by M. Alan Marr
Chaz takes a closer look at the fine, perpetually changing arc line stretching into the heavens. “What about the solid arc?”
“If you were plotting a course off the planet, that arc represents the optimal way to go.”
“You’re talking about launch windows.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“And it takes into account all those factors you mentioned?”
“Yes, it does. And as you can see, it changes all the time.”
“How come?”
“For one thing, the planet keeps moving. There is also a lot space junk up there, so the windows can be very small. It’s a very dynamic environment, more so than people realize.”
“Are you designing this for NASA?”
“Well, granted, there aren’t many uses for it, but it keeps me busy,” Dev replies, avoiding the question altogether.
“When you’re not drinking coffee and occasionally taking in a museum,” Chaz says, tacitly acknowledging Dev’s sidestep and moving on.
Dev smiles. “Exactly.”
“I flew with a friend of mine and we got talking. He asked what you did for a living, and I didn’t really know what to say. To be honest, I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. That is, besides being a sometime-astronomer and part-time historian who knows nothing about history, and even less about geography. Near as I can tell, you’re mainly a compulsive shopper and full-time caffeine addict.”
“Well, I’m on somewhat of a hiatus right now.”
“The sabbatical is now a hiatus. Is that code for Trust Fund baby?”
Dev is confused. “Trust Fund baby?”
“Someone who lives off their family fortune.”
“Ah . . . well . . . it is something like that.”
“I had a feeling. I was planning on winning the lottery, but so far no luck. But I buy a ticket every week, so I’m hopeful.” Chaz yawns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I am so tired. The flight back wiped me out. I hate to cut our evening short, but I got lousy sleep the last few nights. I just need to climb into my own bed.”
“All right. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s just across the street.”
“Okay. Here, take this.” Dev hands Chaz the spare key to his penthouse.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thanks Dev. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Chaz says.
“Go sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll text you when I wake up.”
Chaz does sleep well and wakes up around 11:30 am. He missed morning coffee with Dev but spoke to him briefly on the phone and then spent most of the day taking care of personal business, housework, and a lot of laundry, all of which tended to get piled up since he and Dev started hanging out. And unless Chaz tunes everything out and hunkers down, it won’t get done. That in mind, he and Dev decide to meet at 7:00 pm.
Errands, grunt work, cleaning, and several loads of folded laundry later, Chaz calls it quits on the domestic front and is ready to get busy with his four days off from work. Feeling the need for additional caffeine, Chaz walks over to the Starbucks around 6:30 pm, already dressed to go out. Along the way, he sends Dev a text asking if he would like a coffee. The reply text: on phone, yes.
Chaz picks up two grande coffees, asks for some ice in his to drop the temperature a bit, then prepares Dev’s coffee with half and half and a dash of nutmeg. Unsure whether Dev planned on meeting him at the Starbucks or not, Chaz heads toward the Gillespie. If they meet halfway, fine, if not, Dev’s hot coffee will be delivered. The concierge sees both of Chaz’s hands are full, so he preemptively rings the elevator and steps inside and keys the PH button for him.
Exiting the elevator on the penthouse level, Chaz is surprised to find Dev’s foyer doors closed; he typically leaves them open for a seamless entry into the residence. Chaz, not knowing if anything is amiss, carefully maneuvers his coffee-laden hand and rings the doorbell. Last thing he wants is to spill coffee in the all-white vestibule. Dev is still talking on his iPhone as he opens the door. Chaz immediately mouths a silent apology and quietly enters. He realizes Dev is on some kind of business call, and sits down on the couch. Dev paces around somewhat anxiously, briefly stopping at his dining room table, where sits a bunch of paperwork, his laptop, and his messenger bag. “That’s correct. Hold on.” Dev lowers the phone and looks at Chaz. “You’re off for a while, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t fly again until Thursday.”
Dev looks at him hopefully. “Want to get away for a couple of days?”
“Sure.”
Dev smiles and puts the phone to his ear again. “It’s two—myself and a Mr. Chaz Ronaldi . . . R-O-N-A-L-D-I . . . Chaz . . . I really don’t have time for that right now . . . What?” He looks at Chaz. “Are you allergic to food?”
Chaz stifles a laugh and quietly shakes his head.
“No.” Dev listens. “Great, thank you.” He ends the call and looks at Chaz. “The car will be here in a few minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
Dev answers while he places the stack of documents in his messenger bag. “My attorneys finally tracked down the owners of the Alabama property. They’ve agreed to sell.”
“That’s great!” Chaz stands up.
“They’re aboard an ocean liner that will be docking tomorrow morning.”
“Docking where?”
“Venice.”
“Italy?” Chaz looks at his watch. “I think our Venice flight left already.”
“It did. I arranged alternate transportation.”
“I’ll go grab my passport.” Chaz looks at Dev carrying nothing but his satchel. “Is that all you’re bringing?”
“No time to pack,” Dev replies, while turning out the lights. “Come on.”
Chaz hands Dev his coffee and they toast. “Let’s go to Venice.”
They hurry across the street, where Chaz grabs his passport, and out of habit, his airline crew badge. Chaz does a quick run-through to make sure everything is turned off in his condo. By the time they return outside, a limousine is pulling into the Gillespie. The limo driver gets out and is about to speak to the doorman.
“Over here,” Dev calls out while crossing the street, attracting the attention of the driver.
“Mister?”
“Dev Caelestis and Chaz Ronaldi.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver says. “Any bags?”
“No.”
“I’ll have you both to the airport in no time.”
The drive to the airport is pretty standard for Chaz. He knows most of the Triad International schedule by heart but not, he admits, the other airlines. Perhaps Alitalia has a later flight to Venice, or God forbid, a competitor US airline.
The limo drive is smooth. The darkened rear windows and twilight of the evening make for a relaxing trip to the airport. The interior accent lighting is being reflected off the windows, so they can’t see much of the outside world. Dev apologizes to Chaz for the suddenness of the trip, but Chaz casually shrugs his shoulders and assures him it’s nothing. The conversation somehow turns to laundry. Dev has a fascination about the laundry process, as he does with a lot of things in which he has little or no experience.
Chaz smiles. “You’ve never done a load of laundry in your life, have you?” It was a sort of statement/accusation made with a devious smile.
“Well . . .” Dev gives Chaz a sort of slightly embarrassed but totally innocent look. “I usually leave my laundry in a bag with the concierge.”
“Oh my God, you’ve never used the washing machine in your place, have you?”
“Uh . . . I’ve got some boxes stacked on top of it.”
Chaz laughs. “I’m going to teach you how to at least do your socks and underwear.”
“I can’t wait,” Dev says. He is serious.
The laundry discussion devolves into good-natured ribbing, with Chaz commenting what a hardship it must be to actually have to lug a bag of dir
ty clothes to the elevator, push the button, lug it inside the elevator, push another button, and lug it to the concierge’s desk. How does he manage?
“Actually,” Dev admits, slightly embarrassed, “the concierge comes up to get it.”
“Oh, good Lord.”
The partition to the limo driver is closed, and Chaz is sitting in the rear facing seat, so he doesn’t notice the car making a turn toward the other side of ATL airport. He also doesn’t pay attention as the limo passes through a security gate. The limo stops, and someone outside opens the door. Chaz turns to follow Dev out of the limo when he cracks his head right against the doorframe.
“Damn it!”
Dev is about to ask if he’s all right, when a frustrated Chaz gets out and stops short as he pulls focus on the waiting Boeing Business Jet. Chaz’s eyes widen. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”
Chapter 11
Star Chamber
Chaz seems to be frozen in time gazing at the Boeing Business Jet before him. The BBJ is the elite corporate version of the Boeing 737, an aircraft that in airline configuration holds one hundred thirty-seven passengers. The BBJ, however, is very comfortably configured for a discerning few, or in this case, two. Chaz’s trance is broken by the aircraft captain standing at the base of the stairs.
“Good evening, Mr. Caelestis. Nice to see you again, sir.”
“You as well, Captain,” Dev says.
The captain is a younger man, in his late twenties. Clean-shaven. Well put together. He turns to Chaz. “Sir, I’m your captain, Steve Fitzgerald.”
“Steve.” Chaz shakes his hand. “Chaz Ronaldi.”
Steve smiles. “It looks like a beautiful night to fly.”
“Yes, it does,” Chaz says. “I saw a line of convective activity on the radar earlier. How’s it looking now?”
Steve looks at Chaz for a quick second. It’s unusual for anyone outside the business to refer to thunderstorms as convective activity. “None along our route of flight, sir.”
Dev sees the question in Steve’s face. “Chaz is a pilot for Triad Airlines.”
“No kidding?” Steve says. “What equipment are you on?”
“767 for almost ten years. Well, 757 and 767.”
“Outstanding. Where did you get your flight experience?”
“I was in the Navy.”
“ROTC?”
“Naval Academy.”
“That’s awesome.” Steve continues with Chaz, in more detail now. “Well, sir, most of the big stuff is southeast of our position. There’s a diminishing line to the north with maximum tops at two-five-zero.” Steve goes on to detail their charted navigation course. “Our flight plan has us heading up toward Sugarloaf, Richmond, Modena, JFK, and then coast out. Turbulence plot along the tracks is clear.”
Chaz nods. “Should be a good night, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve smiles and says, “No luggage, Gentlemen?”
“No time,” Dev replies.
“Yes, sir. Then, if you’re both ready, we’ll get going.” Steve motions with his arm to please go aboard. Dev and Chaz jog up the aircraft’s retractable stairs and enter the cabin, followed by Captain Steve. Chaz is immediately awestruck by the luxury of the interior. Two flight attendants, a middle-aged man and a young woman, stand in front of the well-appointed galley. The woman holds a tray containing two glasses of champagne.
“Good evening, Mr. Caelestis,” she greets invitingly, then greets Chaz. “Welcome aboard your Boeing Business Jet, Mr. Ronaldi.”
“Good evening,” Dev says, smiling.
Chaz is still a bit awestruck and offers a vague, “Hi.”
The male flight attendant turns to Chaz. “Mr. Ronaldi, my name is Franz. I am your chief flight attendant, and this is flight attendant Annette Wallis.”
“Hi.”
Dev chuckles. “He’s usually not this short on words.”
“Champagne, Gentlemen?” Annette says, holding out the tray. Chaz and Dev each take a glass and follow Annette into the lounge, where she prepares to run the safety presentation on the video screen. Franz uses the control panel near the entry door to retract the stairs into the belly of the plane and then closes the main cabin door. Chaz and Dev look at the large, comfortable lounge. Gone are the rows and rows of nondescript seats. This cabin looks like an elegant living room, with plenty of headroom for six-foot-three-inch Chaz. There is a modular-looking couch and several large club chairs, cocktail tables, end tables, and lamps.
Chaz looks at Annette and says, “Anywhere specific I should sit?”
“Anywhere you’d like.” She adds, in a whisper, “Mr. Caelestis usually sits in that seat.”
Franz enters the lounge with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Gentlemen, I understand you didn’t make any specific dinner requests, so with your permission, we will put together a menu of items for you both to choose from.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Chaz says, more like himself again.
“That reminds me,” Dev says to Chaz, “the person on the phone asked if you had any food allergies. What’s that all about?”
“Oh, food allergies . . . Americans are allergic to everything.” Chaz adds, “In the last twenty years, a lot of people have developed reactions to peanuts, gluten, and all kinds of food.”
“Then that would seem to indicate the problem originates within the food chain or how it’s processed.”
“Yeah,” Chaz agrees. “Not so in Canada?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Dev replies and makes a mental note to research and write about this in his journal. Dev takes is usual seat. Chaz sits across from him.
Passengers now seated comfortably, Annette starts the safety video and does the obligatory pointing to the emergency exits routine. Unlike many of her previous passengers, both Chaz and Dev actually pay attention during the briefing, holding their conversations until it is complete.
“Any questions, Gentlemen?”
“None,” Chaz replies. “Thank you, Annette.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
The BBJ takes off and climbs to cruise altitude. Franz and his well-stocked galley are at work producing a meal worthy of a fine restaurant. While Franz, a trained chef, makes preparations in the galley, most of the one-on-one interaction between clients and crew is with Annette. And despite only having just met Chaz, Annette’s impression of both these gentlemen is favorable. Obviously more than just friends, they conduct themselves with style and grace, unlike many of the demanding (often obnoxious) clients the crew members have dealt with in the past, and will likely deal with again in the future.
Nighttime comes quickly flying eastbound to Europe. The accent lighting of the cabin interior is soft and relaxing. The dedicated conference room on the jet is set up as the dining room, complete with tablecloth and simulated candles. The meal was outstanding and the dessert, scrumptious. Chaz wipes his mouth with his napkin and shakes his head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe we’re in a BBJ flying to Europe.”
“Not a bad way to get around,” Dev says.
“Dev . . . do you own this?”
“No, but I have an ongoing charter agreement. I’ve flown with this crew before.”
“How the hell were you able to book a BBJ with no notice?”
“Stroke of luck, as it turns out. This aircraft arrived in Atlanta yesterday, and the crew was going to reposition it to Newark International Airport in New Jersey.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with Newark International,” Chaz says with a hint of sarcasm.
Annette enters to refill their champagne glasses.
Chaz hands Annette his glass for easier refilling. “Sorry if we ruined your plans, Annette.”
“Not at all, Mr. Ronaldi. It’s much more exciting to go to Venice.”
“Will you be flying us back?”
“Yes, sir.” She parks the bottle in an ice bucket on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Gentlemen, Franz and I will prepare your stateroom.”
“Carry on,
” Dev says with a smile.
Chaz takes a sip. “Oh, that’s better. I like my champers extra cold.”
Annette and Franz head aft to the stateroom to turn down the bed for when the gentlemen decide to go to sleep. They also overhear Chaz saying he likes extra cold champagne.
After entering the stateroom in the aft-most cabin of the plane, Annette speaks quietly to Franz. “Are they a couple? Or should we prepare the smaller stateroom?”
“Let’s not assume anything,” Franz says. “We’ll prepare both rooms.”
“I’m just glad they’re both nice.” Annette smiles. “I’m not sure Mr. Ronaldi has the money for this. He doesn’t seem the type.”
“On this airplane, honey, they both have the money.”
In the main cabin, Chaz and Dev move to a couch in the lounge and enjoy their champagne together.
“That meal was fantastic,” Chaz comments.
Dev looks at Chaz’s forehead. “How’s your head?”
Chaz rubs the spot where he hit his head in the limo. “It’s amazing the curative powers of chilled champagne and a BBJ.”
“We’ll have to do this more often, then.” Dev smiles.
Chaz shakes his head. “Jesus, Dev, I knew you had money, but I didn’t realize you were in this league.”
Dev looks into Chaz’s eyes and speaks from the heart. “Money is just something I have. It’s not all that I am.”
Chaz smiles at him. “I wouldn’t care if you were on food stamps.”
Dev looks confused. “On what?”
“Drink your juice.”
Franz quietly brings in a tray of fruit and cheese and sets it on the table near the two men.
“Thank you, Franz,” both reply.
Franz smiles. “You’re welcome, sirs. We have your stateroom set up for you. Unless you have any objection, I’ll plan on waking you ninety minutes outside of Venice so you can shower and have breakfast before landing.”
“You have a shower on board?” Chaz says with surprise.
“Yes, sir,” Franz replies. “In your en suite bathroom.”
Chaz happily sighs. “I could live here.”