The stretcher was pushed into the waiting elevator, which descended to the fourth floor, also secured by FBI agents. It was rushed a short distance to a service elevator, where Agent Durston held the door, then taken to the second floor, also secured. Ricky never moved. Dianne held his arm and jogged beside the stretcher.
They maneuvered through a series of short corridors and metal doors, and were suddenly on a flat roof. A helicopter was waiting. Ricky was loaded quickly, and Dianne, Glint, and McThune climbed aboard.
Minutes later, the helicopter landed near a hangar at Memphis International Airport. A half dozen FBI agents guarded the pad as Ricky was rolled to a nearby jet.
AT TEN MINUTES BEFORE SEVEN, A CELLULAR PHONE RANG at the corner table of the Raintree Grill, and Trumann grabbed it. He listened and checked his watch. "They're in the air," he announced, and set the phone down. Lewis was talking to Washington again.
Reggie breathed deeply and smiled at Trumann. "The body's in concrete. You'll need a few hammers and chisels." Trumann choked on his orange juice. "Okay. Anything else?" "Yeah. Place a couple of your boys near the intersection of St. Joseph and Carondelet." "Close by?" "Just do it, okay." "Done. Anything else?" "I'll be back in a minute." Reggie walked to the registration desk, and asked the clerk to check the fax machine. The clerk returned with a copy of the twopage agreement, which Reggie read closely. The typing was horrible, but the words were perfect. She returned to the table. "Let's get Mark," she said.
MARK FINISHED BRUSHING HIS TEETH FOR THE THIRD TIME, and sat on the edge of the bed. His black-and-gold Saints canvas bag was packed with dirty clothes and new underwear. Cartoons were on, but he was not interested.
He heard a car door, then footsteps, then a knock. "Mark, it's me," Reggie said.
He opened the door, but she did not step inside. "Are you ready to go?" "I guess." The sun was up and the parking lot was visible. A familiar face was behind her. It was one of the FBI agents from the first meeting at the hospital. Mark grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the parking lot. Three cars were waiting. A man opened the rear door of the middle car, and Mark and his attorney got in.
The little motorcade sped away.
"Everything's fine," Reggie said, taking his hand. The two men in the front seat stared straight ahead. "Ricky and your mother are on the plane. They'll be here in about an hour. Are you okay?" "I guess. Have you told them?" he whispered.
"Not yet," she answered. "Not until you're on the plane and in the air." "Are all these guys FBI agents?" She nodded and patted his hand. He suddenly felt important, sitting in the rear of his own black car, being rushed to the airport to board a private jet, cops all around just to protect him. He crossed his legs and sat a bit straighter.
He'd never flown before.
Chapter 40
BARRY PACED NERVOUSLY BEFORE THE TINTED WINDOWS in Johnny's office, and watched the tugs and barges on the river. His nasty eyes were red, but not from booze or partying. He hadn't slept. He'd waited at the warehouse for the body to be delivered to him, and when Leo and company arrived around one without it, he had called his uncle.
Johnny, on this fine Sunday morning, was wearing neither tie nor suspenders. He paced slowly behind his desk, puffing blue smoke from his third cigar of the day. A thick cloud hung not far above his head.
The screaming and ass chewing had ended hours before. Barry had cursed Leo and lonucci and the Bull, and Leo had cursed back. But with time, the panic subsided. Throughout the night, Leo had periodically driven by Clifford's house, always in a different vehicle, and seeing nothing unusual. The body was still there.
Johnny decided to wait twenty-four hours and try again. They would watch the place during the day, and attack with full force after dark. The Bull assured him he could have the body out of the concrete in ten minutes.
Just be cool, Johnny had told everyone. Just be cool.
ROY FOLTRIGG FINISHED THE SUNDAY PAPER ON THE PATIO of his suburban split-level, and walked barefooted across the wet grass with a cup of cold coffee. He had slept little. He had waited in the darkness on his front porch for the paper to arrive, then ran to fetch it in his pajamas and bathrobe. He had called Trumann, but, strangely, Mrs. Trumann wasn't sure where her husband had gone.
He inspected his wife's rosebushes along the back fence, and asked himself for the hundredth time where Mark Sway would run to. There was no doubt, at least in his mind, that Reggie had helped him escape. She'd obviously gone crazy again, and run off with the kid. He smiled to himself. He'd have the pleasure of busting her ass.
THE HANGAR WAS A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE MAIN terminal, in a row of identical buildings all drab gray and sitting quietly together. The words Gulf Air were painted in orange letters above the tall double doors, which were opening as the three cars stopped in front of the hangar. The floor was sparkling concrete, painted green without a speck of dirt and covered with nothing but two private jets side by side in a far corner. A few lights were on, and their reflections glowed on the green floor. The building was big enough for a stock car race, Mark thought as he stretched his neck for a glimpse of the two jets.
With the doors out of the way, the entire front of the hangar was now open. Three men walked hurriedly along the back wall as if searching for something. Two more stood by one door. Outside, another half dozen moved slowly about, keeping their distance from the cars that had just parked.
"Who are these people?" Mark asked in the general direction of the front seat.
"They're with us," Trumann said.
"They're FBI agents," Reggie clarified.
"Why so many?" "They're just being careful," she said. "How much longer, do you think?" she asked Trumann.
He glanced at his watch. "Probably thirty minutes." "Let's walk around," she said, opening her door. As if on cue, the other eleven doors in the little parade opened and the cars emptied. Mark looked around at the other hangars, and the terminal, and a plane landing on the runway in front of them. This had become terribly exciting. Not three weeks earlier, he'd beaten the crap out of a subdivision kid at school after the kid taunted him because he'd never flown. If they could only see him now. Rushed to the airport by private car, waiting for his private jet to take him anywhere he wanted to go. No more trailers. No more fights with subdivision kids. No more notes to Mom, because now she would be at home. He'd decided, sitting alone in the motel room, that this was a wonderful idea. He'd come to New Orleans and outsmarted the Mafia in its own backyard, and he could do it again.
He caught a few stares from the agents by the door. They cut their eyes quickly at him, then looked away. Just checking him out. Maybe he'd sign some autographs later.
He followed Reggie into the vast hangar, and the two private jets caught his attention. They were like small, shiny toys sitting under the Christmas tree waiting to be played with. One was black, the other silver, and Mark stared at them.
A man in an orange shirt with Gulf Air on a patch above the pocket closed the door to a small office inside the hangar and walked in their direction. K. O. Lewis met him, and they talked quietly. The man waved at the office, and said something about coffee.
Larry Trumann knelt beside Mark, still staring at the jets. "Mark, do you remember me?" he asked with a smile.
"Yes sir. I met you at the hospital." "That's right. My name's Larry Trumann." He offered his hand, and Mark shook it slowly. Children are not supposed to shake hands with adults. "I'm an FBI agent here in New Orleans." Mark nodded and kept staring at the jets.