17
Down the Mountain
It was Friday. I checked my watch: 4:48 p.m.
I climbed out of the Mercedes. I was in a medium-sized parking lot populated by several dozen cars, with a clear view of a twin-engine Cessna taking off down the runway. Peachtree-DeKalb Airport is a small hub: just a couple buildings, a tower, and a few hangars.
A man on a golf cart approached. The man was so large that he dwarfed the cart, making it look like a tiny clown car. It was the man from Manuel’s Tavern, the one that had been walking his dog.
“Mr. Adams?”
He knew good and well who I was. I climbed in and asked, “How’s your girlfriend?”
He cracked a smile despite himself. “She’s doing well. You can ask her yourself in a moment.”
We rode along in silence. There wasn’t a single soul in sight. He drove us thro
