Max Collins: Fly Paper

In the three seconds it had taken the skyjacker to make these realizations, the guy with the mustache had retrieved the calculator from between the seats, though he was still on his hands and knees. He looked up with an expression of annoyance; he was a mean-looking S. O. B., all right, like an Indian with a grudge.

The skyjacker swung his attaché case and caught the guy on the chin, throwing him back, on his back, apparently unconscious. The skyjacker went to retrieve the calculator from the man’s hand — best not leave that behind...

But the guy reached out a big hand and grabbed him by the ankle, and yanked, and he fell on his ass in the aisle, hard, and the attaché case of money went skittering out of his hands, landing a few feet away from the open ramp door. With that suction effect, the case would get pulled outside in a second if he didn’t reach it first, and on his hands and knees he crawled after it, like a grossly oversize infant. He got his hands on the case, the suction of the open door tugging at the skin on his face, the wind slapping him, and he felt something come down hard on his back.

A foot.

And then the guy said something; he had to yell, scream it really, to get his voice above the jet roar and wind. He said, “If I let you up, will you behave?”

Now it was the skyjacker’s turn to yell. “Yes!”

“I shouldn’t,” the guy said, still screaming, “I should kick your goddamn ass out of this plane.”

But the pressure subsided; the foot went away.

He got to his feet and looked at the guy. He had expected the guy to be fuming, but he still seemed more annoyed than enraged. And another surprise: he had no gun, at least not in sight.

And that gave the skyjacker a burst of courage.

He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem. He had the attaché case in his hands. Why turn the money over to this guy when there wasn’t even a gun pointed at him? Why give up now, after working so hard and coming so close?

He lurched forward, shoved a hand into the guy’s chest, pushing into him, knocking him off balance.

But it wasn’t enough.

The guy with the mustache lashed out with a fist as big as a softball, and the skyjacker tumbled back, head spinning, knocking against the edge of the open ramp door; then the suction got hold of him and he was gone, unconscious or damn near but somehow instinctively clutching the attaché case to him, falling down those steps into the gray sky.

Someone dropped something in the kitchen and woke Jon.

He sat up in bed, startled by the sound, and found the room around him dark, which startled him too. When he lay down late this afternoon, it was still light outside — or as light as an overcast day can be — but now it was pitch black. He’d fallen asleep and now, as he checked his watch, he found he’d slept well into the night.

Damn, he thought. He’d only meant to rest for a moment, just lie down and relax a while, really. Not fall asleep. He hadn’t even had a chance to call Karen yet, to tell her he was back in Iowa City. Too late for that now. Damn. How could he fall asleep, with Nolan literally up in the air like that? What the hell was wrong with him?

Another sound.

Someone was moving around out in the kitchen.

Breen, Jon thought. Just Breen, up having a post-midnight snack.

They had left Breen at the antique shop while they went to Detroit for the Comfort heist; Breen hadn’t felt like traveling right away, with his wound and all, and besides, his car windshield was shot out, so they’d left him to mind the store.

When Jon got back late this afternoon, Breen had been full of questions.

And complaints.

“You might’ve called,” Breen had said, “and let me know how the goddamn thing came out. I had a stake in it, too, you know.”

And Jon had said, “Well, you know Nolan. He couldn’t see wasting a long-distance call when we were coming right back, anyway.”

Breen had mumbled something about what a cheap-ass Nolan was, and then went on to ask, well, what the hell happened at the Comforts, anyway? What Jon told him sounded like a good news/bad news joke. First the good news: they had successfully stolen over $200,000 — even the part about the Comforts dying was good news to Breen, who was glad to see them go. Then came the bad news: the skyjacking.

And Breen had started to moan and groan — such a terrible thing, losing all that money. Jon was in no mood to listen to him bitch, and went upstairs and fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich. Breen came up and ate half of Jon’s sandwich and asked Jon if he could recommend some place to get a new windshield put in his car. Jon told him where he could get that done, then went into his uncle Planner’s bedroom and lay down for a short rest.

So now it was the middle of the night and he was awake, finally, and someone was moving around out there, in the kitchen. Probably Breen, but Jon wasn’t sure; he was nervous, not having heard from Nolan yet, and he wondered if it could be an intruder of some sort out there. He pulled open the nightstand drawer by the bed and got out one of his uncle’s .32 automatics.

He stalked through the pine paneled living room and slowly edged toward the archway that led into the kitchen. The lights were on in there, bright and white. Breen, probably; but he kept the .32 leveled out in front of him, just the same.

He lunged through the archway and into the kitchen, and Nolan was sitting at the kitchen table, eating some breakfast cereal.

“Don’t shoot, kid,” Nolan said, holding up his hands, one of them with a spoon in it, dripping milk down on the table.

“Nolan!”

“Quiet,” he said. He put down his hands. “You want to wake up Breen? He’s down sleeping like a baby in your bed, and I don’t want that talkative son of a bitch waking up and making me explain things all night.”

“Nolan,” Jon said, incredulous. He sat down at the table with him, set the .32 next to the box of breakfast cereal. “Where’d you come from?”

“Caught a bus at St. Louis. Where’s the god-damn sugar? These fucking Grape Nuts are supposed to be naturally sweet, but they taste like wood shavings to me. Get me the damn sugar.”

Jon got him the sugar, rejoined him at the table.

“Well, Jesus, Nolan.”

“Jesus what?”

“What happened? What happened?”

“I caught a bus at St. Louis, I told you.” He ate some cereal and grinned at Jon as he chewed.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nolan, quit being so goddamn cute. I can’t stand it. Tell me what happened!”

“Say, have you been listening to the news, kid?”

“No, I fell asleep, damn it.”

“I’d like to know what they’re saying on the news. I’d like to know what they’re saying about our money, which ought to’ve been found by now. Turn on that radio on the counter. The news’ll be on in five minutes.”

“I’ll turn it on in five minutes. How’d you get in here, Nolan? The doors were locked and you don’t have a key.”

“I don’t need a key to get in a house. So you were sleeping, huh, kid? Your concern for me’s overwhelming.”

“Yeah, well, Nolan, I’m sorry I fell asleep, but could you please tell me what happened?”

“Not much to tell. I stayed in the can. Nobody caught on I was in there, least of all the skyjacker. I waited till all the hostages were off the plane, waited for that stupid kid to make his move to jump, and then I took that calculator away from him. Didn’t want him blowing me up, whether by accident or not, and that wasn’t unlikely with him jumping with a damn detonator in his hand. So I took it away.”

“Then you decided he did have a bomb on the plane?”