Chapter 24
The warbirds rumbled through the air in formation.
They buzzed by, doing acrobatics, engines howling.
The sound was deafening. They were a sight to behold.
In excellent condition, they looked fresh off the showroom floor, even though these WWII-era planes were over half a century old. These beauties had been well cared for.
Up next was Mickey Malibu. The crowd went wild as he did a low flyby. He made another pass, doing barrel rolls.
Mickey still had command of the aircraft.
He did a few touch-and-go landings. On one of them, a passenger dumped out a black duffel bag through a cargo door onto the tarmac. It tumbled and rolled and finally came to a stop.
The crowd went wild again at the simulated drug run—a glimpse of the outlaw in his former glory.
There was no telling how many bags of dope Mickey had dropped into the ocean or onto a remote key in the middle of the night, only to be retrieved later by cartel members.
Flynn ate it up. His wide eyes took in the show, visions of cinematic glory dancing in his head.
By the time Mickey landed and parked his plane, he had a crowd of adoring groupies waiting. This guy was like a rock star.
In his 60s, Mickey was fit and lean, with muscular shoulders and bulging biceps.
He wore a snug, fitted T-shirt and cargo pants.
He must have been on at least 100mg of testosterone a week.
He had long, flowing blond hair, a rugged jaw, lined with stubble that was mostly gray.
He clearly got his blond color from a bottle.
Dark aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, and he had a pearly white smile that he flashed liberally at the pretty ladies who wanted his autograph.
Mickey was quick on the draw to sign pictures, baseball caps, and even supple curves of vixens’ body parts.
They giggled and batted their eyelashes at him, flicking their hair, giving subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, clues to their interest. The legend had his pick.
I'm sure he collected numbers as he made his way through the throngs of groupies that surrounded him.
This was Mickey’s show, and not even Flynn could upstage him as we approached.
The crowd parted, and the two greeted like old friends.
"How are you, brother?" Flynn asked, clasping Mickey’s hand, giving him a hug.
"Life is beautiful," Mickey replied with a grin.
They were definitely cut from the same cloth. Mickey could have been a movie star, and Flynn could have been a drug runner under different circumstances. Maybe he was, in a parallel universe.
They caught up briefly, then Flynn introduced us. "Mickey, I'd like you to meet Tyson and JD.”
With a firm handshake and a smile, Mickey said, "It's a pleasure to meet you both. I understand you’re county deputies, but I won't hold that against you."
We all laughed.
"Flynn tells me great things," I said. "It's quite a story you've got to tell.”
"And Flynn says you're the one to tell it.”
I shrugged modestly and said, "Well, fortunately, I've had a little success in Hollywood.”
"I'm aware. I loved the Bree Taylor story.”
Bree had been a rising box office star until her tragic demise.
I smiled again. The small film had done well at the box office. It was my accidental entrée into Hollywood that stemmed from a weekend with the movie star during her last days.
Years on, most everybody had forgotten about her. In another decade, twentysomethings won't know who she was. Fame and celebrity can be fleeting. Anyone who wants their career to span multiple decades must be savvy, dedicated, and lucky.
We hung out with Mickey for the rest of the show, getting to know each other. Mickey had plenty of stories to tell, and he held court. When Mickey spoke of the glory days, people listened.
The show finished with the Blue Angels performing unbelievably precise aerial acrobatics. Flying wing tip to wing tip demanded the utmost in skill and attention.
Flynn suggested we all grab a drink on Oyster Avenue and kick around ideas for the biopic. We wanted to get out of there and beat the rush before the traffic.
I called for a rideshare. Five minutes later, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled into the parking lot. We hopped inside, and the driver pulled out of the lot in the nick of time as patrons spilled into the parking lot, heading back to their cars.
It was a nice evening, and Mickey wanted to drink margaritas on the deck of El Senor.
It was a tropical restaurant bar that served nachos, quesadillas, fajitas, and burritos.
The margaritas were giant, and one was enough to put you over the limit.
Two would lower your inhibitions, and by three, you were making bad decisions.
On the way, a cardboard sign on a corner read Yard Sale, written in black Sharpie. Mickey saw it as we approached the intersection and instructed the driver to follow the arrow.
I shared a curious look with JD and Flynn. Now seemed like a strange time to go thrifting, but it was Mickey’s show, for the moment.
We meandered through the residential neighborhood, following the cardboard signs. The sale was easy to spot. Cars lined the street. People came and went. Items sat atop card tables on the driveway.
The driver pulled up to the home, and Mickey gave him 20 bucks to wait while he sifted through a few items. “I’ll be right back, he said.”
Mickey hopped out and hustled up the driveway.
“What the hell is he doing?” JD asked with a wrinkled brow.
Flynn shrugged. "Just roll with it, boys. Mickey can be an odd one at times."
That was the pot calling the kettle black.
Mickey perused a bunch of books on a table. He surveyed them quickly, then moved on. He asked the host something. She shook her head.
Disappointed, Mickey returned to the Navigator and climbed inside. "Sorry. I make a habit of stopping at every garage and estate sale I see.”
The driver put the car into gear, and we continued to our destination.
"What were you looking for?” I asked.
Mickey grinned. "Just a particular book. A somewhat rare edition. It’s got sentimental value.”
Mickey didn't elaborate, and I left it at that.
The driver dropped us off at El Senor. A cute hostess looked starstruck when she saw Flynn. She could barely contain herself. It was no longer Mickey’s show. For now, and probably the rest of the evening, it would be Flynn’s circus.
The hostess grabbed menus and seated us outside.
People stole glances as we chilled on the patio, crunching on chips and queso, sipping salty margaritas.
Mickey continued to regale us with tales about running drugs.
He’d seen a lot of crazy things in his day—wild parties, free love, and brutal killings.
You can’t have one without the other in that lifestyle.
Mickey told us about the mansions and cars he had, and how much money was flowing through his pockets on a daily basis back then.
It was insane, especially in the ’80s when money went a lot farther than it does now.
Mickey had served his time and cut his deal. He was untouchable for everything that had happened prior to his term. I think he reveled in the opportunity to tell two law enforcement officers about all kinds of illegal things he could no longer get busted for.
Flynn finally asked. "Is it true you hid $150 million of Pepe Sandoval’s money out there somewhere?”