Lovers and Gamblers
Page 57
Desperately she thought of what lie would make everything all right. ‘I know his sister,’ she stammered.
‘How do you know his sister?’ he asked curiously. ‘I didn’t even know he had one.’
‘She works at the hairdresser I go to,’ Cristina lied. ‘My mother likes her – feels sorry for her. Sometimes she comes to the house.’
‘Look, why don’t we buy some magazines and go on home,’ said Louis, suddenly bored by the whole thing. ‘They have American Vogue, and look – a new edition of Motor Sport.’ He took out his wallet. ‘Anything else you want?’
‘I’m doing this favour for my mother,’ Cristina said quickly, ‘she asked me to help Nino’s sister.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nino’s going to meet us here. I promised we would help him see Al King’s plane.’
Louis stared at her. ‘Are you mad? How would that help his sister?’
‘It’s a long story, very complicated. Please help me, Louis. Honestly, it’s very important. I promised my mother we would help, I promised.’ She was near to genuine tears.
‘This is crazy,’ he said, completely bewildered.
‘If you love me you’ll help me.’
‘But, Cristina…’
‘Oh look, here comes Nino now. Please, Louis, please. I’ll explain it all to you later, but please don’t ask questions now.’
* * *
There were no press at the airport. Al’s departure had been kept a secret. They were able to transfer from the helicopter to the plane with no fuss at all.
Holding Dallas’s hand he strode through the jet to his private bedroom at the back, barely pausing to nod at his two stewardesses.
Bernie greeted them with his usual dirty jokes, and they laughed and asked about the show.
Paul sat down, opened up a table and laid out some contracts that he wanted to go over.
Evan strapped himself into an isolated window seat and continued putting work in on the spot he was attacking.
Two key journalists had been invited along for the trip. They sat up near the front, hopeful that Al would eventually emerge.
‘Is that everyone, Mr. Suntan?’ stewardess Cathy inquired.
‘That’s it,’ replied Bernie. ‘We’re empty this trip.’
‘We’ll close up then.’
As she spoke, Cristina Maraco came running along the ramp leading onto the plane. She was flushed and breathless.
‘Oh!’ she gasped, ‘we made it!’
The two journalists looked at her in surprise. Bernie waddled over. ‘What do you want, girlie?’ he asked, thinking she was a fan. ‘And how the heck did you get on here?’
‘The man at the desk let me through. He said it was all right. I’m Cristina Maraco – remember – we met at the airport when you arrived – and at the party last night. I’m Louis Baptista’s fiancée. Louis, Carlos Baptista’s son. Didn’t Señor Baptista telephone you?’
‘Should he have?’
‘Oh yes – he said he would. You see he wants you to take us to São Paulo with you – he wants Louis to be there early to organize some things to do with the concert tomorrow.’
She spotted Evan and waved. ‘Hi – good to see you again. Oh and there’s Señor King’s brother,’ she called out desperately. ‘Hello – remember me?’
Paul hardly glanced up.
Bernie scratched his head. ‘So where is Louis?’ He remembered him, a nicely-spoken boy, and he vaguely remembered her. Hadn’t she spent quite a time dancing with Evan the previous evening?
‘He’s just coming, it is all right then?’
‘I don’t see why not. Let me just check it.’
He walked over to Paul, who plainly did not want to be bothered.
‘Carlos Baptista wants his son and fiancée to come with us. Is that OK?’
‘If Carlos says so.’
‘So I’ll tell them it’s fine?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ Paul returned to studying the contracts.
Bernie waddled back to Cristina.
‘Yes?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Yeah. Only hurry your boyfriend up, we’re waiting to go.’
Cristina rushed off the plane to where Louis and Nino stood waiting in the tunnel which joined the embarkation point to the plane.
‘It’s OK,’ she said.
Nino and Louis moved forward, Nino walking slightly behind Louis in his mechanic’s uniform. In one hand he carried a shabby airline bag. The other hand was buried deep in his overall pocket clutching onto a gun which was pointing straight at Louis’s back.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Van Howard glanced at his co-pilot and raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Five minutes,’ Harry Booker assured him, removing his radio head set. ‘The runway’s clearing now.’
‘Good.’ Van was tired, and was looking forward to finishing off the short hop to São Paulo and getting some sleep. He had not slept at all the previous evening. Truth to tell he had had a lousy evening. The problem was Cathy, his wife.
At first the idea of captaining Al King’s private jet across America – with the opportunity of taking Cathy along in a professional capacity – had just seemed heaven-sent. He had recently quit his job of seventeen years with a commercial airline, and he had been looking around wondering what to do, when a friend had mentioned the Al King job.
Van had attended two interviews and been hired over eight other equally experienced applicants. Cathy being chief stewardess had been part of the deal.
What an opportunity it had seemed. The money was great, and it would get them out of the ten-year rut their marriage seemed to have become stuck in.
Everything had started off all right, but gradually Van noticed Cathy changing. He had married her when she was seventeen, and as far as he knew had been her only boyfriend.
Their marriage had seemed quite stable – the only black spot being the fact that they seemed unable to produce children. Privately Van knew it was her fault. At forty-seven years of age he had had more than his share of girlfriends with unwanted pregnancies. However, they had both subjected themselves to various undignified tests, and although there seemed to be nothing clinically wrong, still it had not happened.
Van had hoped that this trip might do the trick. Different environments. Different places to make love. But as they progressed across America Cathy became more and more withdrawn.
She had finally told him the previous evening. Told him after drinking a bottle of wine to give herself dutch courage.
She had fallen in love with one of the musicians on the tour. A twenty-four-year-old long-haired freak who made his living strumming a guitar.
‘Are you mad?’ Van had asked her.
‘I’m leaving you,’ she had replied. ‘As soon as the tour is finished I’m leaving you.’
‘All set, chief,’ Harry Booker interrupted his thoughts, ‘we just got clearance. Seems we’ve taken on three extra passengers. Shall I inform control?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Van shook his head. It was impossible to keep a proper passenger list on these flights. People popped on and off from city to city. Journalists, photographers, groupies. Van never knew who was aboard. He glanced round at the navigator and flight engineer, men he had been allowed to pick personally.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked. A question he always asked before turning on the power.
Their nods were affirmative.
* * *
In his custom-built flying bedroom Al tossed Dallas a bathrobe.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he suggested. ‘I’m going to.’
She looked around her. ‘This is unbelievable!’ she exclaimed.
‘You like it?’ he asked proudly.
‘It looks like something out of Macho magazine! Even a hick like me can see it’s in the worst taste possible! It’s nothing but a travelling knocking shop!’
‘I’ll have you know I’ve caught up on a lot of sleep in this room.’
‘Bathroom’s over there.’ He indicated a hidden door in the padded walls. ‘What shall I order for you? A drink? Food? You name it – we’ve got it.’
‘This whole thing must cost you a fortune!’
‘Tax deductible.’
‘I’ll have a Bloody Mary. You are going to allow me to have alcohol, aren’t you?’
He grinned. ‘’Bout as much as you allow me. I’m sweating like a pig – I’ll have a shower as soon as we take off.’ He threw off his clothes and put a bathrobe over his undershorts. Then he picked up an intercom phone and snapped, ‘Cathy – two Bloody Marys right now. How long before take-off?’
* * *
Cathy Howard hung up the intercom phone and made a face. She wished Al King could be like everyone else and wait for his drink. Didn’t he realize she had other things to do just before take-off? Besides that, she felt terrible. Telling Van the truth last night had been a tremendous strain. Why couldn’t he have taken it like a man instead of dissolving into pitiful tears? She had been shocked. Van had never shown one ounce of emotion throughout their ten-year marriage. Perhaps if he had, things might have been different…
She busied herself in the small galley with tomato juice, vodka, and ice cubes. Al liked his drinks just so – he always insisted that she fixed them personally.
Wendy, the other stewardess, rushed in. ‘Did you get a load of the mechanic with the Baptista party?’ she asked. ‘Mmm… tasty. I wouldn’t sling him out of bed!’
‘You wouldn’t sling anyone out of bed,’ Cathy replied crisply.
Wendy had started the trip as Harry Booker’s girlfriend. That had lasted all the way to Chicago, when they had both decided to go their own ways. Since that time Wendy had undertaken her own personal survey of the sexual habits of the American male.
‘Who are the drinks for?’ Wendy asked.
‘Mr. King, of course.’
‘You want me to take them?’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
Wendy pouted. ‘Why do you always have to do everything for him?’
‘Because I’m chief stew. Anyway, he likes me.’
‘Given half a chance he could like me,’ Wendy muttered. ‘Are you feeling OK? You look terrible.’
‘Well enough to take him his drinks, thank you.’
* * *
The FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS NO SMOKING signs had flashed on.
Bernie was sitting up front rapping with the two journalists.
Paul was engrossed in the contracts, making notes on a separate piece of paper.
Evan had settled into a secluded seat at the back, near the door to Al’s private bedroom, and he was studying his latest batch of girlie magazines, trying to decide between Elvira, who loved horses and had the biggest knockers he’d ever seen, or Yana, whose widely spread legs displayed a healthy abandon for wide open spaces.
Cristina sat opposite Louis and Nino, a table separating them. She had paled beneath her suntan, and her eyes were wide and alarmed. Under her breath she whispered. ‘Help me, God – Please help me. I promise to be good. I promise to do everything my parents want. I promise to be the perfect daughter. But please please God help me out of this mess.’
And what a mess it was. Nino had turned up to meet them all right. He had smiled, his eyes blazing intently. And he had said, quite politely, ‘How are you, Louis? How does it feel to have a gun pointing at your belly?’
And she had laughed, thinking it was a joke, thinking he was kidding. But he had moved insidiously towards her, pressing himself against her so that she could feel the pressure of the metal, and he had said, ‘Tell your boyfriend to do as he is told, Cristina. Tell him or I’ll blow his guts out.’
With a sudden fear she had known that this was no joke. ‘Do as he says, Louis. He means it.’
Louis had stared at her with an expression of disbelief. ‘What is this…’ he began.
‘Shut up and start walking,’ Nino had interrupted. ‘Walk ahead of me, I’ll tell you where to go. Both of you ahead of me.’
She hadn’t dared to argue. She hadn’t dared to say another word. She had just followed Nino’s instructions, and now here they were bound for São Paulo where she didn’t know what would happen.
Louis hadn’t looked at her once. He just stared straight ahead with a stony expression. He probably thought she was a part of it. He probably thought she had tricked him. And the horrible truth was that she had – but she hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to. And had certainly not been aware of the fact that Nino would have a gun.
The jet was taxiing down the runway, preparing for takeoff. A stewardess touched Cristina on the arm, and she jumped.
‘Sorry,’ said the stewardess, ‘did I startle you? Just wanted to check that you have your seat belt fastened.’
She smiled provocatively at Nino. ‘All done up?’ she asked, flashing admirable teeth.
He nodded, returning her smile, stripping her with his eyes.
‘I’ll be back to see what you’d like to drink as soon as we’re airborne,’ she said, instinctively smoothing down her skirt.
* * *
‘You’ve got everything organized,’ Dallas remarked.
‘Sure,’ agreed Al, ‘I like my privacy.’
He had settled them both into a small couch with concealed seatbelts. He indicated a niche for her to place her glass in.
‘How many ladies have you had on this plane?’
He grinned. ‘No ladies.’
The jet began to pick up speed, thundering down the runway, then lifting up into the sky with a lyrical ease.
Al leaned over and kissed her, softly, insistently. She parted her mouth to accept his kiss, teased him with her tongue. ‘I think,’ he said gruffly, ‘I’m going to like this flight.’
‘I think,’ she replied, ‘we both are.’
* * *
Nino licked dry lips. His throat was parched, and he was dying for a glass of water. No time for that though. No time for anything except putting his plan into operation.
He glanced swiftly at Louis sitting silently beside him. He had been easy enough to handle. Rich boy frightened of getting a bullet in the stomach.
Cristina was staring at him with an accusing expression. He knew she was beside herself to speak to him – but she couldn’t – didn’t want to let her precious Louis know that she had been in on it.
Nino allowed himself a small, tight smile, and his hand caressed the gun in his pocket lovingly. What power it gave him. What wonderful incredible power.
The jet had stopped climbing and was levelling out. The seatbelt and no smoking signs flashed off.
Out of the corner of his eye Nino saw the two hostesses spring into action, bustling around taking drink orders. Rock music filtered through the speaker systems.
‘I’ll tell you what we are going to do,’ Nino said in a low voice. ‘Lean forward and listen, Cristina.’
She did as she was told. Louis glared at him, wanting to speak but not quite sure if he dared.
‘This plane has three bombs aboard. Only I know where they are. Shortly I will tell the rest of the passengers. If everyone cooperates with me, no one will get hurt. If they don’t’– he shrugged – ‘too bad for all of us.’
Cristina gasped. ‘Nino! Are you mad?’
Louis joined in. ‘He’s not mad, he’s bluffing. I know for a fact that Al King’s plane is searched by security guards before he boards it.’
‘An hour, sometimes two hours before he boards. Plenty of time left for a mechanic with an authorized pass to come aboard and do what he has to do.’
Louis said, his voice strained, ‘What are you doing this for?’
‘Ask your girlfriend, she knows all about it. Now I want you two to sit here quietly while I go and have a word with the captain. I should advise you not to tell anyone – I
shall do so soon enough. Should anyone attack me, try to knock me out – that would be very unfortunate. The bombs are due to go off at fifteen-minute intervals half an hour from now. Only I can stop them. And please don’t forget the fact that I have a gun – a weapon that I am quite prepared to use.’ He undid his seatbelt and stood up. ‘The safest thing for you two is to just sit tight. I wouldn’t want to hurt either of you, but I can assure you I would.’ He set off down the centre aisle of the plane towards the flight deck.
Cristina looked helplessly at Louis. ‘I’m sorry…’ she began, ‘I didn’t know… didn’t realize…’
‘Didn’t know what?’ hissed Louis. ‘How much did you know? You arranged to meet him. You got us on the plane. This all must have been planned… you knew all along.’
‘I didn’t know what he planned. I didn’t know he had a gun, bombs. Do you think I would have helped him if I’d known that?’
‘So you were helping him?’
‘I only…’
‘Shh – he’s talking to the stewardess. As soon as he’s out of sight I must tell someone.’
* * *
Wendy was fixing drinks for the journalists when Nino came up. She winked. ‘Can’t wait, huh? In that case, what’s your pleasure?’
‘I’d like to talk to the pilot.’
‘Sorry – forbidden ground. Now what do you want to drink?’
‘I have a gun in my pocket,’ Nino said pleasantly. ‘It’s pointing right at you.’ He gestured with the outline of it. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Oh no!’ said Wendy. ‘Oh, Jesus, no!’
‘Come on. Move. Walk in front of me and keep smiling.’
* * *
They were always trying to screw you.
Always trying to make points.
Always slipping in goddamn stupid clauses that a twelve-year-old would spot!
Angrily Paul made copious notes. Who the fuck did Lew Margolis think he was dealing with? A bunch of amateurs, for Chrissake? A bunch of schoolkids?
Paul always checked the contracts before passing them on to the lawyers. He could spot things that the lawyers wouldn’t even notice. What did they care? As long as their astronomical bills were paid.
And who did all the work? Who saved Al thousands of pounds by going through the small print? He did of course. Baby brother. The schmuck who never got any appreciation. The schmuck who was treated like a combination of Bernie and Luke. Chief gofer.