Chapter 8

Jill was numb and dazed as they drove across the Bay Bridge to the Oakland International Airport. She sat in the back seat of the sleek, black Coupe de Ville with Ernesto, wondering where the car came from and who it belonged to. The man at the wheel drove swiftly and expertly. From time to time, Jill studied his head and the back of his neck, and she could see a portion of his face reflected in the rearview mirror.

Garcia, ever the gentleman, had not introduced him to her, realizing her acute embarrassment and distress, and Julio — called “Hulio” — was sensitive enough and discreet enough not to look at her directly.

Fortunately, Jack Dawson rode in the front seat with him. Julio was not wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. He was dressed in a sports jacket, slacks, and a turtle-neck sweater, a good-looking young man of perhaps twenty-six or seven, with a dark, curly beard and a full shock of brown curls. His eyes were a startling blue, which surprised Jill. Naive as she was, she expected all Mexicans to have black hair and eyes.

Julio never spoke unless addressed. Yet, he was in no way servile. Indeed, he seemed to have a great deal of pride and a natural intelligence that one could sense rather than experience. Once or twice during the ride, Ernesto would lean forward and speak to him sotto voce in Spanish. The garrulous printer would rattle on about sports or politics, making embarrassed small talk. Julio’s replies and comments were spare and to the point. He seemed to tolerate Jack Dawson even less than did Garcia.

It was almost midnight when the big black Cadillac pulled into a hangar at a far end of the airfield. Three men were awaiting them, two in mechanics’ jumpsuits, another in street clothes. Only the man in street clothes spoke in Spanish as she was whisked into a waiting Lear jet. Drugged and confused as she was, she noted the exterior design as one of Alexander Calder’s whimsical abstracts, not unlike those he had done for Braniff Airlines.

The interior was something out of a James Bond movie — more like a luxurious hotel room than a plane, with a bar, plush armchairs that swiveled, and — a small bedroom with its own bath containing a stall shower! Jill thought at that moment that seeing the plane was recompense enough for deciding to make the trip.

The unidentified man in street clothes, who had stringy black hair and bad teeth (which showed under a thin, clipped mustache), assumed the position of co-pilot, as Julio took the controls and ushered the aircraft into the midnight sky.

Despite two cups of coffee, which Ernesto offered to her as soon as they were airborne, Jill found herself becoming sleepier and sleepier. At Garcia’s suggestion, she went into the “bedroom” and was soon fast asleep on the double bed...

The two partners in crime talked intently in another part of the streamlined plane. They sipped rare cognac from Baccarat snifters as they discussed their “ward.”

“I tell ya, Ernesto, the kid’s dynamite. Hell, if you hadn’t gotten antsy, I’d have gotten a blow job out of it, too! For Chrissakes, why’dja have to break it up so soon? You said you’d wait for my call!”

“Sorry, Jack, but it became obvious that you were all set to make a night of it. You tend to forget yourself at times, and drugging her the way you did, you knew she was in no position to refuse — particularly under fear of pain and disfigurement...”

“Hell, I just wanted to scare her a little bit; adds to the excitement, know what I mean? I didn’t have no intention of hurting the kid.”