doing office work at moment. You want to make an appointment, call that number and leave a message.” From the way he spoke Bolan could tell he was missing some teeth in front. The man pointed to a handwritten notice on the wall.
“Actually,” Bolan said, breaking into the conversation, “we won’t take much of your time.” He held up an official-looking credential identifying him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department. “We need to talk to you about some helicopters you rented.”
The man behind the counter cocked his head back and regarded both of them. His mouth gaped slightly, and his lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile in more pleasant surroundings.
“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.
Bolan stepped to the counter and took out his notebook as Grimaldi walked to the windows on the opposite end of the room.
“May I have your name, sir?” Bolan asked.
The man’s eyes shifted from him to Grimaldi, then back again.
“I’m Joe Rigello.”
“It’d be easier if you just showed him your driver’s license,” Grimaldi said from the windows.
Before Rigello could reply, the Stony Man pilot cried, “Hey, that wouldn’t be a genuine CH-47 you got out back there, would it?”
Rigello’s eyes went back to him. “Yep. You familiar with Chinooks?”
“Hell, yes,” he said with a wide grin. “Flown many a mission in them in my time.”
“You’re a pilot, huh?” Rigello said.
“Show me your ID,” Bolan said, holding out his hand.
Rigello reached into his pocket and took out a brown leather wallet, one side of which looked as sodden as the underarms of his T-shirt. He dug through it, removed his driver’s license and gave it to Bolan.
“And do my eyes deceive me,” Grimaldi said, his voice imbued with artificial awe, “or is that a genuine Huey Cobra, teeth and all?”
Rigello laughed. “It is. Only without the rockets and minigun.”
“Too bad,” Grimaldi said, grinning back. “Old UH-60s? People want to take tours in those things? They must like sitting on hard surfaces.”
“Looks like you know your helicopters, mister,” Rigello said. “But yeah, we do a lot of work with movie companies. They’re gonna be making another one of them ’Nam movies pretty soon.”
“No kidding?” Grimaldi moved closer to the counter. “You a pilot?”
“Naw.” He shook his head. “I just fix ’em. My brother, Dean, is the pilot.”
“Could you use another one?” Grimaldi flashed him a wide smile. “I love to fly.”
Rigello grinned back, showing his missing front teeth.
It was beginning to sound like a war buddy reunion, Bolan thought. He cleared his throat.
Rigello’s eyes drifted to him as Bolan handed the ID back. “What did you guys say you wanted again?”
“Information,” Bolan said. “The names of the people who rented those three helicopters last Tuesday.”
Rigello ran his tongue over his upper lip and shook his head. “Tuesday?”
“Give or take a day or two,” Bolan said. “They might have rented them before that, but they definitely used them on Tuesday.”
Rigello licked his lips again and gave a little shake of his head. “Don’t sound familiar.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to remember back that far,” Bolan said. “Do you mind if we take a quick look at your books?”
The rear door suddenly opened and a larger, younger version of the man behind the counter came storming in. His face was thinner, but he had the same aquiline nose. This guy’s beard was jet-black, and his hair was pulled back in a similar looking ponytail style. He was also wearing a Glock in a pancake holster.
“Yeah, we do mind,” the new guy said. “Unless you got a warrant.”
He turned to Joe Rigello and said, “What did I tell you about keeping your trap shut?”
Bolan studied the man. From his remarks, it was obvious he had been both watching and listening to the conversation from the next room.
“I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan said. “This is my partn—”
“I don’t give a shit who you are,” the man said. “We don’t got to show you nothing concerning our business ’less you got a warrant.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I know the law.”
“No need to get hostile, pal.” Grimaldi strolled over with an ingratiating grin stretched across his face. “Me and your brother here were just talking about helicopters when you interrupted. Uh, at least I’m assuming that you and Joe are related.”
“That’s my brother, Dean,” Joe blurted.
Dean Rigello shot him another look of disdain. “Shut up.”
He turned the look toward Bolan. “Get outta here and don’t come back unless you got a warrant.”
“We’ll look into getting one,” Bolan said, then turned to exit the building, followed by Grimaldi.
“You do that. We run a respectable business here and got nothing to hide.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” Grimaldi asked.
Dean’s head swiveled toward him. “Nothing. I ain’t afraid of nothing.”
“Is that so?” the pilot said.
“Yeah.” Rigello’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I just don’t like cops, is all. I’m a civil libertarian.”
“You know—” Grimaldi looked at Bolan, then back to Rigello “—that reminds me of that old saying, two weeks ago I couldn’t even spell civil libertarian, and now I are one.”
The sneer deepened on Dean Rigello’s hawkish face.
Back in the Escalade, Grimaldi made a clucking sound and said, “That went really well.”
“I don’t know, you and Joe seemed to be getting on, one chopper enthusiast to another.”
“Yeah, but it looks like our boy Dean’s running things.” The pilot directed the air vent toward himself again. “Got any bright ideas about our next move?”
“Maybe,” Bolan said, glancing at his watch. It was 1:54 p.m. He considered their options and decided that time was definitely not on their side. They had to go into accelerated information-gathering mode, and that meant stretching
