Don't Look Down

  Stupid me, he thought and threw himself out into the air.

  Lucy sat behind the monitors, her eyes glued on Wilder standing on the skid. He called me Lucy.

  It was no big deal. Except he looked really good on that skid. Nobody would believe he was Bryce, his body was different, stronger, relaxed. He's not afraid, she thought. Must jump out of helicopters all the time. His girlfriend must not sleep at night. Maybe he didn't have a girlfriend. Not that it mattered. She shook her head and thought, Concentrate, you dummy, and Daisy yelled over the rotor noise, "What's wrong?"

  "Macho dumb-ass," she yelled back, keeping her eyes on Wilder.

  He called me Lucy.

  It was such a stupid little thing, that he'd called her Lucy on the headphones. Not Armstrong. Which should have made no difference, everybody called her Lucy, it was nothing—

  He swung the gun and fired at the car with efficient grace and then as Karen brought the chopper lower, he dropped the gun and fell, just as planned except—

  "No cable." Lucy rose up as he hit the trunk of the car, as he slid down the old Cadillac's trunk and landed on the roadway, rolling as Rick fired more blanks at him with enthusiasm, and Lucy shoved past Daisy and Pepper and ran toward him.

  "Cut," Gloom yelled from behind her, and the Cadillac stopped, and Wilder got to his feet, wincing a little as Althea screamed, "J.T.? Are you all right?"

  "Where's the cable?" Lucy went breathless as she reached him. "What happened? How—"

  "Stop yelling," he said as he brushed himself off and then waved to Althea. "Nothing went wrong. I didn't use the cable."

  Lucy stopped, her heart racing. "What do you mean, you didn't use the cable?"

  "We were losing the light," Wilder said, as if what he'd done was perfectly rational. "This way, we got it all in one take."

  "You didn't use the cable," Lucy said.

  "I saved you blade time." Wilder frowned at her. "What's the problem?"

  Well, I thought somebody had tried to kill you, you dumb-ass, only it turns out your worst enemy is you.

  "Besides," Wilder said, with a smile, "it's Miller time."

  Lucy turned and walked back to the monitors so he wouldn't see her shake, but after a couple of steps she thought, Oh, no, and walked back to him and slugged him as hard as she could on the shoulder.

  "Ouch," Wilder said, putting his hand up.

  "You didn't use the fucking cable," Lucy yelled. "What are you, a moron? You could have been killed!"

  "Oh, come on." Wilder looked insulted. "I know what I'm doing. We moved any slower, I'd have fallen asleep up there."

  " 'I know what I'm doing,' " Lucy mimicked. "Somebody's tried to kill you twice, but you know what you're doing. I don't think so."

  She walked away and then went back toward him. He stood his ground but he looked wary, hands out at his sides.

  She kept going until she was in his face, but he didn't step back. "You scared the hell out of me," she said, her voice low. "I thought you were hurt. When I didn't see that cable, I thought—"

  She broke off, torn between rage and relief, and she saw his face soften.

  "Lucy, I was trying to help—"

  "No," Lucy said, going for rage. "You were doing it your way. If you wanted to help me, you'd have asked me first."

  "Well, hell, I'm sorry then," he said, sounding mad, and she got closer.

  "When we were in the swamp looking for Pepper," she said, so furious she was almost spitting, "I thought it would be best to call for her, I really wanted to call for her, it killed me not to call for her, but I didn't because you were the one who knew best there. You knew the swamp, you were the expert. So, you think you know more about making movies than I do, hotshot?"

  "I might know more about falling out of helicopters than you do," Wilder said, exasperated.

  "This is a movie, not a mission. You the expert on that or am I? Or do you always have to be the boss, even when you don't know what the hell the consequences are?"

  "No," he said, his face closing down. "But—"

  "You did the same thing Bryce did," she said and watched him wince. "You were so sure you were right, so screw the experts. I've got a spy on this set, Wilder, and so far today he's seen my direction ignored completely twice. Bryce is an idiot, but you're not. So, thanks a lot."

  She turned and walked off and he said, "I'm sorry," sounding like he meant it.

  She stopped and went back, hearing Althea giggle behind her, too upset to care that she was making a fool of herself, that it was worse because he was still calling her Lucy. "Are you all right?" she said when she was close again. "Did you get hurt?"

  "Only when you punched me." He felt his shoulder. "I didn't see that one coming."

  "Oh, but you saw the ground coming," Lucy said, mad all over again. "So all you had to do was brace yourself and bounce, I suppose."

  "It's hard to miss the ground," Wilder said. "As they used to say in Airborne School, you can always count on gravity."

  "Rot and die," Lucy said and went back to the monitors.

  On the way, Doc intercepted her. "Lucy, I swear to God, he refused the harness and safety cable."

  "I know, Doc," Lucy said, not stopping.

  Doc stopped and fell behind, and Lucy sat down behind the monitors, still wanting to kill somebody.

  "So how was it for you?" Daisy asked, while Pepper looked at her, her eyes huge.

  "Completely unsatisfactory." Lucy settled into her seat, trying not to look at Wilder, now talking to Doc without any visible concern.

  "Are you mad at J.T.?" Pepper said.

  "Oh, yeah."

  "Don't fire him," Pepper said, looking stricken. "He has to come to my party."

  "He'll be there." Lucy stood up and called to the set, "Okay, let's do it again."

  The entire set froze, and Wilder looked up, startled.

  Lucy let the seconds tick by, and then said, "Kidding. We got it."

  The crew relaxed and laughed, and Wilder grinned at her, and she sat back, shaking her head at him. Dumb-ass.

  Then she realized Stephanie was looking at her with a great deal of interest. "What?"

  Stephanie smiled. "Nothing," she said, and walked away toward Nash.

  "I don't like it when she looks like that," Daisy said, watching her saunter off.

  "I don't care what she looks like." Lucy took a deep breath, trying to get her balance. It took a lot out of a woman to be furious, terrified, and sort of turned on at the same time. I'm going to have to kill him. Because otherwise—

  Stephanie opened the car door for Nash, and Nash looked back once at Lucy, his face dark with pain. Then he got in, and Stephanie smiled over at her, triumphant.

  Him, you can have, Lucy thought.

  Then she looked at J.T., on the edge of the set with a jubilant Bryce, infuriating and patronizing and too damn dumb to use a cable. Him, you can't, she thought, and went back to work.

  Wilder walked away from Bryce and the people still sucking up to him and stood on the edge of the berm, staring out over the swamp in the fading light. Now that he had time to think, what he was thinking wasn't good. Lucy said somebody had tried to kill him twice. He wasn't sure he was buying that, but when he put the bar fight together with the broken skid and Finnegan and the Russian mob… He sighed and took out his cell phone.

  Four rings, then: "Swamp Rat Airlines. You call, we haul."

  "Hey, Swamp Rat. It's J.T."

  "Shüüit, boy. How's it hanging? Any more helicopters break?"

  "I want to talk to you. Not on the phone."

  "Figured you would. Meet me at Maraschino's. I'll show you my investments."

  "The strip club in the shopping mall?" Wilder asked, although he knew that was exactly the kind of place where LaFavre would want to meet. The place probably had a seat with LaFavre's name on it. "See you there in fifteen."

  "Roger that."

  Wilder waved to Lucy, who missed it, deep in conversation with Gloom at the monitors, and
then went down the dirt road to his Jeep and cranked it. As he drove toward the strip club, he mulled over what he knew and came up with not much of anything.

  There were a lot of cars parked in front of Maraschino's. Wilder drove around the lot and combat parked, front end facing out, underneath an old oak tree. He didn't see LaFavre's car so he went over to the front door. Glass, spray-painted black with little clear streaks, which Wilder assumed were fingernail marks made by guys getting dragged out by bouncers. Class)'.

  Wilder pulled open the door and almost walked right into a burly man who filled most of the narrow entranceway. " Ten bucks." The man's bare arms bulged with muscles festooned with tattoos.

  Wilder pulled out the bill and handed it over, but the man didn't move. "You packing?" He held up a metal detector.

  Not a good sign, Wilder thought. "Yeah."

  Tattoo Man frowned. "What are you carrying? Let me see."

  This was a major pain in the ass, Wilder thought as he drew out the Clock. Then he pulled off his belt with the garrote in it. Then the dagger strapped to his left calf. Tattoo Man eyed the growing pile of weaponry with a raised eyebrow. "Expecting trouble?"

  "It seems to follow me around," Wilder said.

  "Sure that's the way it works?"

  Wilder had to smile at that.

  "You can leave all that with me or take it back to your car, but you are not going inside with any of it."

  Well, he'd already paid his ten bucks. Shit. "I'll put it in my car," Wilder said, gathering the weapons and reversing course. "I'll be back."

  "I'm sure you will be."

  Going out the glass door, he bumped into LaFavre, still wearing his aviator glasses even though the sun had set a while ago. Schtick. Every pilot Wilder had ever met had some sort of schtick.

  "It's nighttime, Swamp Rat," Wilder said, indicating the sunglasses.

  "Working on my night vision." LaFavre gestured at the collection of weapons. "Figure one of the girls will attack you for your body?"

  Been known to happen, Wilder thought. "Putting it back in the Jeep. Wait for me here."

  Wilder went to the Jeep and secured the gear in his footlocker, then he rejoined LaFavre, who was chatting with Tattoo Man, obviously on a first-name basis. Wilder was subjected to the wand and then they were nodded into the club, thumping music making the floor vibrate under their feet.

  Wilder followed LaFavre, who wove a path through the tables, stopping every now and then to greet someone. A skimpily dressed waitress sashayed up to LaFavre and draped her free arm around his waist, the other one balancing a tray holding several bottles of beer.

  LaFavre gave her a peck on the cheek. "Candy, meet J.T. J.T., Candy. She's sweet."

  "I'm sure she is," Wilder said. "Pleased to meet you, Candy."

  Candy was a hard-looking twenty-five, and she eyed him up and down, establishing his net worth and finding him wanting, one of the reasons Wilder was not a big fan of strip clubs: They weren't about sex and fun, they were about money. Candy slid her arm from LaFavre and went in search of better prey.

  "Got to dress better, my friend, if you want some attention."

  Wilder stared at LaFavre, astounded. The aviator wore his beat-up leather flight jacket, faded ripped jeans, and alligator-skin boots that had seen better years, and his head was topped with his battered World War II-era flight cap.

  "The jacket," LaFavre said. "Means I get flight pay. The girls know that stuff. A lot more than jump pay."

  Wilder nodded as they took a table next to the stage. LaFavre crooked two fingers and another waitress zoomed by, depositing two bottles of Bud without even a "Hey, how's it going."

  "That be Chantelle. She doesn't like me," LaFavre said, nodding toward the waitress's back as she sped away.

  "I can't imagine why." Wilder raised his bottle. "To those who didn't come back."

  LaFavre clinked bottles. "Amen, brother."

  Wilder shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his back to the club door.

  "What do you want to talk about?" LaFavre asked as his sunglasses focused on a girl who came out from behind the curtain and shimmied up the gleaming stainless-steel pole twelve feet to the ceiling. Using only her thigh muscles. Wilder had to admit he was impressed.

  "I'm doing temporary work for the Agency."

  LaFavre stopped looking at the dancer, lowered his sunglasses, and shot Wilder a look of unabashed pity. "Fuck."

  "You said it."

  "Here? Stateside?"

  Wilder nodded. "Yeah, I know. This is most definitely a cover-your-ass gig by the Agency. I—and the Army—take the fall if this blows up since the Agency technically can't operate stateside."

  "Technically you and the Army can't operate stateside, either," LaFavre pointed out as he slid the glasses up and put his attention back on the stage, where the girl was now upside down on the pole, gravity having no effect on her attributes. "Can you tell me the gig?"

  Technically I can't, Wilder knew, since LaFavre didn't have, as they said in the parlance, "a need to know," even though he did have a top-secret clearance. But they'd already gone through the ritual of agreeing that this operation was a clusterfuck of responsibility and deniability without coming right out and saying it. The kid, Crawford, was probably doing his best, but he was still just a kid.

  Wilder nodded. "The CIA thinks some money is being laundered via the movie. The backer is some shady moneyman that a lot of the alphabet soups are interested in. Name's Finnegan. He owes some Russian mob guy named Letsky and—"

  "Wait a sec." LaFavre shook his head, but he was still looking at the stage. "What was that name? A Russian?"

  "Simon Letsky." Wilder had a feeling LaFavre didn't have much blood left in his brain at the moment and he wished they had met somewhere where his friend could focus on the problem more closely.

  LaFavre whistled, either at the information or the girl, who was now slowly sliding down the pole while simultaneously removing her top. "That's some deep shit. Letsky's bad, real bad. I've seen his name more than once on the daily intel sheets. He's worth billions. Arms dealer. And he's got ties to bad people. People who've shot at you."

  Wilder processed that. He'd been shot at by Taliban in Afghanistan, insurgents in Iraq, and Al-Qaeda operatives in other places he wasn't supposed to have been.

  "How can I help you?" LaFavre asked, leaning forward in the seat to get a better angle on the girl.

  "I might need backup."

  The song thudded to a halt and LaFavre sighed and leaned back in his chair, finally sparing Wilder a glance. "Man. This is the United States. Not the 'Stan. Not that I don't appreciate you saving my butt there, but…"

  "I know." Wilder waited, hoping LaFavre would give him an answer before the next dancer completely wiped his brain clean.

  LaFavre rubbed his chin. "We keep a Little Bird gunship and a Night-hawk on ten-minute alert all the time now. Both armed. But the order to put those in the air over the good ole U-S of A has to come from someone more mighty than thou."

  Wilder didn't say anything, letting LaFavre wrestle with his official duty and his sense of honor. The music cranked and a new girl began crawling across the stage, taking LaFavre's attention.

  "Well, my friend, since Finnegan and Letsky are sort of terrorists, I guess it is part of this here global war on terrorism," LaFavre finally said. "But don't call me about a paper cut or anything. Better be some real shit, with real danger, to real people."

  Wilder felt relieved. "Thanks."

  "Anything else?" LaFavre asked, as he smiled at the girl and twirled a ten-dollar bill.

  Wilder shook his head. "Nope. Got a parry to get to."

  "Ah, yes." LaFavre reached in his pocket and pulled out a small package, without taking his eyes off the girl. "Present this with my compliments to the young lady."

  Wilder took it. "Okay," he said, confused.

  "How do I get hold of you?" LaFavre said, and then the girl spun onto her back, legs spread wide, and clamped them down
on LaFavre's head, just like the pole, as he slid the bill under the side of her G-string.

  "Call one-eight-hundred-clusterfuck," Wilder said, not sure LaFavre could hear.

  "That bad?" The voice was muffled.

  "Could be worse," Wilder said as he remembered Lucy. "You got my Satphone number. Use that."

  The girl undamped and moved on to her next victim. "I got it," LaFavre said, looking a little dazed, his aviator glasses askew on his face.

  A voice cut through the thumping music: "Hey, asshole."

  Wilder twisted his head and blinked at the five-foot-tall, abnormally big-busted, red-haired fireball who was glaring at LaFavre, now straightening his sunglasses. How the hell does she keep from tipping over? Wilder wondered.

  "Ahh, Ginny baby," LaFavre said in his deepest accent, matching it with a smile Wilder envied. Now that was a reassuring smile.

  But it didn't work. "Don't 'Ginny baby' me, you shit," the tiny girl said, leaning forward, apparently not caring that her massive breasts fell out of her sheer robe. Post-Althea, Wilder was not impressed. He was more concerned that the tattooed bouncer was edging closer, trying to listen in.

  LaFavre dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "I got a dime here and—"

  "You owe me five dimes," Ginny countered. "I told you not to come by if you didn't have it all."

  "A down payment," LaFavre said.

  Ginny went past Wilder as if he weren't there and shoved her breasts into LaFavre's face. "You wanted them, you pay for them. That was the deal."

  Wilder was puzzled for a second, then the lightbulb went on as Ginny smashed LaFavre's face into her cleavage. "That's your last touch until you pay in full," Ginny said, relieving LaFavre of the roll of money.

  She bounced off, Tattoo Man edged back, and Wilder stared at LaFavre, who seemed pretty happy about handing a thousand dollars to a woman who had just called him an asshole.

  LaFavre smiled. "She's something, is she not?"

  Althea would have had LaFavre's life savings in ten minutes, Wilder thought, as he nodded in what he hoped was lecherous agreement. He tried to find the right word. "Unbelievable." That seemed to cover it.