“You think anything will be going down here?” the cop asked.
“No. We’re following him out of the airport, trying to see where he goes. For God’s sakes, don’t put any cops out there,” Lucas said. “This is a smart guy, he’ll spot them in a second. I’ve got two people on him, nothing will happen here.”
Lucas, escorted by the cop, badged his way through security, located the gate for the incoming plane, which was still a half hour out, and managed to fractionally relax. A blank gray door that said “No Entry” was across the concourse from the gate, and Lucas got the cop to open it. There was nothing behind it but a stairway landing, with stairs going up and down.
“Could you stay with me? I’d like to hide here when he comes through.”
“Not a problem,” the cop said.
Bob texted from Hertz, said they were set, that the Tahoe was “cocked and locked.”
“We’re in in Terminal 1, the D gates,” Lucas said. “Get down here as soon as you can.”
* * *
—
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Lucas and the cop sat waiting at a bank of one-cent slot machines when Bob and Rae walked up. Rae looked at the slots, said, “They won’t let you get out of here with a fuckin’ penny,” and Bob said, “Tell us about it.”
Lucas introduced the cop—“This is Judd Harlan”—and pointed across the concourse to the gate. “Santos will be coming out of there. We’ll be behind there”—he pointed to the gray door—“and then you follow him. If he meets somebody, or gets a cab or a limo, you gotta let me know. I’ll be at my car, I’ll track him, and you can get back to the Tahoe and follow me. If he goes to Hertz, you drop in behind him and call me and I’ll follow you.”
Rae said to Harlan, “We’ll need another one of your guys. We’ll need him to stay way, way behind us, but if somebody meets him and he doesn’t go for a rental or a cab we’ll need you to run us through the airport to the parking structure, which we don’t know about. We don’t want somebody shooting at us because we’re running.”
“You got it,” Harlan said, and he went off with his handset to call for a backup cop.
While he did that, Bob said to Lucas, “We talked to the head guy on the local SOG and they can gear up in an hour. You gotta tell me when.”
The SOG was the marshals service Special Operations Group, a heavy-duty SWAT squad. “We’ll wait until we see where Santos is going,” Lucas said. “If he heads out west on I-15, we’ll want to get them ready.”
“You think this too easy?” Rae asked. “Bob always worries about that.”
“Maybe, but we’re not there yet,” Lucas said. “We thought it was too easy in LA until I got my ass shot.”
“Santos is a complication,” Bob said. “We don’t know exactly what he’s doing here . . . if he’s doing anything. Maybe he came to roll some bones.”
Lucas nodded and said to Rae, “By the way, I’ve got some news for you. Your heartthrob is coming to town. Tremanty. He’s on his way right now. Maybe, you know, you’ll want to shave your legs.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” Rae said. “When does he get here?”
“Don’t know yet. He’s trying to get the fastest flight out, but there aren’t any more directs today,” Lucas said. “He’s gotta go through somewhere else.”
Bob had a wide smile. “My, my. Sandro Tremanty, Rae Givens, Las Vegas, Nevada. There’s a three-way made in heaven. What happens in Vegas . . .”
“You’re such little boys,” Rae said. “Shave my legs. Three-way. I mean, Jesus.”
* * *
—
THE SECOND COP arrived with Harlan. They all went into the bay with the penny slots to wait. Bob walked through the banks of fake-neon dinging machines, checking them out. Rae started talking to Harlan and, after a bit, took a ten-dollar bill out of her pocket and slipped it into one of the slots. Bob took a chair a few yards away, and Lucas settled in beside him, to watch her lose her money.
After a minute, Lucas said, in a low voice, “I always meant to ask, never did because it’s none of my business. You seem amused by the idea of Rae getting involved with Tremanty. I never quite figured out you and Rae.”