Skydivers brought in the flag while the anthem blared through Klaxons, echoing across the tarmac. The Stars and Stripes rippled through the air, massive and awe-inspiring. At 2,500 square feet, it was enormous. Red, white, and blue smoke billowed from the other jumpers, and fireworks exploded in a stunning display. It was the kind of thing that made you swell with pride and patriotism.
Camera shutters clicked as people snapped photos. Stunt planes circled around the flag, and fireworks continued to pop and sizzle. The warble of engines buzzed through the air.
The crowd went wild as the anthem concluded. People clapped, howled, and cheered.
This was going to be a helluva show. I just hoped nobody got too daring. It was easy to miscalculate and push too hard in front of a crowd, showing off. Things could turn dangerous in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t be the first time a weekend warrior crashed an old plane and took out the crowd at an airshow.
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.
