The sunglasses abruptly came back off. “You did what?”
“And he’ll need some cosmetic surgery to repair his face.”
“He’ll have to pay for it himself.” Alisha Mosca retorted, barking out a shrill laugh.
Her response surprised Irene and she hesitated.
“Please. Sit.” Alisha indicated the chair vacated by Mrs. Roselli. “What did he do to you? I’m dying to know. It all sounds quite tantalizing.”
Irene ignored the proffered chair. She wasn’t planning on staying long. “Not me, but a friend. She’s only eighteen and he beat her so bad she’s being airlifted to a hospital in the States.”
“Jesus.” Alisha Mosca lost a bit of her tan. “And where can I find my husband now?”
“Don’t know but the Casino’s infirmary would be a good place to start.”
“And this girl, has she seen a doctor? Would he give me a statement?” Alisha asked in earnest.
Irene thought of Doctor Evens. “I suppose, sure.”
“Just a sec.” Alisha picked up her phone and hit speed dial. “Tell Brian I need to speak with him– what’dya mean he’s in a conference. Look sweetie, I’ve been to one of his conferences so tell him to pull his dick out of his secretary and get him on the phone. Right now. Tell him it’s Alisha.” She waited a moment. “Fucking attorneys.”
She brightened.
“Brian?– Alish– Yes dear. I think I got something for you. Steve beat up an eighteen-year-old kid. And I can get a doctor’s statement– Yes, a girl. What’dya think?” Alisha rolled her eyes and looked up. “Witnesses?”
Irene shook her head.
“No witnesses but I have her friend here. I’m sure she’ll sign something.” Alisha listened, switched ears. “Just a sec…”
Alisha returned her attention to Irene. “Can you get me a photograph?”
Irene thought of Joey’s reluctance to be seen by anyone, but she was determined. “Yes. I’ll get you something.”
“Fantastic! Yes, Brian. I said fantastic. I’ll go to work on this right away and email you everything later today– Yes. We finally got the fucker. Now get back to your conference. You doin’ your secretary or that legal assistant. I like the assistant; she’s cute.” And Alisha gave him her shrill laugh and disconnected.
She set the phone down and eyed Irene carefully, perhaps judging how capable she was. “Tell your friend,” she said, coming to a decision, “to get a lawyer as soon as she gets back to the States and file an official complaint. I will pay for everything, understand?”
Irene nodded her head.
“And tell her, if we have a photograph, this whole thing will be settled out of court. She’ll get a settlement and I’ll get my divorce. It will be quick, clean and painless and she won’t have to do a thing.”
Irene smiled.
The Bikini-Bus lifted off early the next morning with sixty-two passengers strapped it. First Officer Bev Banes was at the controls with Irene keeping a close watch from the pilot’s seat. Irene had arrived at the strip just after sun up. She wore her bathing suit with the lavender trench-coat loosely draped about her shoulders to ward off the morning chill. She found Toby busily doing his ground check. The plane had been fueled in Miami but Toby had double checked the levels.
He had also checked for bird hits and was inspecting the tires when he straightened, trying not to be too obvious in his perusal of the curvy calves and thighs that flashed in the opening at the front of Irene’s coat each time she took a step.
He bid Irene good morning. “Scirocco’s suitcase arrived.” he said. “Two guys carried it up and strapped it in behind your seat.”
“Two guys? To carry a suitcase? What the hell’s in it that could be so heavy?”
“Dirty money would be my guess,” Toby wiped his hands on a rag, “but t’aint my business and I intend to keep it that way. You’d be advised to do the same.”
Irene nodded. “I’ll start the flight-check,” she replied and mounted the boarding-steps. She moved forward along the passageway, through the service area to the bulkhead door and ducked into the cockpit. Irene immediately rapped her knee on the metal case that protruded into the space between the two seats. It was the size of a steamer trunk.
“What the hell?”
The case stood on end and reached up level with her waist. And Irene was considered to be a leggy women. It was made of shiny aluminum and reminded her of the equipment cases that professional photographers use to haul around expensive cameras.
The case had stout handles fastened on all four sides, attesting to the excessive weight and the locks looked serviceable.
Irene couldn’t reach her locker so she dumped her coat onto the case, slid into the left-hand seat, took up her clipboard and got to work.
Twenty minutes later, the cabin door opened and Bev stepped in. “Our guest all secure?” she quipped, eyeing the obstruction. She had clearly been through the routine on previous flights. “You’ll like Grand Cayman,” she continued. “A great beach.”
Bev slipped out of her lavender trench-coat and toed off high heels. It was like she had stepped down from a bar stool and Irene was abruptly aware of how little Bev really was. Maybe not even five-feet. Bev cocked a hip in Irene’s direction and gave her a saucy flick of the tongue and winked from behind the rose tinted sun glasses which covered most of her face and matched the color of her two-piece. She stood flat-footed on stocky, but nicely proportioned legs with good calves and thighs that swept gracefully upwards into a fine round bottom.
At ten-thousand feet, the parallel courses of white foam marching toward Cracker-Jax Key began to look distant. At thirty-thousand feet, the waves were all but gone and further out, there was only the slanting inky-black swell of the Caribbean Sea; the sun glittering across the rolling surface. Before much longer, Irene watched the Blue Mountains of Jamaica hauling themselves above the horizon; their lower slopes a verdant green and the peaks wrapped in mist. Somewhere to the south would be the harbor town of Port Antonio and further along, Ocho Rios and Montego Bay.
It was a stunning vista and Irene momentarily thought of pulling her cell phone to take a photo but the thought of the last image she had captured with her phone, Joey’s battered face and breasts, stilled her hand. A line of ants seemed to move down her spine.
Joey, on a gurney in the AirVac plane, had been adamant. No way was she going to drop the sheet from about her face so that Irene could photograph her ravaged features. It was only Irene’s convincing argument that they could hurt Mosca in his wallet and the thought of sweet revenge that finally had Joey conceding. She liked Irene and above all, trusted her.
Irene was struck breathless with rage by what she saw: The blackened and swollen eyes, the broken teeth, the split upper lip, the discoloration. The damage made all the more poignant against the image of how pretty the girl had been just the day before. Joey held the sheet about her breasts and Irene could see Mosca hadn’t been content to beat Joey about the face. The bruising extended down to where he had pounded her breasts with his fists. Mosca was one sick fuck.
“What the hell is that?” There were two puncture marks on Joey’s left breast just above the nipple. The holes were inflamed and swollen like insect bites.
“My name tag,” Joey lisped. “He made me wear my name tag. Made me push the pin through.”
Irene remembered the gold-plated name tag with Joey picked out in black lettering. She had it pinned to her breast pocket the night before.
Irene’s guts seethed. “He made you wear your name tag? Pinned to your bare breast?”
Joey flopped back on the gurney and fighting angry tears she covered herself with the sheet; the white cotton shivering to the rhythm of her convulsions.
Irene had checked her camera to be sure the puncture wounds were visible. Satisfied, she patted Joey on the knee. They would get the bastard!
There was a soft resonating; bong. “We’ve been picked up on radar,” Bev announced. “We’ll be coming in from the south-west.”
“Roger. Your plane. Clear for landing. Contact Owens International, get permission and confirm our intentions. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“My plane,” Bev repeated so there could be no mistaking as to who was in command.
Irene slipped to her feet and swiveled her hips sideways to get around the case that blocked the cabin door. In the service area, she found Alex rinsing whiskey glasses.
“Can a girl find a cup of java on this flying pink pussy?”
Alex laughed, “Sure. Help yourself. It’s Jamaican.” And pointed to the machine with her chin. “Should she be left alone up there?” Alex was referring to the flight-deck where Bev was busy with the nav-computer.
“What? You think she’ll miss the island?”
“Well, it is small,” Alex confirmed, placing a glass on the rack.
“As you have probably noticed,” Irene said smugly, “I only poured myself half-a-cup. How long did you say you’ve worked for Scirocco?”
“Almost four years, now.” Alex didn’t look up from the sink where she was scouring another glass.
“And you like it?” Irene was trying to keep the conversation light.
“It’s fine, once you get past the men pinching you on the ass. I was with Western but looking for something different. Rob was overseas and I hated coming home to an empty house. So when I heard about the Casino and that I’d live on the Key for most of the time, I was intrigued. And the money they were offering was fabulous. Suddenly our dream of a cabin in the Rocky Mountains was a very real possibility. I had the means to make it happen. And all I had to do was parade my body around in heels and a swimsuit for a bunch of men I’d never met. I looked at it as a trade-off,” she uttered, her voice low and resigned. “And what about you? What’s your story in all this?”
Irene parked a hip against the stainless steel counter top. “After the crash in Sioux Falls I was blackballed by the industry. I was fired by United and couldn’t find work. No carrier would touch me. Then someone told me the Casino was looking for a pilot. I had a choice: Take my clothes off and fly the Bikini-Bus or work in a travel agency for the rest of my life. If I can get a couple of years in, I might land a seat back with a major airline. Who knows? But I guess I’d fly this thing naked if it meant being a pilot. You ever feel guilty about what we do? I mean, you have emotional ties to a man.”
Alex pursed her lips. “The fact that Rob is overseas helps, I guess. I don’t have to go home at night, look him in the eye and tell him the flight was uneventful. Don’t have to explain the bruises on my butt.”
“So you flew down to check things out.” Irene probed carefully, like she was looking for the worm in the apple.
“I had a first interview in Miami. Sandro keeps an office there. After, I flew down to meet Scirocco.” Alex placed another glass onto the rack. “We didn’t have the Bikini-Bus in those days and I thumbed a lift with a charter flight.”
“But Scirocco must have had plans.” Irene said.
“Oh yeah. He really wanted his own plane and wanted someone to help train an all-girl crew. That was me. I just about died when he explained how everyone would be required to wear swimsuits, but I guess you can get used to anything if you try hard enough. And after a few weeks I hardly thought about it anymore.”
“So you moved down and they billeted you in The Barracks?” The question didn’t come off sounding as innocent as Irene would have hoped.
Alex hesitated a moment, like she was taking time to sharpen her answer. “Actually no. For the first couple of months I shared the beach cabana, with Ditz.”