Crash Diet

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

“Well how did it go?” Ditz was standing at the stove with water on the boil. She wore a tight white sweater that made her t**s look soft and welcoming. And nothing else. She was naked below the waist; not even shoes. “You want a cup of broth for lunch?”

“Does it have rum in it?”

Ditz scoffed. “No, silly. It’s broth. I serve the rum on the side.”

Irene slid onto one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar. “I thought he was going to offer me the job but instead he told me there’re two other younger women applying.”

“What two other women? You want beef or chicken, fresh from the box.”

“Chicken, I guess. Don’t know what other women but he thinks they may be better suited. I guess he’s thinking they’ll fill out a bikini better than I can. And as I was leaving, he offered to buy my panties.”

Ditz stopped stirring and her eyes rolled up. “Your panties?”

“Yeah. Offered me a thousand bucks if I would let him watch while I took them off.”

Ditz chuckled deep from within her chest. “Now that sounds like the Charlie we all know and love.”

“Charlie?”

Ditz focused in on her pot and added pepper. “Yeah. Charlie Scirocco. And if you’re asking me, you’ve landed the job.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Hey, I know Charlie Scirocco better than any woman on this island. He’s an odds-on guy from way back. And let me tell you, there aren’t any younger women looking to pilot the Bikini-Bus. Charlie was playing you; seeing what he could get for himself.”

“You mean he figured I would put out, just to get the job?”

“Oh yeah. Ten will get you twenty that he fully expected to lean you over that big ugly desk of his. But you didn’t play to his hand, right?”

“Right. I just couldn’t.”

Ditz poured steaming broth into mugs and handed one across. Her bare bum squeaked on the vinyl as she parked her haunches on a stool. “Good girl! You played him just right, sweetie. He’s not going to give up on you so he has to keep you around. The job’s yours, I guarantee it.”

Irene didn’t know whether or not to believe Ditz but there was a great sense of relief in knowing she wasn’t counted out of the game. Not yet anyway. She sipped her broth, ate a dry cracker, and planned her next move. If Ditz was right, and Scirocco was determined to get into her pants, she had to decide if she would let him. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how limited her options were.

She had granted a favor to Carlos Sandro, so would one more hurt? A job, offering her and her money a place to hide in the Caribbean was undeniably tempting; seemingly the answer to all of her problems. So, in return for a quick f**k on top of Scirocco’s desk, she got her life back. Could she do that? Sure. Would she do that? –Christ! Did she have a choice?

Toby was a stocky man, his tummy pushing at the front of mechanic’s overalls. He was well into his sixties. “Hey Cap,” he bellowed cheerily when he saw Irene striding across the airstrip. “Hear we’re flying tomorrow.”

Irene took to the man instantly. “You do the maintenance yourself?”

“Oh sure. Can’t trust these Haitian laddies. They’re good for passin’ the tools or throwing in some muscle where it counts, but it’s my hand on the plane. Always. And any real work is handled in Miami, but I’ll fuel you up and do the pre-flight check. I’ve been at this for close on fifty years and haven’t lost a bird yet.”

“Good to hear,” Irene gripped him by the shoulder. “So everything’s in order.”

“Everything ‘cept that god-awful paintwork. I’ve been working on this plane for three years and I still shudder at the sight of all that blush. C’mon, have a look around, Cap.” He proudly led the way across the concrete landing strip to where the Bikini-Bus basked in the afternoon sun.

Toby pointed to the landing struts. “Changed out all the hydraulic seals three weeks ago; they were dribbling a bit. Don’t want that stuff on the tires; it’ll eat ‘em up.”

Irene looked at the glistening hydraulic rams. “Thankless job that. A lot of work just to change a few Turcon seals. Used to help my dad on his Beechcraft Baron.”

“Ah, so you’re a hands-on pilot.”

“Try to be. My dad used to say that if he did the job himself, he knew it was done right, but it’s getting harder to keep up with the technology.”

“Ah… all that mumbo-jumbo, just to keep the air under the foils. I remember the days when we flew with wires and silk. Worked fine.” Toby leaned against the tire and loaded his pipe, carefully tamping down the tobacco. “I used to work out of Miami, before I retired. Know all them blokes on the ground crew. I’ll be giving you a shopping list from time to time, if that’s okay, for seals, gaskets, lubricants, washers. You know, various small parts. The guys in Miami will look after you.”

“Happy to do it, Toby. You like working on the island?”

“Suits my temperament at this stage of life. Lost me missus back in two thousand and seven. This fills the time.”

“I’m sorry.” Irene touched his sleeve.

“Oh don’t be of no concern, Cap. Me and the missus had us a good life together. No complaints. You married?”

“No. Never found the time somehow, and now? Well it’s a bit late, I guess.”

“Ahh.” Toby puffed on his pipe and was astute enough not to comment. Irene appreciated the fact.

“So we’re good for tomorrow,” Irene confirmed.

“She’ll be ready and waiting at nine. We’ll do the final pre-flight and you lift off at ten.”

“Excellent.” Irene turned to go, but had a thought. “You ever hear of a pilot by the name of Brad English?”

Toby’s pipe wobbled between his teeth and he removed it from his mouth and studied it for a moment. “He a friend of yours?” he asked without catching Irene’s eye.

“No. We flew together for a time is all. And it was Brad who told me about this job.”

Toby finally looked up. He took a moment to determine if Irene was being truthful and once satisfied, pushed up off the tire. “He’s a badden, that one. I’d stay away if I was you.”

Irene noticed the change in Toby. The sudden coolness. “So you do know him.”

“He’d fly in here from time to time.”

“The Bikini-Bus?”

Toby checked his pipe, a buy for time as he sorted his thoughts. “Naw. It was a Gulfstream he was flyin’ and always late at night. I’d have to come down to the landing strip to make sure the silly lights worked. You can key them with your radio mike when you’re in the glide path, but the ground electronics are iffy. It’s the salt air. It’s hellish on the electrics. So I’d have to come down and throw the switch by hand. Always after midnight. And he’d fly out again an hour later.”

“So what was it about?” Irene’s curiosity was peaked.

“Don’t know, Cap. I keep my nose clean and don’t ask questions. But he was up to no good, that’s fer sure. You best keep your distance is the best advice I can give you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to arrange for a fuel delivery. It ‘taint like home where we just turn the tap.” And Toby tucked his pipe into his pocket and sauntered toward the maintenance shed.

Irene watched him go. Who the hell was Brad English? She thought. And why had he been so helpful?

The wheels left the pavement the following morning at preciously ten o’clock. Irene ramped up to forty-thousand feet, set the autopilot and rechecked her waypoints in the nav-computer. With her mind at ease, she settled in for the ride. It was a perfect day for flying. The wind was light, there was no humidity and without a cloud in the sky, visibility was forever.

But Irene couldn’t help wonder if this was the last time she would ever pilot an airliner. With the nagging feeling she would not be returning to Cracker-Jax Key, she had packed her meager travel wardrobe and said good bye. Ditz had scoffed at the thought she wouldn’t be back and Irene was praying that Ditz was right about Scirocco angling for a quick lay. That the two young candidates competing for the pilot’s seat were bogus and just his way of pressuring her out of her pants.

And if Ditz was right, taking off her clothes may still be an option and something she would have to consider. She shuddered when she thought of her friend’s advice: Give it a year. Take a job at a travel agency...

Flying a desk was, in her mind, unthinkable and would, in all likelihood, amount to career suicide.

Alex broke into her gloomy thoughts. “Coffee’s on.” She sang out and ducked to avoid the cabin overhead.

“Oh goody,” Bev perked up and swiveled in the right-hand seat. “Biscuits?”

Alex took in Bev’s itsy-bitsy chartreuse bikini bottoms and gave Irene a look of despondency. “I remember when I didn’t have to worry about what a biscuit would do to my waistline.”

Irene smiled. “Just coffee for me, thanks.”

Alex passed Irene a mug and the biscuits went to Bev who started munching happily. “We got a two day layover in Miami. Everyone’s excited about doing some shopping.”

“Not me,” Irene said. “I’ve got a flight back to Atlanta. Need to pick up my car and get on home. My mailbox will be stuffed. Is Scirocco onboard?”

“Yeah, forward bulkhead; he’s by himself in the window seat and every time Debbie steps in to freshen his drink he runs a hand up her leg and slips his fingers inside her bottoms. He has her cornered. Scirocco’s always had a thing for Debbie, she’s such a sweet girl; it must make a nice change for him. If it was anyone but Scirocco, I’d intervene. Have a few choice, if not subtle words to say.” Alex shrugged. “But it is Scirocco. What can I do? Anyway, Debbie’s being very good about it but I’m sure when we reach Miami, I’ll have to talk her out of quitting again. She’s just too nice for this kind of work.”

“Want me to go back and sit with him?” Irene offered.

“Thanks, but no. That would be too obvious and just upset him; make things worse for everyone. Debbie will just have to put up with the intrusion for another hour.” Alex gathered up the empty mugs.

Irene remembered Debbie as a quiet girl, a brunette with large liquid eyes and a shy, but compelling smile. Debbie couldn’t be any older than eighteen and she was fifty-two. What, Irene thought, could Scirocco possibly see in a fifty-two year old woman?

Irene looked down and saw Great Iguana, the southernmost Bahamian island rising up out of the foamy turquoise. The view from forty-thousand feet was picture-postcard perfect. And the realization came over her as abruptly as a saltwater wave closing over her head: Her whole life, all she had ever wanted was to fly. And now, faced with all she had worked so hard to gain being taken from her, she wanted this job more than anything. And was prepared to sacrifice anything to keep it. Even if it meant sleeping with Charlie Scirocco. He could have her body, if that’s what he wanted, use her any way he wanted. She would perform for him; bestow any favor he requested. As long as he allowed her to fly.

Her mind finally made up, she felt strangely at peace with herself, watching Great Iguana pass beneath her wingtips. But the euphoria was short lived. There was a rap at the cabin door and Charlie Scirocco stepped through and hunched between the seats.