Runner-up 3

“We have just received clearance to land at LAX, Mr. Palmieri,” the pilot said through the intercom as he let down the landing gear of the twin-engine Cessna. “Sammy, you will need to be seated in a moment too.”

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Palmieri?”

“No thank you, Samantha,” he answered as he secured his seat belt and finished off his vodka martini with two olives sans pimento. He handed her the drained glass while admiring her long legs with the spray tan and no hose as she bent to accept it. But his smile did not last long. No one double-crosses Carlos Antonio Palmieri. No one. Charlie Bonner better have a very good reason for missing their appointment in Cabo. He better be dying, because if he isn’t, he soon will be.”Call Stefano for the limo when we land, William. We need to pay someone a visit.”

“Yes, sir,” said William as he cracked his knuckles. To most, he was known as Billy the Brute, but Mr. Palmieri called him William. He called everyone by his given name. Billy was anxious for some action. He patted the brass knuckles he always kept in his shirt pocket. “Where are we headed, sir?”

“To a glass house in Malibu. We need to pay a visit to a Mr. Charles Bonner. And perhaps also to that lovely trophy wife of his, Genevieve.”

The plane bounced onto the runway. Samantha slid out of her seat and returned with Mr. Palmieri’s Armani jacket. He retrieved the cellphone out of the breast pocket and turned it on. Seven missed calls and one voicemail. He flipped through the missed calls. None were from Bonner. He fumed at the gall that man had in standing him up. That flash drive was his. He was the highest bidder. A cash transaction of which he already paid half.

They exited the plane and entered a black BMW stretch limo. Stefano, the chauffeur, held the rear door open for Mr. Palmieri.

“Good flight, sir?” he inquired. Mr. Palmieri grunted. Billy shook his head as he took the front seat, leaving his boss the privacy of the rear.

“Malibu,” Billy told Stefano. They turned out of LAX trailing behind a cab. Mr. Palmieri perused the seven missed calls. They, as well as the voicemail, were all from the same person. God, he hated listening to voicemail -- people could just rant on and on, wasting his time. But he hit the send button and entered his code. Luckily, this message was short and clear. Palmieri listened, his graying eyebrows furrowing in thought. Another delay. He really wanted to go to Malibu and teach that Bonner a lesson. And most important -- get that flash drive. But the voice on the phone sounded desperate. He sighed.

Palmieri pressed a button and the window slid down between the seats. “New direction,” he said to Stefano.

“Where to, sir?”

“Hollywood Boulevard,” said Palmieri, “to a place called Jumbo’s Clown Room.” She was the last person he wanted to see. Carmen.

Deborah Henry writes “I am really a brain surgeon to go along with all those rocket scientists. Really it’s true.” And it is.