Crash Diet

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Bev took over control of the DC-9 at one-thousand feet; Irene read the numbers from the altimeter. Bev confirmed them and pushed the yoke forward. The plane swooped and Bev giggled, “Better turn on the seat-belt sign. Here we go.”

Irene got her first look at Cracker-Jax Key: It was small, maybe a couple miles long and shaped much like a leg of lamb: A meaty thigh with a long curved shank. There was a wide stretch of beach on the north coast that led to a high prominence of rock and where, etched against the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, a cluster of pink towers dominated the landscape.

Bisecting the center of the island, like someone had thrown a wooden plank down in a lush patch of garden, straight and featureless, was the landing strip. As Bev brought the plane in low, Irene studied the runway. There was no airport, only a line of waiting limousines, the drivers leaning against the fenders, faces up-turned as the DC-9 made a low pass. Bev pulled up, clearing the towers, and sailing out over the ocean again, she banked into a slow turn and got positioned in the glide path.

Irene was pleased that Bev handled the plane so well. She was a natural. Bev simply put her hands on the yoke and flew the bloody thing, without getting hung up on all the controls and instrumentation. Some pilots never got past the engineering and the electronics; the plane flew them. They were the pilots, in Irene’s experience, who were never truly comfortable behind the yoke. Bev on the other hand, having warmed to the aircraft, was clearly having fun. She made her final approach. “Wheels.”

Irene reached for the lever. “Gear down and locked. Five-hundred feet”

“Roger. Flaps down.”

“Flaps down.”

The plane dropped over a golf course, passed over the hatch marks and touched solidly on the rear wheels. Bev throttled back. “You’ve got her,” she announced when she felt the nose gear touch. Irene, with a hand on the tiller, steered the plane down the center of the runway.

“Reverse thrust.” Bev worked the throttles again. The engines wound up, the plane shuddered and decelerated rapidly. At the end of the runway, Irene brought the plane around to slide easily into place alongside the waiting cars. She watched the ground-attendants roll the boarding-steps into place.

Irene left Bev to run through the shutdown procedure and stepped out into the main cabin to glad-hand the departing passengers. She smiled and made casual conversation but it was Alex, standing opposite in her colorful two-piece, who was the recipient of all the attention. Irene noticed more than one male passenger reached out to pat Alex on the hip or squeeze her arm.

Once the guests had departed, Irene’s flight-attendants slipped into their lavender trench-coats and descended the steps single file. Irene was reminded of runway models at a fashion show. Not one girl was shorter than five-ten and all had been handpicked for their looks, legs and stately physique.

Bev Bane stepped from the flight-deck. “Home again,” she said. “Can’t wait for a rum punch.”

There were two Cadillac Escalades standing by to take Irene and her crew up to the hotel. Irene, still anxious to meet the girls, squeezed into the back of the lead SUV with two of the others and left the front seat for Bev.

“C’mon on, Melissa,” one of the girls called out. “Let’s go.”

The girl called Melissa stood on the apron of the landing strip, her platinum blond falling forward as she huddled over a cigarette. “Keep your bra on. I’m coming,” she shouted back. “I haven’t had a smoke in three hours.”

The girl sitting beside Irene shifted uncomfortably and caught Irene’s eyes. “I wish she’d quit. I’m Tracy.” And she shyly held out her hand.

Irene squeezed her fingers. “I remember when I quit. Practically killed me,” Irene remarked. “I put on ten pounds.”

Tracy gave Irene a small smile before shifting in her seat to make way for the blonde.

“Okay. I had to throw half of it away, but I’m done,” Melissa complained. “Hi. You’re our new skip?”

Irene looked beyond Tracy. “Don’t know. Haven’t been offered the job yet but I’m hopeful.”

“We’ll put in a good word for you. You found the island, after all. I’m Erin,” the girl on the opposite side said, her voice tinted with a gay country accent. She was a candid redhead, with a flourish of blond and freckles bridging her nose. She didn’t wear much makeup and there was an intriguing freshness about her that made one think of mountain air and a wide open sky.

Their driver was a Haitian-lad who didn’t speak English but once everyone was settled, he announced, “Ron?”

Bev squealed from the front seat. “Who’s up for punch?”

Alex, the head stew, had a strict rule about drinking and flying so after two hours of re-cycled air and a bunch of juvenile men to babysit, the girls were ready: “Ooh yes, please!” “God, I’m dying over here!” “Hurry!” “Stop talking and pour!” was the excited chorus from the back.

The driver passed a big orange thermos jug to Bev. She balanced it on the center armrest and twisted the spigot; filling plastic cups with frothy pink booze and handing them back between the seats.

Irene took a sip. It was strong but bitter-sweet and icy cold. The jolt from the rum felt good in her throat and slipped down easily. Her next sip was more of a swallow.

“Not many passengers this time out,” Irene said to Melissa.

“Happens sometimes. But not often. With a full load of seventy, we’re kept pretty busy but with only a couple of dozen, it’s more like a flying party. The smaller groups are definitely more fun.”

Erin leaned forward, mischief sparking her dark eyes. “Fun as in getting asked to take your top off?”

Irene studied Melissa more closely and now recognized her as the girl who had thrown her arms around Alex. “Does that happen often?” Irene asked.

Melissa smiled widely and passed her cup forward for a refill. “Couple of times each season and usually with the smaller groups, where things tend to get more chummy.”

“And would you have done it?” Irene couldn’t help but ask.

Melissa retrieved her glass and took a sip. “I won’t say that I haven’t,” she said, flipping blond bangs from her eyes. “But with Alex there, I figured I was safe enough. I knew she wasn’t about to play the game. She’s married, you know, and keeps a tight rein on her p***y. Her husband, Rob, is a super nice guy so I understand where Alex is coming from. If I had a guy like Rob I wouldn’t be messing around neither.”

“Sounds like you have a great deal of respect for Alex.”

Tracy leaned forward again. “Alex is the best. If you have a problem, personal or work related, you can always turn to Alex.”

Melissa bristled. “You only like Alex because she watches out for you.”

Tracy was stilled by the remark and directed her gaze out of the Cadillac’s window.

“Remember that guy who kept shoving his hand down the front of Debbie’s swimsuit?” Erin interjected coming to Tracy’s defense. “Alex stepped in and threatened to throw the guy off the plane from forty-thousand feet. Remember?” she said with a disarming giggle. “Alex was so ferocious, the guy actually believed her.”

“Plus she outweighed him by fifty pounds,” Bev added from the front seat. “And stood at least two-feet taller. She could have beaten the crack outta him.”

Irene was beginning to like Alex more and more.

“We’re almost to the hotel,” Bev continued, facing the windshield. “Last call.”

Irene held out an empty glass and sighed. She hadn’t felt this contented in a long, long time.

The Cadillac SUV pulled into a circular drive and parked under the pink arched portico. The girls piled out of the backseat and stood on the tiles behind the last of the men waiting their turn at the reception desk where five staff members in smart blue uniforms hustled to confirm reservations and assign rooms.

Irene breathed deeply. The ocean air was crisp and clean and the fragrance of frangipani and hibiscus filled her sinuses causing her to feel slightly lightheaded. The trade winds were gentle on her skin and tickled the hairs along her arms. She could hear the Caribbean Sea piling up on the beach; a constant murmur like the contented breathing of a large cat. A movement in the bushes caught her eye and she saw a scarlet macaw staring back at her, the bird’s head turned to one side so it could focus more clearly.

The expression spirited a laugh and Irene pointed the bird out to Erin.

“Yes, they’re lovely,” Erin said, “there’s three more. See?” She indicated a stand of bamboo on the far side of the driveway where the foot-tall parrots in their crimson feathers shifted their feet nervously and regarded the new arrivals with caution. “I don’t think they’re native to the island,” Erin said, “but they’re magnificent all the same. Don’t have anything like ‘em back home.” Her accent was quite distinct.

“You’re from Ireland?” Irene asked.

“Northern Ireland. Bangor. A quaint little town outside of Belfast. Miss it sometimes. Me grand-mum runs the ice cream factory.”

“Sounds delightful. When we get a chance you must tell me more.”

“You must be Ross.”

Irene turned at the sound of her name. A large woman pushed herself up from the reception desk where she had been leaning in and chatting with one of the attendants.

She approached Irene and extended a hand. “I can tell– you’re the only one dressed.” She ran her eyes over Irene’s skirt. “Name’s Daisy, by the way,” she said and squeezed Irene’s fingers. “Yeah, I know,” she continued when Irene’s eyes came up, “stupid name. My parents were part of the Haight-Ashbury crowd in Frisco. Flower Power, that’s me. Call me Ditz, everyone does.”

“I’m happy to know you, ah, Ditz,” Irene managed, feeling a little overwhelmed by the woman’s in-your-face candor.

Ditz was a hard boiled blonde. A woman who smoked Marlborough’s, could win a hand of cards, carried a Smith & Wesson and wasn’t squeamish about where a man put his hands. The type of woman who liked red meat, a straight drink and could romp with the best of them. A big broad that had been around the block more than once and who wore the scars proudly as her rite of passage. She had splashy green eyes and a dangerous mouth.

Ditz looked down. “Is that the only luggage you got?” She was focused on Irene’s small carry-on case that was balanced on two wheels.

“Mmm. Traveling light. Don’t know if I’m full-time yet.”

Ditz ran her eyes over the angles of Irene’s hips and breasts once again. “You’ll fill out a bathing-suit just fine. I wouldn’t worry. C’mon.” And she scooped up Irene’s suitcase like it was no more than a toy, “You’re bunkin’ in with me.”

“I am?” Irene jumped as the handle of her case was wrenched from her fingers.

“Sure. We’ll have a blast.” And turning, Ditz almost knock Sandro onto his ass. She was a solid customer.

Sandro scrambled to regain his balance. “Watch it you, you god-damned tree,” he sneered.

Ditz blinked a look of wonder. “Oh, see what the tide washed in: A friggin’ whale turd; left it high and dry and stinkin’ up the place. The dogs missed you the last couple of weeks, Sandro; you know how they love sniffin’ shit.”

The girls standing around had started to giggle and the color came up in Sandro’s face. “I’ll fuckin’ have you for that,” he threatened, eyeing the audience that had gathered ‘round.

“You will?” Ditz shot back in amazement. “Your little dinky isn’t long enough to get past my pubies, Sandro. Do me a favor and send ‘round one of the Haitian boys. If I’m gonna get f****d, I might as well feel something.” Ditz grabbed Irene by the shoulder and propelled her towards the pathway. “C’mon, Irene. Let’s get outta here before we suffocate on the man’s stinkin’ charm.”