Flat Spin by David Freed Read Free Book Online

silky persuasion, bent on convincing me to do what his daughter could not.
    “You heard about Arlo, I take it?” he said.
    “Savannah told me.”
    “A damn shame is what it is. I’ll tell you what, Cordell, sometimes I just don’t know what this world is coming to. I truly don’t.”
    “It came to that a long time ago, Gil.”
    “Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that, son.”
    The last time Gil Carlisle and I had spoken was when Savannah and I were lurching through the sudden death of our divorce. He’d called from his Lear jet en route to a business meeting somewhere in Europe to let me know how truly disappointed he was that things hadn’t worked out between his daughter and me, and how he always genuinely appreciated having me as a son-in-law, even if he never did get around to inviting me to go dove hunting with him on his 3,000-acre spread outside Lubbock, what with his busy schedule and mine. Then he warned me, sweet as honey glaze on a side of mesquite barbequed beef, that if I ever tried to claim as community property so much as one thin dime of Savannah’s trust fund, I’d find my ass in court faster than a three-legged sheep chased by a pack of coyotes. I told him I didn’t give a shit about Savannah’s money. He hung up without saying another word.
    And now, here we were, years later, talking like all of it was water under the bridge.
    “My little girl’s hurtin’, Cordell,” he said. “Nothing worse on this earth than for a father to see his baby girl in pain. Rips your guts up. You’ll do anything to stop that kinda pain. I mean, any thing.”
    Mrs. Schmulowitz emerged from her house lugging a galvanized watering can and began dousing the pots of pink geraniums that lined her back porch. I shifted the phone to my other ear and kept an eye on her to make sure she didn’t fall off the top step.
    “I’d appreciate you talking to the police, telling ’em what you know,” Carlisle said.
    “There’s nothing I can tell them they don’t already know, Gil.”
    “Savannah tells me otherwise.”
    “Savannah’s mistaken.”
    There was a pause. Then Carlisle said, “Listen, Cordell, if I’ve learned one thing thirty years rootin’ around out in the patch, making hole, it’s that there’s never been a sticky situation that couldn’t be unstuck. How much we talkin’ ’bout here?”
    “Are you offering me a bribe, Gil?”
    “I’m trying to pay you for your valuable time, you stubborn donkey, is what I’m trying to do! Hell, I’ll have the money wired direct to your bank account if that’s what you want. All you gotta do is go talk to the police. An hour out of your day. That’s it. Don’t sound too sticky to me now, does it?”
    “I’m not interested in your money, Gil.”
    “Well, then hell, hoss,” he laughed, “you’re the only one.”
    I was certain he’d checked out my credit report before calling. He knew damn well I was interested in his money. Given my financial straits, I was interested in just about anybody’s money. With the possible exception of Mrs. Schmulowitz’s.
    “OK, here’s the deal,” Carlisle said, “I’m flying out to El Molino tonight for a business meeting. I’d sure like it if you could find the time to come on up a spell. We could do breakfast, pow-wow this thing. There’s a little café right there at the airport. Food’s real tasty. Ate there awhile back.”
    “I’m not much of a breakfast eater,” I said.
    “All right. Lunch, then.”
    “It’s a long way to go for lunch, Gil.”
    “Not for a crackerjack pilot who’s got his own airplane.”
    My head ran through everything I had to do tomorrow: Get up. Look for a job without success. Sink deeper into depression.
    “Unfortunately,” I said, “I’m pretty booked tomorrow.”
    “Well, I don’t doubt it, a man of your many talents. Look, Cordell, I’m just gonna cut right to the chase. How does twentyfive grand sound? You fly up to El Molino in that little ol’ plane of