Chapter 18b

For the next eight days, Jake mingled. He rented a car (a modest Toyota Corolla) and drove to various locations in and around the Christchurch area and the towns surrounding it, getting to know the lay of the land and meeting people. For the most part, he found the New Zealanders to be exactly like what his first impression of them had told him they'd be like. They were polite, friendly, and, though curious about his intentions in their country, they were much less likely to be overly intrusive into his business than your typical American. Your typical American tended to feel as if he or she had an intrinsic right to know your business. The typical New Zealanders, when they did decide to pry, at least had the decency to be hesitant and shy about it.

Jake met people from all walks of New Zealand life during his treks. He talked to gas station attendants, grocery store clerks, fishermen down on the Lyttelton docks, furniture makers and plumbers and construction workers who would be working on his house. He had dinner with the mayor of Christchurch and her husband in their modest estate house. He spent a night drinking in a bar with a group of Christchurch police officers he had met during an exploration of one of the local parks. Most of these people, Jake was sure, were left with a good impression of him, or, if not of him exactly, they at least had any worries eased that he was planning to have weeklong Satanic sex and drug orgies up in his hillside mansion once it was built.

"Two days, tops," he told the group of Christchurch police officers. "That's as long as a man can reasonably sustain an average Satanic sex and drug orgy."

Perhaps the most favorable impression he made during the trip was upon a man named Zachary Fields. He met Fields while scoping out airports in the vicinity of Christchurch. Jake planned to have his Cessna 172 — his original, single-engine plane, which didn't see much flight time these days — shipped to New Zealand so he would have something to fly when he was in the country. Christchurch International Airport was just outside of Christchurch itself but Jake did not feel comfortable flying in and out of so large a facility. Though most of the international flights flew into Auckland or Wellington, Christchurch was very busy during the summer months as it was the primary field used by supply and personnel flights to and from Antarctica. Jake wanted to be based out of a small field that catered to general aviation only.

He found such a field in the town of Ashburton, which was a farming town about ninety kilometers (or "klicks", as the local terminology went) south of Christchurch. Ashburton Aerodrome was just outside the town itself, though still under the umbrella of Christchurch ATC. Breckerman had at first tried to talk him out of even considering the field, not because it was somewhat primitive (Breckerman knew next to nothing about aviation) but because of the distance from Christchurch.

"It's almost ninety klicks away from where you'll be living," he told Jake. "It'll take you more than an hour just to drive there when you want to fly."

His attitude about distance was one that Jake had found to be fairly typical among the South Islanders. Breckerman spoke of that ninety-kilometer drive the same way Jake would have spoken of driving from Los Angeles to Heritage. New Zealanders were not big commuters and anything over twenty or thirty kilometers was considered a major trek.

"Ninety klicks?" Jake had responded to him. "That's like sixty miles, right?"

"If you say so," Breckerman told him. He knew even less about American standard measurements than he did about aviation.

"That's nothing," Jake told him. "It's only fifteen miles more than I used to drive to get from my house in LA to the airport in Ventura where I flew from. Hell, I know people who drive further than that twice a day just to get to and from work. And in rush hour traffic, no less."

It was obvious that Breckerman thought he was exaggerating. Nonetheless, he gave Jake basic instructions on how to get to the airfield and Jake made the drive. There were no freeways connecting the towns and cities of New Zealand with each other, but there was State Highway 1, a well-maintained roadway that ran almost perfectly straight between Christchurch and Ashburton. The speed limit on the highway was one hundred kilometers per hour. Jake, not knowing how strict the New Zealand cops were about enforcing that speed limit, did not violate it and was able to make the trip from the site of his future home to the airfield in one hour and eight minutes. He considered that to be well within parameters, as Nerdly would have said.

What did give him some trepidation about the airfield was the fact that the runways were not paved. Though they were lit and marked like any other runways he'd used in his flying days, they were covered with closely mowed grass instead of asphalt or concrete. There was even a warning on the aeronautical chart to "use the mowed runways only".

"Don't knock it until you try it," Fields, who had been given the task of providing Jake with a tour of the airfield, told him. "The smoothest landings you'll ever experience."

Fields was not an employee of the aerodrome but he was a significant fixture there. A rugged, masculine man who sported an unruly mustache and a scraggly mop of brown hair, Fields owned Fields Air Tours, a small business that provided sightseeing flights over the coast and the Southern Alps for visiting tourists. Fields was the primary pilot of the business. He took people up for one-hour tours for the equivalent of sixty American dollars apiece. The plane he used was a Piper Cherokee that had been built in 1968 and required almost constant maintenance to keep flying. He offered to take Jake up for one of his tours, "on the house, as you Americans say" and, though Jake did go up with him, he refused to not pay his way.

"I think I like you, Jake," Fields told him as he finished up his pre-flight. "Now why don't you do the honors and take us up so you can see how sweet these runways are."

"I've never been checked out on a Cherokee," Jake told him.

"It's not much different than a 172," Fields told him. "And if you do anything wrong, I'll tell you. Come on, grab the throttle and get us moving."

And so Jake did. Fields was right on all counts. The Cherokee was not much different than the 172 as far as controls and instruments went (though it did have significantly less power), and the take-off roll down the grass runway was about the smoothest Jake had ever experienced.

"What do you think?" Fields asked him once they were in the air and climbing.

"So far, so good," Jake said, banking to the compass heading Fields had told him to bank to. "What about when it rains though? Don't the runways become unusable?"

"During heavy rainstorms, it does get too soggy to use," Fields said. "But then you don't generally go out flying during heavy rainstorms anyway, do you?"

"Good point," Jake allowed. "How long after the rain stops does the runway become usable again?"

"They have a good drainage system down there," Fields said. "Usually within six hours of a heavy rain the field can open for business again. Didn't you tell me that you're only planning on living here during the summer?"

"Yes," Jake said. "That is my plan."

"Then you don't have to worry too much about it," Fields said. "We get most of our rain in the winter and early spring. If it does rain in the summer, it's usually brief and light. I don't recall any extended closures here because of rain between November and late March."

"Well all right then," Jake said. "It looks like I found myself a field."

Fields then expressed his one concern with Jake's plan. "Glad to have you, of course, but don't you think we're an awful long way from Christchurch?"

That night, Jake went out drinking with Fields and "the guys". The guys turned out to be a group of six men who had all served with Fields in the Royal New Zealand Air Force in the early 1980s. Fields and two of the others had been pilots of C-130 maritime patrol aircraft. The other three had been members of their support crew. They invaded a bar near the airport and spent the better part of six hours putting away pints of Steinlager, smoking cigarettes, and telling tales of their flying experiences (Jake, obviously, had the least amount and most boring tales to tell, though they were interested in some of his ATC and landing stories from his flight from Chicago to Los Angeles). The subject of Jake's celebrity status or the fact that he was one of the most famous rock musicians on the planet never came up. It was this aspect of the encounter more than any other that Jake enjoyed the most. He liked being treated like he was just another pilot, just another one of the guys.

Fields took Jake home with him to his modest three-bedroom house and let him crash in the guest bedroom. The next morning Jake met Fields' wife — a chubby though pleasant natured woman — and his daughter — eight-year-old Kayla Lynn Fields, a cute as a button third grader. Naomi Fields — the wife — cooked a huge breakfast for the two men and then cleaned up everything afterward. It was on the drive back to the aerodrome to get Jake's rental car that Jake made Fields an offer he couldn't refuse.

"I'm going to be shipping my 172 here in the next month or so," he told Fields.

"Yes," Fields said. "I assumed that was your plan. I'll talk to Kyle — the airport manager — about getting you some hangar space."

"Actually," Jake said, "I'm a little concerned about my plane just sitting for six months at a time when I'm not in the country."

"Understandable," Fields allowed.

"I'd like to make a deal with you."

"What sort of deal?"

"You store my plane for me in your hangar, take care of its maintenance and upkeep, and it's yours to use for your business while I'm not in the country."

Fields gave him a shrewd look. "And how much would this cost me?" he asked.

"Nothing," Jake said. "You pay for maintenance and the insurance increase involved in it being used as a commercial aircraft, take care of whatever paperwork is needed to register it in this country, and, of course, whatever fuel you use when it's in your possession, and nothing else. The only stipulation is that no one who isn't rated commercial and hasn't been officially checked out on a 172 be allowed to fly it, and that whenever I'm in town and want to use it, it's mine. If you agree to all that, no charge whatsoever."

Fields' mouth dropped open. "No charge?" he asked. "Is there a catch here, Jake?"

"No catch," Jake said. "I really love that plane and I'd prefer it be put to use when I don't need it instead of rotting in a hangar somewhere. Hell, you can even paint it with your logo like you did your Cherokee. That way it'll serve as an advertisement for you when I'm out cruising the country."

Fields literally didn't know how to react to this offer. It was a chance to nearly double his business and upgrade an aircraft at the same time, all at the negligible cost of maintenance, upkeep, insurance, and storage. "I don't know what to say, Jake," he said.

"Say it's a deal," Jake told him. "We'll even put it in writing, if you want."

"It's a deal," Fields told him.

They shook on it and both men left the encounter thinking they'd come away the better for it.

Jake left Auckland International Airport at 7:30 PM on Saturday, December 9, aboard a Pan American Airlines 747. Since it was a weekend, a direct flight was possible. The total flight time was twelve hours and fifty-five minutes, which, when the time zones and the International Date Line were considered, brought the plane down at LAX at 1:25 PM on Saturday afternoon. In a way, the plane landed six hours before it actually took off.

Jake had long since gotten over the chronicological wonders involved in international air travel. He was too seasoned of a flyer for that. He spent the majority of the overnight flight asleep in his first class seat. He exited the plane at LAX refreshed and ready to enjoy the day he'd gotten back after losing it on the outbound leg of his journey. He drank two beers in the limousine on the way home and then mixed a tall rum and coke after dropping his dirty laundry in Elsa's hamper. Elsa herself was not home. She had the weekends off and, while she usually hung out at the house anyway (and even kept things clean to keep from incurring a backlog on Monday morning), a note on Jake's bar refrigerator — someplace she knew he'd find it — informed him that she was spending this weekend with her daughter and grandchildren in San Diego.

It looks like dinner out again, Jake thought as he mixed a fresh rum and coke. He carried it into the living room and found that Elsa had neatly stacked all eleven copies of the LA Times that had been delivered in his absence. For the next two hours he drank drinks and caught up on the news. He was pleasantly buzzed and just starting to think about taking a pre-dinner nap when the doorbell rang.

He ignored it at first. He wasn't expecting anyone, which meant that whoever was standing on his porch pushing the little white button was probably someone he didn't want to talk to. But the doorbell kept ringing and ringing — a double-push every fifteen or twenty seconds, sometimes interspersed with a few knocks on the door itself.

With a sigh, Jake stood, polishing off the last of his latest drink and snuffing out his latest cigarette. He walked slowly into the small room just off the kitchen that served as the nerve center for his security system. In here were switches for all the perimeter lights, a panel to control the alarm system, and a large monitor to display the take from the four security cameras on the property.

He flipped the monitor on, listening to yet another doorbell and knock cycle from the front door while it warmed up. Finally, the display lit up. The screen was divided into four quadrants. The two backyard views were at the bottom. They showed nothing unexpected. The top left view was a lateral shot of the circular driveway. It was showing a nondescript Lexus sedan parked just in front of the garage entrance. The top right view of the display was from the camera that looked over the front door. It showed an attractive woman wearing a pair of blue jeans and a form-fitting angora sweater. Her brunette hair was tied up in an anonymous looking ponytail and her eyes were covered with a pair of dark sunglasses but, as had been the case in Fiji, Jake had no trouble recognizing his mysterious visitor. It was Mindy Snow.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he mumbled, his buzzed mind trying to come to grips with several things, like how she knew where he lived since she'd never been here before, and how she knew he would be home.

He watched as she reached out her left hand, the hand with the four and a half karat diamond ring on the ring finger, and pushed the doorbell two more times. She then stood back, waiting patiently, a neutral expression on her face.

Just keep ignoring her, the rational part of Jake's brain told him. She'll go away soon. This was perfectly valid advice. He was tired, out of sorts, jet-lagged, unshowered, unshaven, half drunk, and most certainly not in the mood for unexpected visitors.

But look at those fucking tits! the other part of his brain — the part that made entirely too many decisions for him — insisted. That's Mindy Snow out there! The woman who knows how to deep-throat without gagging! Who takes it up the ass like a champ! Who can fuck for six hours straight without boring you! Open the goddamn door before she goes away, you moron!

It was this side that won out — again. Jake had not engaged in any sexual activity except masturbation during his entire New Zealand trip (although not for lack of offers). He had only been laid twice since Helen had broken up with him — both times with nameless, faceless women he'd met at the Flamingo Club. He was, to put it mildly, horny as hell and in need of a good round of no-holds-barred sex. And there, on his front porch at this very moment, demanding entry, was a woman who would have no other reason to come over to his house unless she was hoping to provide such a sex session.

But she's married, the rational part tried to remind him.

So fucking what? the dark side shot right back. She was married when you boned her in Fiji, wasn't she?

Even the rational side had to admit that this was a valid point.

Jake saw that Mindy was now digging in her purse. She pulled out a notepad and a gold plated pen and wrote something down. She tore off the sheet of paper and took a few steps across the porch until she was just beneath the camera. She held the piece of notepaper up until it was the only thing in Jake's view.

I know you're in there, Jake, the note read. Open the fucking door!

Jake went and opened the fucking door.

"It's about goddamn time," Mindy said, feigning exasperation with him. "I was starting to think that maybe you really weren't here."

He stepped aside and let her in. "What made you think I was here?" he asked.

She smiled. "Because I've been stalking you," she said. "How else?"

"Stalking me?" he asked, visions of Jenny Johansen dancing briefly into his brain.

She closed the door behind her and turned to him, running her finger up and down his bare arm. "Not in a bad way," she said. "I just had a few of my people look into your itinerary for me. The found out you came in on a flight from New Zealand early this afternoon, and, as a bonus, that your housekeeper wasn't home this weekend."

"Pretty good sources," Jake said, still a little uncomfortable with the thought.

"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "They earn their money. Anyway, since I found out you're going to be alone I thought... you know... that maybe I could come by and see how you're doing."

"I'm doing... uh... fine," he said.

"Good," she said. "I figured you probably were. I was sorry to hear about you and what's-her-name breaking up. I do hope our little encounter in Fiji didn't have anything to do with it."

"No," Jake said. "She never knew anything about that. No one does."

"That's a relief," Mindy said. "It really wouldn't do for her to go blabbing something like that to the media. You know how those vultures are always willing to print any rumor they hear, unfounded or not."

"Yes, I know," Jake said, a little testily. "I recall you once used that willingness to your advantage."

"Exactly," Mindy said brightly. "So I should know, right?"

"I suppose," Jake said. "So where's hubby today? Does he know you're over here?"

"Of course not," she said. "He had to fly to San Francisco to oversee some audio overdubs on his last film. He won't be back until Monday afternoon."

"I see," Jake said, finding his eyes drawn to the swelling of her breasts beneath her sweater. They really were a premium set, perhaps the finest natural boobs in Hollywood.