Mount Rushmore

 

Griff and Lance understood without saying that no business would be discussed at lunch. Instead, they talked airplanes, with Lance querying Griff on the Cirrus specs and performance. They compared notes on the Aeronca Champ versus the Cessna O-1 Birddog. Lance waxed nostalgic on the different aircraft he flew in the Army, then in civilian life.

“Never had a Cirrus. Maybe you can let me have some stick time on the way back,” Lance said.

“Sure, but do you mind if we plan Fargo after dark? I’d rather not have any prying eyes putting a visual on my N-number.”

“No problem. What do you want to do in the meantime? Dead Presidents?”

“We can do.”

“So…I have to ask, how is our client, if you know what I mean,” Lance sneered. His eyebrows bounced like a ventriloquist dummy.

Griff scowled across the table. “No business talk.”

“Right, right, right. Soooo…how about Hannah?”

“I can't believe you.”

“Come on. Throw this old dog a bone. Please,” Lance pleaded.

“All I'll say is that lemon bars and pecan pies are not her most impressive talent.”

Lance grabbed his heart and panted.

“Here you go, fellas.” The waitress stared at Lance as she dropped off their check. “Ah…thanks for coming in?”

“Jen, would you do us a huge favor?” Lance smiled up at the waitress.

“Maybe…”

“Would you mind calling a cab for us? We’d like to see the monument.”

Griff peeled off a twenty and a ten to pay for lunch, handing them to Jen with the check. He gave her a second twenty, nodding towards Lance and rolling his eyes back in his head. “And that’s for you.”

“Sure thing. I’ll call right away.” Jen smiled at Griff, then turned and headed towards the register.

“She might be sweet on you,” Lance said.

“Shut up.”

“And thanks for lunch.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As they waited for their cab in front of the Sage Creek Grille, an older gentleman, showing considerable gray hair at the bottom of a Vietnam Veteran baseball cap, came out of the restaurant and approached them.

“Name’s Roy,” the man said. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop but couldn’t help but hear you fellas talking. I flew the Birddog a bit.”

“I’m Lance. Good to meet you, Roy.” Lance and Roy shook hands. “This here is Griff. I’m Army. He’s Navy. Special Ops.”

Griff shook Roy’s hand. “Air Force, I take it.”

Roy nodded. “Least ways we ain't got no jarheads to contend with here.”

Griff smiled, thinking of Cliff Nicholson, Donald Wallace, Johnny Leonard, Cap, and Maura. “Yeah, they can be a pain.”

“Flew Forward Air Control.”

“In Nam? Wow, high pucker factor,” Lance said.

“My friend, here, chauffeured generals around,” Griff said. “Got a Purple Heart for his luggage-inflicted hernia.”

“It wasn’t Afghanistan, but I did my share of heavy lifting in the War on Terror,” Lance said.

“Eh, wasn’t ‘til Laos that it got real interesting.” Roy gave a sly smile.

“Ravens?” Griff asked.

Roy nodded.

“That’s funny. A raven and a Crowe,” Lance pointed to Roy, then Griff.

“The Ravens were a CIA black op,” Griff said.

“You make it sound more glamorous than it really was.”

“And what do you do now, Roy?” Lance asked.

“Designated Examiner on occasion. Mainly retired, enjoying the peace and quiet here in the Black Hills. The O-1 was a good bird. Anyway, hearing you boys talk gave me pause. Brought back memories, you know?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Roy.” A lean bald man with the hungry look of a salesman on the prowl walked up. “Friends of yours?”

“Hey, Ned. This here’s Griff and Lance,” Roy answered. “Fellas, Ned’s my insurance guy.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Quicker than Wild Bill Hickok, Ned drew two business cards and handed them to Griff and Lance.

“We were just swapping war stories,” Roy said.

“You boys are vets, then. Well, thanks for your service.”

“You bet,” Lance said. “And, hey, thank you for picking up the tab, citizen.”

A confused expression gripped the insurance agent’s face.

Their cab pulled up.

“Good to meet you, Roy,” Lance said getting into the back seat. “You too, Ned.”

Griff shook Roy’s hand, saluted Ned, then followed Lance into the cab. He closed the door and waved at Roy and Ned. “Fucking spooks are everywhere.”

“I'd say you’re just being paranoid, but, lately, maybe not so much.”

Lance pestered Griff for salacious details about his Assistant, Hannah—for the first fifteen minutes in earnest and for the second fifteen like an annoying little kid on a road trip, just for the pure joy of aggravating his friend.

“Keep the meter running.” Lance handed the cab driver a twenty when they got to the National Park. “We won’t be too long.”

They toured the Lincoln Borglum Museum, hiked the Presidential Trail, then strolled out through the Avenue of Flags to the Grand Viewing Terrace.

“That is a special kind of crazy.” Lance gazed up at the stone visages of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt. “Carving the mugs of politicians into a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Just crazy.”

“And yet, here we are,” Griff said, looking at the monument through the clunky pedestal-mounted binoculars. He stepped back. “Take a look.”

Lance leaned in for a magnified view of the Presidents. “You know, Helena could pull it off.”

“Pull what off?”

“The Eva Marie Saint thing.”

“Hitchcock?”

“Yeah, but you’re definitely no Cary Grant.” Lance looked at Griff, then back through the binoculars. “But I could see you hanging from George Washington’s schnoz like a big old booger.”

“Yeah, well, this big old booger is getting more than just lemon bars.”

Lance closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the binoculars, and sighed. “You’re killing me, Whitey. You’re killing me.”

“Who you calling ‘Whitey,’ Paleface?”

“Come on. Let’s go. You’ve ruined the moment.”

The cabbie dropped them off at the Custer County Airport, where Lance slipped him a couple of C-notes.

The first hour of the flight back was an impromptu flight lesson with Griff familiarizing Lance with his plane’s systems and handling characteristics, then letting him fly the return route. The sun set behind them as the lights of Fargo came into view in the windscreen.

“So, what’s going on with Eply?” Griff asked.

“He made a swing through blue grass country on his way back from DC.”

“Blue Wing, LLC?”

“Yeah. He said he had a lead on it or something.”

Griff thought of Johnny, Cap and Maura. “Did he find anything out?”

“Don’t know. He fell off the radar. Wasn’t worried at first. He’s single and twenty-one and roaming the countryside on the firm’s expense account. I started thinking maybe he got caught in some kind of Justified or Deliverance type scenario. But then, I hear somebody’s throwing lead around in the vicinity of our client and…”

“You want me to go check it out?”

“Oh, yeah. You met with that Leonard guy, right?”

Griff nodded.

“Let’s give it a day or two. Maybe he found himself a hillbilly honey pot.”

Maura.

“Your airplane,” Lance said.

Griff took the controls of the Cirrus and called Fargo Approach. He dropped Lance off at the King Air, then headed home to Wyoming.

 

***~~~***