Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

My interactions with the two men in the bulkhead row, Dr. Dal Pressman in the window seat and Curt Guransky on the aisle, were dull by comparison. They ordered beers to drink and pasta salad to eat and otherwise seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. Dr. Pressman was thin and wispy and typed his computer keys very quickly with smooth, manicured nails. According to Harvey, he was a reasonably prominent business ethics professor at a reasonably prestigious university in town. Harvey had been most impressed by some of his articles. He was also married. If it turned out that he was my date, I looked forward to the philosophical discussion that would ensue.

Mr. Guransky was chubby and abrupt and bored-looking. He was a thirty-eight-year-old divorced chiropractor with his own practice and not much else. The split with his wife had cleaned him out and left him living in a rented apartment in Waltham. So far, Harvey had been frustrated in his search for dirt on this guy. He was easily the least-attractive candidate and the one who got me thinking about what it would be like to do this thing for real.

When I got to the galley to prepare for takeoff, I looked back at my four potentials. I pictured their bodies under their clothes and all the different ways they could feel-soft, bony, hairy, taut, smooth, sweaty, dry, and oily. I looked at their faces and their hands and thought about what it would be like to have one of them touch me in the most intimate way. The idea brought forth so many disruptive images and feelings I barely noticed the two passengers hustling onboard as I closed the door. But when I did my final walk-through, it was impossible not to notice that both of them had settled into first-class seats, one next to the baby titan and the other next to the eighty-two-year-old man.

I went back to the galley, tossed the cups I’d collected in the vicinity of the trash, and missed. This was exactly what I didn’t need, and one of the things Harvey had worried about. Last-minute upgrades. Wild cards about which we knew absolutely nothing.

With the door shut and taxiing under way, I couldn’t call him. I would have to try him on the Airfone once we were at altitude, always a dicey proposition. Half the time, I couldn’t make the damn thing work. I didn’t like this. Nope, I didn’t like it at all, and if Harvey knew about it, he would hate it.

I strapped myself into the jumpseat and stared out at the only two passengers I could see from where I was: Dr. Pressman and the chiropractor. The doctor was reading a journal. The chiropractor was tossing goldfish crackers into his mouth. I was partway to a good sulk when the answer came to me. The only reason we had researched all of them was that we didn’t know which guy it was. If I could get my date to raise his hand and identify himself, problem solved. If it turned out to be one of the wild cards, I would call Harvey and give him the name. If it was one of the original four, we were already set.

By the time we were airborne and I was released to the galley, I had a plan.

I fixed the kid’s “double GTs” with an extra slice of lime and put a couple of Advils on the side. I poured Malcolm’s red wine, opened the two beers, and got a scotch and water, orange juice, and club soda for the other passengers. While the almonds were heating, I found a pen in the pocket of my apron, smoothed out six cocktail napkins, and wrote the password on each:Saturn.

When they were ready, I gathered the nuts, picked up the tray, and emerged into the den of possibilities. I served the passengers in the sequence I’d taken the orders. The baby titan was asleep. One of the wild cards, a guy named Leland Cole, was in the window seat next to him. He was reasonably young but seemed determined to discourage anyone from thinking so. His lightweight short-sleeved shirt was buttoned one button too high and was made of the same lightweight suburban madras plaid my father used to wear to barbecue in the backyard. When I put the marked napkin in front of him, he handed it right back.

“May I have one that’s not been used?”

“Of course.” Cross him off the list.

Malcolm didn’t even notice the napkin I placed on his tray. He was busy looking at me. I set his drink down and served the woman next to him her orange juice.

I dropped the other two marked napkins in front of the bulkhead boys. Dr. Ethics didn’t even look up from his screen. The chiropractor saw that his napkin had something written on it and flipped it over, apparently eager to get his pudgy fingers around his beer.

No sooner had I returned to the galley then I turned to find Malcolm, hands in his pockets, relaxed against the coat closet. I was disappointed but not surprised. I stacked some cups that didn’t need stacking. “The seat belt sign is still on,” I said. “You’re in violation of about twelve different FAA regulations.”

“You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?”

“I’d be taking a risk not to. There could be an inspector onboard.”

He gave me a look that made me believe the risk might have been worth it. He was clearly the kind of man who didn’t have much use for rules.

“Would you be available to join me for a drink this evening in Chicago?”

I stared at him. He was disarmingly flushed and a little nervous. He was obviously flirting, yet he offered no password. What was I to make of this?

“Well…that depends.”

“On what?”

“It’s possible I will be otherwise engaged this evening.”

“Is that true, or are you giving me the brush-off?”

I lowered my voice. “I’m not brushing you off. I’m waiting for verification.”

“Verification?”

When he said it back to me, I realized what an odd choice of words that must have seemed if he wasn’t the guy. Maybe he wasn’t. That would be nice. “I’m waiting to hear back from a friend. We’re supposed to get together tonight. Otherwise, I would love to get a drink with you.”

He grinned. “Do you mind if I check back with you later, then?”

“Please do. I expect to hear something soon.”

After he’d gone back to his seat, the cockpit called to say they were hungry. I was setting up their trays when I heard the curtains rattle behind me and felt a hand on my butt.

“Hey-”

I whipped around, expecting that Malcolm had finally made his move. Instead, I found myself eye to eye with the pudgy chiropractor. He didn’t look bored anymore. He held his empty beer glass in the hand he wasn’t using to grope me.

“Just sampling the merchandise. So far, I like what I see.”

He set the glass down and started to reach for me again. I grabbed his wrist. “I’m not exactly on the clock right now. Not yours, anyway.”

His blue eyes danced in his raspberry soufflé face as he leaned in close enough for me to smell his deodorant. “You like it rough, right?” He let out a low groan that might have been aiming for sexy but sounded as if he had sciatica. “That’s what I asked for.”

I squeezed his wrist, roughly, and moved close enough that my knee brushed the inside of his thigh. Not a lot of tone going on there. “You can’t get rough enough for me, baby. What’s the code word?”

“Mercury.”

The correct response sent my heart pinging around in my chest like a copper BB in a tin can. I had successfully connected, a realization that both excited and terrified me. I couldn’t wait to get him out of my space.

“Go back to your seat. I’ll bring you another beer.”

“Nine o’clock,” he said. “Seven Oaks Hotel. Call before you come up.”

After he disappeared behind the curtain, I picked up the Airfone and dialed up Harvey. I crossed my fingers that the call would go through. When it did, he picked up quickly.

“It’s the chiropractor.”