Irene’s senses jolted. One of the Casino’s utility trucks slew around the curve in a cloud of dust, the driver fighting the wheel and traveling as fast as the loose gravel would allow. He jumped the pavement at the edge of the landing strip and screeched to a full stop, Tracy jumped from the passenger side and skirted around the back of the truck.
She hit the boarding-steps at full tilt, her superb legs pumping in the opening of her lavender trench coat, taking the steps two at a time. Her toe caught and on the last step she fell into Irene’s outstretched arms. “It’s Debbie,” Tracy gasped, looking up. “Her father’s dead.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“It was horrible.” Tracy’s voice trembled and she forced back tears. “They were racing him to the hospital and Debbie was on the phone to him the whole time. There was me and Alex and we both heard him gasp and the heart monitor flat-lined. We heard it. Debbie was screaming into the phone for them to do something. There was a moment of dead-space before her mom came on. She told Debbie it was finished.”
Irene slumped against the side of the plane. “Oh Jesus,” she repeated. “How is she?”
“Not good.” Tracy was searching in her pocket for tissues. “She was screaming and threw a chair. She started beating the wall with her fists and that’s when Alex grabbed her and wrestled her down; used her weight, before Debbie could hurt herself. Doctor Evens gave her a shot. It was something strong because now she’s almost comatose. Alex has her. They are on the way.”
“On the way? Here?”
“They were loading Debbie into a truck, Tracy said, “when they sent me on ahead. She’s in no condition to work but she wants to be with her mom. And to see her father.”
“Well sure,” Irene sympathized.
“Alex got on the phone and Debbie has a connecting flight in Miami. She’ll be back in Sacramento late this afternoon,” Tracy said.
“Okay.” Irene felt the adrenaline pumping. “You wait for them. Get Debbie aboard and take her forward. Put her in one of the jumper seats. Once you have her strapped in, let me know. We are standing by for takeoff.”
Tracy sobered. “Got it.”
“Let the others know what’s happened, but not one word to the passengers. Understand?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Good. We’ve both got work to do. I’m counting on you.”
“Thank you,” Tracy said, and wondered why she couldn’t have had a mother named Irene that might have protected her from her father.
Moments later, there was a knock on the cabin door and Tracy stuck her head through. “Go!” was all she said.
The plane was already poised at the end of the runway. “I’ve got the tiller,” Irene said.
“Brakes off. Takeoff roll,” Bev confirmed. They placed their hands on the control throttles and the DC-9 thundered down the runway. “Coming up,” Bev called out over the clattering engines.
“You’ve got her,” Irene answered and lifted her hand from the tiller.
“Wheels,” Bev said.
“Gear up,” Irene confirmed, placing a hand on the lever.
And at nine twenty-six the Bikini-Bus hauled up into the blue, blue Caribbean skies; and in the service area, a sad little contingency hovered about their stricken friend.
Irene was struck by how fleeting beauty could be. She was watching Alex push Debbie’s limp body, strapped into a wheelchair, up the boarding ramp at Miami International. Just yesterday the vibrant young woman was quipping about Bran English in a bikini and today, she was a broken empty husk. She had prostituted herself and lost every penny to a medical system that made no excuses for sucking people dry. And in the end, she had lost her father anyway.
Well at least she was going home. USAir was holding a cross-country flight, poised to whisk Debbie to Los Angeles where she would be joined by her mother and two brothers. Irene silently wished her well and goodbye, doubting if she would ever see the girl again.
But Irene didn’t have time to dwell on the unfairness of Debbie’s plight. She had her own connecting flight, to Atlanta. In the empty cockpit she stripped off her swimsuit and hung it in the locker. From her flight-case, she unfolded jeans and a cotton shirt. Irene pulled on underpants, dressed and laced up Reeboks.
She cleared immigration and was just placing her passport into her shoulder bag when her fingers brushed her cell phone. A thought struck her and she stood to one side to make the call.
“Pamela? Yes, it’s Irene, dear. I promised you a flying lesson, remember? And I have something else you might be interested in. Do you own a cute little bikini?”
In Atlanta, Irene got her BMW from the long term parking lot and drove home. A young man was already standing in her driveway. She did a last look through the glove box before lifting her empty flight-case from the trunk and handing across the keys.
Irene felt like a trespasser in her own home. All the furniture had been removed, her paintings lifted from the walls, her plants gone, and her footsteps echoed noisily, like a stranger’s, on the tile. In the bedroom she opened the closet. There wasn’t much left.
She folded two cocktail dresses, two skirts and two blouses into her flight-case. Irene added three pairs of shoes and checked the bathroom cupboards. Nothing.
As she was leaving, she saw the vodka stain on the carpet and felt the movement in her chest. Had it only been a month? God, it might as well have been a hundred years ago. Her whole life seemed to have pivoted around a mark in the carpet. Irene shook herself, abruptly turned on a heel and closed the door behind.
The car’s horn sounded in the drive. Irene went out and the cab driver helped lift her case into his trunk. “The airport,” Irene told the man.
“Nice day for flying,” he returned, backing down the drive.
He dropped her off at Departures and Irene made her way upstairs to the lounge. Pamela was already seated at a table but jumped when she saw Irene striding toward her. “Irene,” she cried falling into a comfortable embrace. “I never thought I’d ever see you again.”
The girl’s sincerity brought the light to Irene’s face and she laughed. “I’m so glad you could make the trip.”
They both ordered the shrimp salad. “So fill me in. How’s the new job?” Pamela wanted to know.
“It’s fun. You’ll see. We’ll be sharing the room I have on the beach. We fly down to the island tomorrow.”
“From Miami?”
“Yes. I sold my Piper to Reid, a buddy from the flying club. He’ll be along shortly and we’ll take the Piper to Miami. You’ll finally get your first flying lesson. Tomorrow you join my crew.”
“And I have to wear my bikini.”
“Yup. All the girls do. It ties into the theme of a beach resort,” Irene explained.
“Cool.”
Bran English stood listlessly at the podium repeatedly tapping the microphone with his fingernails. If the friggin’ sound man doesn’t figure out the problem soon, Brad thought, glumly watching the guy adjusting knobs on his board, I’ll have to phone somebody else. He checked his watch again and vowed to give the guy another ten minutes before he pulled the plug.
Behind him, the Bikini-Bus glistened in the morning sunlight, still dripping water from an early morning pressure-wash. In front, three rows of folding chairs had been set up to accommodate visiting dignitaries and representatives of the press.
His heart did a lift when he spied Irene Ross stepping through the glass doors of the Miami terminal and stride purposely toward him with a young girl in tow. Irene was a stirring sight in her heels; the lavender trench-coat she wore, flapping about nude legs and her hair swirling about her shoulders in the light offshore breeze.
The younger girl, extending her step to keep up with the taller woman, was seriously cute and Brad had a momentary mother/daughter fantasy rifle his brain, but as the women got closer, any family resemblance he had conjured up, evaporated. Along with one of his lifetime goals.
Irene found her plane, not at the gate, but parked on the apron with a set of boarding-steps that had been pilfered from a maintenance hangar.
Brad, in his new uniform jacket and standing behind the podium looked more like a third world dictator, Irene imagined, than an airline pilot. The uniform was a deep navy and had been expertly tailored to emphasis his height and trim waistline. The shoulders were padded. The jacket was trimmed in gold piping and sported over-sized epaulets with three gold bars that matched the braids on his cuffs. He wore a crisp white shirt and a red Republican tie. When he saw her coming, Brad straightened and his chest appeared to puff. Don’t even think about it, Irene thought to herself.
She nodded in passing and led the way to the boarding-steps. Pamela followed her up. They ducked under the door, turned in the service area and Irene held open the cabin door. “Here’s the office,” she said.
Pamela stepped past. “Holy,” she exclaimed, turning full circle to take in the bewildering array of instrumentation. “It’s nothing like the Piper.”
Irene smiled to herself, reached, and opened the locker. “No. Nothing like the Piper. Here. Hang up your coat.”
Pamela slipped her arms from the London Fog she was wearing to hide her compact body from the inquisitive eyes of the business men who hunkered in the terminal with eye-popping coffee held in shaky hands and guarding hungry looks for flight-attendants. Pamela’s open coat revealed a white bikini covered with sexy red poke-a-dots.
“Sit there,” Irene pointed to the right-hand control seat, “until the others arrive. Then I’ll introduce you ’round.”
Irene hung her vinyl coat next to Pamela’s, curled into the left-hand seat and slipped on her headphones. She hit the main breaker switch and the control panel came to life, glowing warmly like a living thing. Irene lifted her clipboard from its rack and began working her way through the pre-flight checklist.
Ten minutes later, there was a tap at the cabin door and Alex stuck her head in. “Heard we got a new stew.” She had a wide smile for the girl in the co-pilot’s seat.
“This is Pamela,” Irene said without looking up. “She’ll fill in for Debbie during the junket to Colombia. Could you show her the ropes?”
“Sure. The others have boarded. Shall I take Pamela back and make the introductions? Or would you rather…”
“No, please,” Irene replied, “you perform the honors. Do I have a co-pilot back there?”
“Bev’s aboard. Brad’s gone back into the terminal.”
Irene let out an exasperated sigh. “Poor Bev. Apologize for me, but send her forward. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Alex backed out. “C’mon Pamela. I’ll introduce you to the girls.”
When Alex stepped into the service area she found Bev already making her way toward the flight-deck. As she passed Pamela, Bev looked straight into the younger girl’s eyes and exclaimed: “Wow. Someone normal-sized for a change. Hi. I’m Bev. We’ll get along famously!” And she gave Pamela a warm rock-a-billy hug before stepping toward the cabin door.
“I saw Brad headed toward the terminal,” Bev explained to Irene, “I figured you could use a hand.”