everything
about me and I don’t know anything about you.”

“Oh, I think you’re probably much more
interesting than I am,” she said with that easy smile.

On the verge of asking her out, he found
himself hesitating. Typically, he thought nothing of running a line
by a woman. If she took the bait – great; if not, there was always
an endless supply of fish in the sea. This time was different
though; this wasn’t the kind of woman that would go for a gaudy
lure. Besides, she already knew too much about him. Still, he had
to try.

Grabbing his laptop from the overhead, he
turned to make his move. Just then, a Texas sized businessman
saddled out of A1 and into the aisle, blocking the way. Tex
leisurely gathered up a leather briefcase and a couple of fancy
shopping bags. By the time Cynical passed him in the jet-way,
Amanda had vanished.

A big part of his job was finding people, and
he liked to think he was good at it; however, this was the second
person that had escaped from him in the last 12 hours. Sure, he had
been overpowered at the Mirage by a team of professionals. But
there wasn’t a good excuse for losing an actuary who had deplaned
quicker than him.

Amanda wasn’t in baggage claim either. She
struck him as a no-nonsense, no-checked bag type of business
woman.

Grabbing his own bag off the conveyer belt,
he turned to go outside to the taxi stand when he caught “C. Jones”
out of the corner of his eye. Doing a double take, he focused on
the well-dressed man who was holding a placard that spelled out his
common last name. Surely, he was looking for someone else, Cynical
thought; maybe ex-Brave, Chipper Jones. Still, he had to know.

“Hey,” he said to the dapper man, “Who are
you looking for?”

The middle-aged man possessed a formality
about him. Keeping his sign visible to the trickle of travelers, he
said, “A Mr. Jones,” slowly, as if for the reading impaired.

“What’s the C stand for?”

Turning to face him, the man appraised him
through cool, grey eyes. “You tell me,” he said in a distinctly
British accent.

“Cynical?”

“My name is Herman, Mr. Jones,” the man said,
instantly dropping the piece of cardboard to his side and
simultaneously reaching for Cynical’s bag.

“Whoa there Herman,” Cynical said,
re-gripping the handle.

Herman raised back up, nonplussed. “Follow
me, sir.”

“Where?”

“Your presence has been requested,” the Brit
said as he turned and walked away.

Hustling to catch up to the surprisingly spry
man, Cynical called out, “Who wants to see me?”

“Mr. Mancuso,” Herman said, not bothering to
look back.

For the next several minutes, Cynical kept
his mouth shut and simply concentrated on keeping up with Herman.
Seeming to know exactly where he was going and the most efficient
way to get there, the older man moved adroitly through the airport
as if he had a plane to catch.

After a short escalator ride down, they were
waved through a sliding door by an airport security guard.
Suddenly, they were thrust out on the tarmac and in the land of
enormous silver birds.

Unabated by the noisy blast of engines,
Herman continued his quick clip toward a large jet without any
markings, except a black triangle on its tail. As they approached
the flight of stairs leading up to the plane’s doorway, Herman
shouted, “You can leave your bag here.”

When he finally relinquished his luggage,
Herman waved him toward the air-stairs. “Go on up; he’s expecting
you.”

As Cynical climbed, a petite Asian woman rose
into view. “Good morning Mr. Jones,” she said with a slight bow;
then directed the guest into the fuselage.

For a moment, Cynical simply stood under the
soothing blue lights that softly lit the long, expansive cabin
complete with a wet bar, couch, coffee table, and several
comfortable leather swivel chairs. Now
this
was first
class.

In the back of the spacious room was a
polished table; behind which sat an older man in a crisp blue suit
and a golden yellow ascot tie.

“Ah, Mr. Jones,” the man said as he looked up
from a laptop computer on his desk. “Thank you for joining me.”

It took the private detective several strides
to get to the back of the room. His diminutive host was bald; his
polished head tanned and rimmed in a crescent of short silver hair.
Although he could have passed for sixty, Cynical guessed he was
probably quite a bit older, just well preserved. And everyone
tended to look better in their personal jet.

Before Cynical could extend a hand, Mancuso
gestured to the chair. “I’m glad Herman found you,” he said. “I was
already in route to Nevada, so I decided to continue on to Los
Angeles.”

As Cynical settled into the cushy seat, he
noticed his host’s polished fingernails, expensive looking
cufflinks, and an even costlier looking timepiece that displayed
second, minute and hour counters. Judging from his personal
appearance, this was a man who had precise reasons for everything
he did. So, what was the reason he had been summoned?

“I’m sorry for what happened in Vegas,”
Cynical started in, unable to shake a feeling of intimidation. “I
had your man, but I was jumped – and there were just too many of
them.”

“You said you thought Michael escaped?”
Mancuso inquired in his clipped accent.

“I think so,” Cynical said. “The security guy
at the Mirage said they didn’t see him leaving with the guys that
attacked us.”

Mancuso nodded slightly, seeming to consider
the information. “Do you know why Michael went to Las Vegas in the
first place?”

“He said he needed money,” Cynical explained.
“He had figured out a way to cheat at roulette and won several
thousand dollars doing it.”

Mancuso’s lips curled ever so slightly in the
direction of a smile. “Einstein once said that it was impossible to
beat the roulette wheel. That would not have deterred Michael. In
fact, he would have taken it as a challenge.”

“He said he also wanted to get married,”
Cynical added.

Now Mancuso allowed the smile to break
through; something Cynical guessed happened about as often as a
solar eclipse. And then the white teeth disappeared behind the
tightly drawn lips, and the eyes bore back into his guest. “You
managed to find out quite a bit in a short amount of time.”

“He also mentioned something about people
trying to kill him,” Cynical said. “Of course, I didn’t believe
him, until they almost killed me.”

Mr. Mancuso fell into a quiet, almost
meditative, state. After a few seconds, he took out an envelope,
which he slid across the desk, stopping a foot in front of the
x-detective. With a slight nod of invitation from Mancuso, Cynical
reached the rest of the way and looked inside. In the envelopes
were two checks; one for ten thousand dollars and another for fifty
thousand.

Looking up, Cynical said, “I don’t get it. My
deal with Abrams was just my expenses, unless I brought Michael
back. Then I got fifty.”

“The ten thousand should cover your expenses,
plus a bit of a bonus for finding Michael,” Mancuso said. “I’m
impressed you found him as quickly as you did.”

“Yeah, well, I was lucky too,” Cynical
admitted.

“Luck is overrated,” Mancuso said
dismissively. “The fifty thousand is a retainer. I’d like you to
stay on the case.”

“Thanks,” Cynical said before pausing to
considered the offer, balancing the lure of fast cash against the
mercenaries he’d run into at the Mirage. “Before I say ‘yes,’ I’d
like to know what I’m getting into first.”

“I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t
asked,” the older man said. “There is some information you probably
need to know but, you will need to sign a confidentiality agreement
before we can begin.”

Cynical didn’t like contracts, especially
since his divorce settlement, but Mancuso seemed resolute as he
took out a document from a briefcase on the credenza behind
him.

“You should know that if you repeat what I’m
about to tell you, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of
the law,” Mancuso stated matter-of-factly. “This contract also
binds you from telling anyone that I am employing you.” By way of
explanation, he added, “I am a private person and want to remain
that way.”

“Yeah, Mr. Abrams mentioned that,” Cynical
said as he scanned the three pages of legalese peppered with
politely phrased threats. Now he could understand why Michael had
been so reluctant to break his own confidentiality agreement.
Flipping to the last page, he signed it ‘Samuel E. Jones’ and dated
it.