a pointy snout that would have looked right at home on an Irish wolfhound, homely was as homely said. Was I put off by her making fun of the Ruptured Duck ? Does it rain in Oregon? Nobody insults a pilot’s personal plane, even if that plane does happen to resemble a homeless person with wings. I was about to verbally lay her out, but I didn’t. I decided I would take the moral high ground, turn the other cheek instead. I was proud of myself. Maybe this Buddhism thing is working after all.
“I’d like both tanks topped off, please, 100 low lead,” I said with saccharine sweetness. “And I’ll need to rent a car for a few days, if you’d be kind enough to make the arrangements.”
“Certainly. I’ll be pleased to help you with that, sir. I assume you’ll be requiring an economy car during your visit?”
“What would make you assume that, Kimberly?”
My accusatory tone caught her off-guard. “Well, I mean . . .” She glanced toward the Duck , dwarfed among sleek, multimillion-dollar private jets, then back at me, as if to say, any nitwit could plainly see that I would be needing an economy car given the pile of junk I flew in on.
I planted my forearms on the glossy mahogany counter and leaned deliberately, threateningly, into Kimberly’s personal space.
“I’ll be requiring a Cadillac Escalade . . . Kimberly.”
Her tongue darted nervously over her thin lips and she hunched her shoulders—sure signs of fright, which was exactly my intent.
“My pleasure, sir.” Kimberly snatched up the phone and called Enterprise, if only to escape my steely gaze.
No one requires a three-ton sport utility vehicle whose gas mileage can be measured in negative integers. I had impulsively demanded an Escalade only because I didn’t want some washed-out counter clerk who normally catered to zillionaires thinking I was one step removed from personal bankruptcy, even if in truth I was.
T HE E SCALADE was a black gunboat with chrome rims, heated steering wheel, refrigerated cup holders, burled walnut trim, in-dash satellite navigation system, and an imposing rearview mirror presence that screamed, “Get the bleep out of my way.” I felt every inch the stylin’ pimp daddy as I cruised westbound along Interstate 8 through San Diego’s Mission Valley. I had to admit: it was a darned comfortable ride.
I stopped off for a late lunch at El Indio, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where I’d eaten frequently when I was still with Alpha, conducting joint training ops with the SEAL teams out on Coronado. We shared with the Navy guys some of our tactics—wearing ballet slippers, for example, instead of standard-issue combat boots, when sneaking up on enemy outposts. They, in turn, introduced us to their favorite watering holes, and to El Indio. I sat outside under a hazy sun and inhaled four Baja-style fish tacos. Each was as exquisito as I remembered. After I’d had my fill, I called and left another message for federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio. But not before I belched. Then I headed downtown.
Charles Dowd practiced law in a twenty-three-story bank tower adjacent to Horton Plaza, which had once served as San Diego’s bum central before the strip clubs and dive bars all gave way to swanky eateries and a gentrified shopping mall. I forked over ten dollars and my car keys to an indifferent Salvadoran parking attendant in the basement and rode the elevator to the ninth floor.
Dowd’s office was located among a warren of suites with a communal conference room and a shared receptionist—a cost-conscious arrangement intended by independent practitioners like Dowd to convey the scope and power of being associated with a swanky major law firm without actually working for one.
The receptionist was bosomy and sharp featured. She put down her copy of Entertainment Weekly, pushing a strand of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear and touching the side of her neck with her head slightly cocked.
“May I help you?”
Her
“I’d like both tanks topped off, please, 100 low lead,” I said with saccharine sweetness. “And I’ll need to rent a car for a few days, if you’d be kind enough to make the arrangements.”
“Certainly. I’ll be pleased to help you with that, sir. I assume you’ll be requiring an economy car during your visit?”
“What would make you assume that, Kimberly?”
My accusatory tone caught her off-guard. “Well, I mean . . .” She glanced toward the Duck , dwarfed among sleek, multimillion-dollar private jets, then back at me, as if to say, any nitwit could plainly see that I would be needing an economy car given the pile of junk I flew in on.
I planted my forearms on the glossy mahogany counter and leaned deliberately, threateningly, into Kimberly’s personal space.
“I’ll be requiring a Cadillac Escalade . . . Kimberly.”
Her tongue darted nervously over her thin lips and she hunched her shoulders—sure signs of fright, which was exactly my intent.
“My pleasure, sir.” Kimberly snatched up the phone and called Enterprise, if only to escape my steely gaze.
No one requires a three-ton sport utility vehicle whose gas mileage can be measured in negative integers. I had impulsively demanded an Escalade only because I didn’t want some washed-out counter clerk who normally catered to zillionaires thinking I was one step removed from personal bankruptcy, even if in truth I was.
T HE E SCALADE was a black gunboat with chrome rims, heated steering wheel, refrigerated cup holders, burled walnut trim, in-dash satellite navigation system, and an imposing rearview mirror presence that screamed, “Get the bleep out of my way.” I felt every inch the stylin’ pimp daddy as I cruised westbound along Interstate 8 through San Diego’s Mission Valley. I had to admit: it was a darned comfortable ride.
I stopped off for a late lunch at El Indio, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where I’d eaten frequently when I was still with Alpha, conducting joint training ops with the SEAL teams out on Coronado. We shared with the Navy guys some of our tactics—wearing ballet slippers, for example, instead of standard-issue combat boots, when sneaking up on enemy outposts. They, in turn, introduced us to their favorite watering holes, and to El Indio. I sat outside under a hazy sun and inhaled four Baja-style fish tacos. Each was as exquisito as I remembered. After I’d had my fill, I called and left another message for federal prosecutor Stephen Tassio. But not before I belched. Then I headed downtown.
Charles Dowd practiced law in a twenty-three-story bank tower adjacent to Horton Plaza, which had once served as San Diego’s bum central before the strip clubs and dive bars all gave way to swanky eateries and a gentrified shopping mall. I forked over ten dollars and my car keys to an indifferent Salvadoran parking attendant in the basement and rode the elevator to the ninth floor.
Dowd’s office was located among a warren of suites with a communal conference room and a shared receptionist—a cost-conscious arrangement intended by independent practitioners like Dowd to convey the scope and power of being associated with a swanky major law firm without actually working for one.
The receptionist was bosomy and sharp featured. She put down her copy of Entertainment Weekly, pushing a strand of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind one ear and touching the side of her neck with her head slightly cocked.
“May I help you?”
Her
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