Crash Diet

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The next morning, with a drink to beef her courage, Irene arranged her lists and started dialing numbers. She was down to the last of it: Flight Schools. She remembered the old adage: Those who can’t, teach. Maybe she could land a job as a flight instructor. But after a dozen calls, she began to lose her resolve. Some came flat out and said they weren’t hiring. Others offered to keep her information on file and others said she was over qualified. The snap refusals left little room for argument and Irene didn’t humiliate herself by trying. She simply said thank you and hung up. Irene poured herself another drink.

She was just swirling her ice cubes when her phone warbled. “Irene? Yeah, it’s Brad.” Brad English; her old co-pilot.

“Brad. My God, it’s been months,” Irene harkened to his voice, desperate to talk with anyone who she perceived as being on the inside. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Still riding shotgun, but I’ll get my four bars next year and be piloting my own plane. Plus I’ve got a little something cooking on the side. I’m a partner in a small charter company; arranging travel schedules for business execs mostly; shuttling them around the country. How about you?”

Irene sipped her drink, aware of the tinkle the ice cubes made in the phone. “I was afraid you’d ask. I’ve been looking for a new seat ever since United sprung me loose. No one seems to be hiring.”

“Yeah, I heard you’ve been scuffing around.”

“You heard?”

“Everyone has, Irene. You’re the latest inside joke. Sorry.”

Irene slumped in her chair and felt the heat rise in her neck. An inside joke. That’s what she was, a joke.

“Look, Irene. I didn’t call to chat. I may have something for you. It’s not much, really, but if you can convince these guys you can handle their plane, I don’t think they’ll care much about the accident. In fact, I doubt if they’ve even heard of a crash in Sioux Falls. Interested?”

Irene was on her feet pacing the room. “Are you kidding me? You bet I’m interested. I just spent the morning being turned down by flight schools, for christ-sake. What kinda plane?”

“An old DC-9. You were co-pilot in one, right? That’s what made me think of you.”

“Sure. Sat in the right-hand seat for years. I know that plane inside, out.”

“It’s one of the seventy-two seat models, old but well maintained, and owned by a resort on an island in the Caribbean. They use it to shuttle guests back and forth to Miami International. Well the story is their regular pilot got into some kind of trouble, family trouble I heard, and the plane’s stuck in Miami. The guy I know says the resort owners are desperate to get their plane back and are looking for a pilot. I think if you drop everything and get your butt to Miami, you’ll have yourself a flight that, in all probability, will lead to something permanent. I can make a call for you but you’ll have to act fast.”

“Christ,” Irene was bewildered. “How fast?”

“I’d jump a flight this afternoon. I’ll make my call and set something up for later today. You could be flying as early as tomorrow morning. Can you do it?”

A list of things she had to do was already formulating in her mind. “I’ll be on my way to the airport in an hour. Make the call. And thank you, Brad. I owe you big time.”

Brad just chuckled and disconnected.

Irene left her car in the long-term parking at Atlanta International and took the shuttle bus. She got out at the employees’ entrance and smiled at the guard. He nodded and went back to his newspaper. Good. Irene still had a few friends at the airport and she managed to wangle a two o’clock flight to Miami. She was sitting in Departures, worrying, when Brad English finally called her back.

“Irene? You set?”

“Just getting ready to board. I’m flying Delta, Flight 453; it gets me into Miami at four o’clock.”

“Perfect. Once you arrive get yourself booked into the Hilton Miami International. It’s the one right by the airport. The guy’s name is Sandro, Carlos Sandro, got it?”

“I’m writing it down. He have a phone number?”

“Probably, but I don’t have his confidence. Look, he’ll be in the dining room at seven o’clock. Ask the maître d’ to seat you. Sandro will buy you dinner. And Irene, wear a nice smile and something flashy. Impress this guy and you’ll have a dream-job. Trust me.”

“For a dream-job I’ll blow him.” Irene tried to make light of it.

Brad didn’t laugh. “In all seriousness, that would help.”

Irene took a hard swallow. “So who is this Carlos Sandro?”

“He’s sort of an odd-job guy. Runs and fetches for the Resort owner. And like I said, they are desperate for a pilot. If Sandro likes you, you’re in. But he knows nothing about planes and flying so don’t bore him with your qualifications. He’ll ask you if you can fly the plane. Just say yes, and turn on the charm. Understand? I’ve met this guy and know where he’s coming from.”

“You’re not suggesting...?”

“Look Irene, I’m not suggesting anything. You need a job, and he has one available. Play it by ear. Just be in the Hilton’s dining room at seven. I’ve gotta run. Good luck.” And he was gone.

Irene stared blankly at her phone. If she hadn’t spent the last few months suffering rejection after rejection, she would have stood up and retreated safely home.

Her stomach did a twist. “Delta, flight number 453, Atlanta to Miami, is now boarding. Passengers please make their way to Gate 49.”

The flight to Miami was on schedule and landed a few minutes before four. Irene had traveled light with just a carry-on bag and Brad’s suggestion to wear something flashy gnawed at her. She now wished she had more options. She had her tight navy skirt which showed off the curves of her hips and the length of her legs, but the uniform shirt with tie, left something to be desired. It might look professional but for a dinner meeting, something a bit softer might be called for. Irene checked her wallet before waving down a cab.

“I’m at the local Hilton,” Irene instructed the cabby, “but need a clean blouse. Is there a women’s shop on the way?”

“Sure ma’am,” the young Hispanic talked into his rear view mirror. “I assume you want something a little more classy than Target?”

Irene smiled. “It’s a job interview.”

“I know just the place.”

Beth’s was a specialty shop that sold casual wear and lingerie. Irene went straight to a rack of blouses and sorted out her size. Beth helped her choose a sheer white blouse with an eye-beckoning neckline. It was see-through but a course of soft frills veiled her breasts. And at ninety-five dollars, Irene thought it a good investment in her future.

In her hotel room, Irene steamed the wrinkles from her skirt, laid out nude pantyhose and unpacked her leather pumps. She debated wearing a lacy bra but eventually placed it back in her travel bag. This was her last chance at flying, she realized. And if a little feminine softness could help sway a man’s decision, well, she concluded, she was not above using the charms her mother had bequeathed.

Carlos Sandro was a beefy guy in his fifties. He wore a pinky ring on each of his fat hands. And though the dining room was cool and quite comfortable, he perspired heavily and gulped cold red wine to help compensate.

“So you’re the lady pilot.” He looked up from the table as the maître d’ helped her with the chair.

“Irene Ross,” she introduced herself and watched his eyes flicker as she leaned forward to take her seat. Her unhaltered breasts were roaming beneath the sheer blouse. “You’re looking for someone to deliver a DC-9?”

“I hope I’ve found someone to deliver a DC-9.” He turned his attention to the maître d’. “I’m ready to order.”

“Certainly sir. I’ll send your waiter.”

“Look, Ross,” his gaze drifted back, “I want to be having lunch tomorrow, on the beach at Cracker-Jax Key, before the bloodsuckers here in Miami drain me. Can do?”

“You provide the plane, fueled, and I’ll fly it. This Cracker-Jax Key? That’s where the resort is located?”

“Resort? Where’d you get the idea it’s a resort? It’s a Casino. One of the best this side of Vegas. Cards, slots, roulette, showgirls. Lots of action.”

“I see. And the island?”

“Located off the south shore of Haiti, though we don’t tend to publicize that. Haiti has a reputation for the crazies, and richly deserved too: Corruption, poverty, voodoo and hurricanes. Wonderful fuckin’ place.”

A man dressed in a dinner jacket approached their table and held up a pad. “Ma’am?”

Irene ran her eyes over the menu. She was hungry but didn’t want to be slowed down by a heavy meal. “I’ll have the roast salmon salad with a glass of the house white.”

Sandro snorted. “Bring me the sixteen ounce porterhouse smothered in fried onions. And the baker potato with extra butter and sour cream.”

“Very good, sir. And how would you like your steak?”

“Pittsburgh. And bring another bottle of red. And be sure it’s cold this time.”

“Yes sir. It’s already on ice.”

Sandro watched the waiter retreat. “Snotty-nose.”

“I’ve never heard of Cracker-Jax Key,” Irene said.

“When Haiti had it, it was called Vache, or something: Cow Island.” Sandro was contemplating the slope of Irene’s breasts again. “We had to rename the place; name’s got something to do with the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks.”

“Very imaginative. Do you mind if I ask, Mr. Sandro? Do you like my breasts?”

His eyes came up.

“It’s just that you haven’t looked me in the face since I arrived.” Irene smiled to show him she wasn’t offended. “I have other attributes.”

Sandro shrugged it off. “Hey. What can I say. You gotta nice rack for an older broad. I’m only human.”

“I got a nice rack, as you call it, for any woman; young or old.”

“Hey, I like your spunk, Irene,” he chuckled. “I got a car waitin’ outside. After we eat I’ll drive you ‘round to the airport. Show you your plane.”

She had done it, played him just right. She was feeling airborne. The offer had come almost too quickly and Irene knew she should be worried about that, but she took a deep breath. She was past being fussy; she needed a job and living on a Caribbean island might help keep the debt collectors at bay.