The Mentor (14 page)

"Even
dangerous items?" I knew better than to say the g-word in an airport. 
"Nunchucks, ski poles, Russell Crowe?  All that goes on, not even a
blink."

"They
own the plane.  I just make sure they have a ticket to get down to the
terminal and point them in the right direction.  They can bring anything
they want."

"Anything."
 I said, and then thought, 
Hold on
.  "What if I was
taking my buddy for a bachelor party, he got wasted and slept from the limo all
the way to the plane.  When he got to you, he was all 'Weekend at
Bernie's.'"

"You
mean dead?"

"No,
silly, silly girl.  But, you know, out light a light."

She leaned
back, rubbed her neck again.   "Whatever.  You've got his
ID, steady as she goes, sailor.  These guys pay thousands, millions.
 I’m not going to be the one that turns them to one of the other
'ports."

"Aren't
you pricier here, though?"

"Sure,
but we've got a Captain's Lounge.  Free booze, beer and cocktail
peanuts."

I let that
thought sink in for a moment.  If The Mentor had hauled me from Georgia
all the way to the Big Island, he did it on a charter.  A charter plane
would have to have a record.  If I found out who
owned
that plane…

"So,
who normally takes those sorts of flights?"

She looked
down the hall again.  This time, it seemed as if she were looking for
something more interesting.  I'd asked one of those I-get-that-every-day
questions, sure, but I couldn't help it.

"Those
who can afford it."

"No,
seriously.  If I wanted to grow up and be like one of these guys--"

"Grow
up?  You're like thirty-five, right?"

"Not
even thirty.  I only look older because of all the testosterone coursing
through me.  Most of it’s even mine."

She
blushed.  Sexy.  I added, "But how would you get a list of the
people who came through here?"

"You
wouldn't."

"Seriously,
if--"

"Seriously,
you
wouldn't
.  Do you think you can walk up to a hotel and ask for
a list of guests staying there?"

I nodded.
 "Yeah, but I'd ask really, really nicely."

A small
smile.  Back on my side.  "Still.  You're not going to get
it.  Just work hard, long hours, screw over your wife and friends and
maybe you, too, can one day plant your ass in a cushy, leather seat on Charter
Air."  I was in love.  Or the next best thing.

"I'm
not married," I said.  "If that's what it takes--"

"That's
Standard Fatcat Operating Procedure."

"Then,”
I said to the pretty girl, “will you be my wife?"

A genuine
laugh and she looked to Oddjob who was back to sleeping/not sleeping.  She
dug down under the table.  

"When's
your flight?"

"My,
you want to consummate our marriage before the big day?  I am not that
kind of--"

"Do
you EVER stop?" she said and smiled.  "Listen-- take this pass
down the tiled hall.  The Captain's Lounge is on the left.  Beer and
peanuts on the house.  If anyone asks, they won't, but if they do just
tell them your pilot is late.  Make sure you clear out in time for your
flight."

I took the
certificate.  It was actually embossed with a faux gold seal.  

Just when I
am convinced the world has all gone dark and that every person I meet is
looking to use the crown of my head as a step to get up to the next rung, I
meet someone who shatters that completely.  Still, I think, one day, that
will most likely stop happening.  But for now, I'm going to be satisfied
that there are at least a few humans left with any sort of humanity.

Humanity
and
free beer and nuts certificates!  Those are the best humans!

The
Captain's Lounge did not have any windows (at least not facing the long hall)
and nothing to indicate it was the Captain's Lounge.  The only thing to
set it aside from a bathroom door was that it looked like its entrance had been
carved from a redwood in one piece.  Subtle.

The handle
wasn't really a handle at all.  It was an indent, inside of which was a
laser scanner.  Pressing my Golden Ticket into the space, the laser met
the QR code and I heard the
clack!
of the latch within the door snap
back.

The door
opened and I stood there for a moment, like a freshly combat-slain Viking might
at the gates of Valhalla (but only if he had a certificate).  Inside, beautiful,
warm yellow incandescent bulbs were everywhere (theme:
fuck
energy-saving
bulbs) and nearly all surfaces were either wood or red leather or, often, both
(additional theme:
fuck
trees and cows).

The bar was
arched and pitched away from circular windows.  Behind the bartender, rows
upon rows of bottles, and behind them distressed mirrors.  It hadn’t
dawned on me until I realized the ropy tapestry canopied over the bar was
actually fisherman's netting that this was supposed to be a ship’s interior.

The chief
magistrate of the aforementioned Captain’s Lounge was not the pilot of a plane
but the skipper of a boat.  And, noting the parrot next to the register
perched on the brass spittoon (for tips), it seemed,
arggh!
, this
Captain might be a pirate.  Thankfully, the bartender wasn’t sporting a
billowy, white shirt and black-dotted chin.  It seemed the Caribbean theme
ended with the decor.  

Still, I watched out for a cocktail wench.
 That wouldn’t be so bad.

The
windows, huge “portals,” were tinted (certifying the authenticity of the illusion,
certainly), which lent a surreal quality to the images outside: the planes,
luggage carts, and yellow trams that whirred dangerously fast around the
tarmac.

Those not
at the bar were seated at a maze of small tables, each made to look like a part
of a ship or dock loaded down with rigging and each circled by comfy chairs. 
Longer tables similarly designed offered booth-style seating.

I took a
deep breath in.  Life delivers the oddest treats every now and--

"Theeere
he is," a voice called from the bar.

Looking up,
a scraggly man with a ball cap and burst of chin whiskers waved at me with a
huge, calloused hand.  His smile was wide, his eyes glass.

Either I
knew him somehow or this guy's job was to sit at the bar all day and welcome
folks like we were all besties.  Good work if you can get it.

I nodded
and smiled wider than I would have normally at a guy with so few teeth (why
provoke them, right?).

"Hey,
man!"

He waved me
over, uneasy in his chair.  Very drunk.  So, probably a pilot.

The
bartender looked me up and down, disapprovingly.  He dropped a plate of
candied peanuts and asked what I wanted to drink.  I told him and he
turned to pour it.

"You!"
 The drunk said.  "Youuuu!"

"Me,"
I agreed.  "No question."

He nodded,
looked up at me, took a drag from a cigarette, blew it toward the bartender and
nodded again.

"Shit,
you look a hell of a lot better than when you came in here," he said and
laughed.  Then he caught sight of my hands and wrists, torn up from my
parachuting excursion the day before.  "But not much."

Huh?

"At
least you're upright," he said, slapped the bar and hacked out a quarter
of his lung.  "You upright, that's a good thing ’cause when you and
your buddy came in here, I actually checked to see if you were dead when he
went to the john!"  

Another
peel of laugher, the rest of his lung coming this time with a long rack of
coughing.

"You
remember me?"  I said, trying to keep my voice calm.  “I was in
here before?”

Nodding, he
said: "Yeah, well, no, no.  Not in
hereee
.  The big,
black fellah, your friend, he carried you on
and
off the damn plane.
 But I never forget a face."  He waved at the bar in a big sloppy
circle.  "You need a beer."

I said, yes
I did.

HIS NAME
WAS REGGIE.  He was a pilot, he was a drunk, and he’d taken me and the man
I called The Mentor from an airfield in south Atlanta off Ponce de Leon Street
(pronounced, by the way, regionally as Ponce duh-LEE-on).

We’d
apparently made a touch-and-go in San Francisco for some jet fuel and then onto
the big Kahuna.

“Why not
Los Angeles?  You had to go north and then south again.”

His smile
was still frozen in place, this hadn’t been the conversation he’d hoped to have
when he saw his formerly passed out passenger.  “Uh, well, it’s a faster in and
out, and we’ve got an account there.”

“We?”

“Well, we
got an account everywhere, just about now, to be clear for ya.  From
Sydney to Bonn to Moscow to Brazil...”

“Who is w--
uh, you do know Brazil’s a
country
and the others were all-- never mind,
it... that sort of thing just kinda bugs,” I said and shook my head clear.
 “You said ‘we.’  Who is we?”

He looked
down at his beer then to the bartender, then back to me.

“We is, uh,
the guys drinking a beer, um, at the airport?”

“No, no.
 Sorry.  I mean, you said ‘we have an account’ in a bunch of
cities... and one country, but whatever... what company?”

If I could
find out the company that owned the plane that may,
should
, lead me back
to my midnight travel agent.  

From there,
who knows?
maybe I don’t get a name for him but at least I’d have an
idea who was signing his paychecks (for
whatever
he was paid in.
Probably little boys.  Or small dogs. Or little boys riding on small
dogs).

Reggie grew
a little uncomfortable again.

“Listen,
man, I-- we just fly the planes,” he said and looked to the bartender, a quick
nod for the check.  “I’m sorry you and your bro’ had a falling out or
whatever, but I don’t want nothing to do with it.”

“No, I
don’t want to get anyone in trouble--”

“Man, in my
'sperience when someone says shit like
that
it usually means they
do
want to get someone in trouble!”

Me, I’m so
delicate, so suave.  Swoon, ladies.

Here was my
only link to The Mentor and I turned that link into
a drunk trying to run
away from a bar
.  

That, my
friend: talent.

“Listen,
listen--”

His check
came.  “Don’t wanna.  I’m done with this.  You got a problem;
you take it up with SkipJet.  Only do me a favor and don’t bring my name
up.”

Oh?

“Reggie, I
lost my damn wallet is all I was saying, brother.  If I call up SkipJet
they’re going to ask me on which flight and your name, hmmm, it’s going to come
up.”

This turned
him to stone for a moment.

“I mean, my
wallet was with me,” I said, exaggerated a laugh, “when I left, right?  Am
I right?”

“I don’t--”

“And now, I
don’t have it.  You should be fine, though, it’s not like you’ve got
priors or anything and they’re going to--”

“Listen,
friend...”

“Irwin,” I
said.  Why not?

“Listen,
Irwin, I don’t need no trouble from you, your employer or mine.  If you
lost your wallet it wasn’t my bad.  Ask your buddy.”

“He already
left.”

I wanted to
get into that plane and see if there was anything, even a dirty glass.
 Who knows, maybe I could convince Detective Clower to run the prints with
some wild story.  He’d hate me (more) but I thought there was a chance I
could pull it off.

“Listen,”
Reggie said and gave a quick glance around him.  “I’m not even supposed to
take people on that are flat-out like that.  We ain’t supposed to take
nobody drunk on board.”

“That’s
only for the guys in the front.”

“Right,” he
said, not listening to me.  “And, it don't matter if I didn’t believe him
when he said you had that, uh, sleep thing, you know.”

“No.”

“It’s...
where you can’t stay awake?  Narcro-- necrophilia--”

“Sure,
right.”  I had to introduce this guy to Pavan.  They’d have a ball.
“Listen, we don’t need to ring up to SkipJet, Reggie.  Just let me take a
look around the plane for a minute or two.  Where were we, in the back,
right?”

Reggie
looked as if he’d just gotten off a playground merry-go-round.

“Wha?
 Yeah, in the-- but you can’t go looking on the jet.”

“Just two
minutes.  In and out.  If I don’t find it, so be it.  No harm,
no foul.  That’s the end of it.”

“No, man,”
he said and took the last sip of his beer.  “That plane is long gone.
 About ninety minutes after we set down, it took off again.”