Ann Crouse - Runaround Stews

Ann blushed even through her deep tan. "Yes," she acknowledged blandly, her eyes falling to rest on the linoleum covered table top inscribed with carved graffiti. Trudy… she thought silently; how long had it been since she'd seen her old friend and stewardess pal? With concern, she wondered if Trudy was still working or if her paid activities had been exposed to the airline supervisor which, of course, would bring her career – her flying career – to an end.

"Need I say more?" Mike smiled. "It's up to you, Ann. It's your choice. Either you get your husband to fly for me or it's all over for both of you. What would John's boss think if he knew his wife…"

Ann's sobs broke his thought. "Okay, what do I have to do?" she asked, acknowledging her defeat. She clenched her fists till her long painted nails dug into her soft fleshy palm.

With deliberation, Mike unraveled his plans for a flight to Columbia, which John would take alone in a well-equipped private plane paid for by Mike. There, in Bogotб, he would pick up an unidentified cargo and, flying low, so low he would not be detected by radar as he crossed the border, fly the cocaine to Chula Vista, California, where connections would relieve him of his illicit burden.

Ann could hear no more. "No way," she moaned in desperate agony, realizing the consequences of such a proposition. "I can't ask that of John, he's been so…"

"Shut up and listen to me!" snapped Mike. "It's money, big money! Every fucking guard has been paid off from San Francisco to Bogotб and back again."

"But why? Why John? You must know thousands of pilots who could do the same willingly," she whined between sobs.

"He's got the credentials. He's Mr. America, you blind woman. He's got clearance from the CIA on down. Eagle Scout, Purple Heart, no, two Purple Hearts…" he read from a paper that Ann guessed was Mike's personally prepared dossier on her husband. "Need I go on?"

Ann shook her head. She was had, as always, by Mike Boston.

"I'll be generous; I'll give you a week to convince your husband. How you do it is your business, but do it!" And, from the cords straining in his aging neck, she knew he meant business. "Just tell him it means money, more money than he can imagine. More money than that fat-assed mother of his will leave him."

Christ, he knew everything. He'd spared nothing in digging up information.

"I'll leave my number in case you need me. Don't bother… I already have yours," he smiled crookedly at the tear-stained face of the blonde woman who, just a few years back, would have begged him, pleaded for him to let her suck him, fuck him, anything to please his wicked desires, but now she sat stiffly, seeing nothing but blackness in front of her as her bleak future.

"I'll be waiting…" and with no warning he rose to his feet and disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared.

Numbly, Ann rose to shaking feet, her legs nearly failing her as she gathered up her school books, now seeming mockingly inconsequential and meaningless, and headed for the parking lot to go home and think.

"Shit!" she blurted loudly as she pulled out the parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper, tearing it in her fury. "Another ticket! Two more and I can't park here any more!" What else can go wrong, she sighed, feeling like a puppet on strings. Two exams tomorrow, a speech to prepare for next week, and, and Mike Boston to contend with! She wished to hell she could change her past, but realizing that was a useless speculation, she revved up the engine of her red Volkswagen convertible, her angry foot mercilessly pumping up the accelerator. "That's for you Mike Boston, you son of a bitch!" and she screeched out of the parking lot.

It was not Ann Barot who drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, forgetting to slow for the toll gate, and it wasn't Ann Barot who contemplated hiring someone to knock off Mike Boston. If he were standing in front of her now, she'd run him over without blinking an eye; she might even back up and smash him a second time, she thought seethingly, almost missing her turn-off for Mill Valley.

John will be home tonight, she thought, minutes later, bending over to give her German Shepherd, Dante, a scratch behind his perky ear. "What am I going, to do?" she asked her loving pet, his deeply soft brown eyes reflecting her concern and anguish.

Clawing through her straw bag like a scared cat, she fumbled for her house keys, all the while her head reeled with plans and evil diabolical ways of convincing her faithful husband to risk his career and maybe his life – she choked on her thoughts – for the sake of their marriage. Was it worth it? Should she just pack up and run away? No, Mike would follow her – he'd find her.

Plopping her weary body onto the nearest chair, she sipped on her iced tea and squished an extra wedge of lemon into the sensuous brown liquid, cooling and refreshing her parched throat. With a swift turn of her foot, she pivoted the swivel rocker and, pulling open the red plaid drapes dressing the wood paneled wall, stared blindly out over the tree topped view of Mt. Tamalpais. How could she explain this to John? What would Mike do if she refused? No, she couldn't do that; Mike had too much evidence on her and all he'd have to do was pick up the phone and call John's employer and it would be all over for his career anyway.

Maybe I'll prepare him a luxurious dinner and get all dressed up in his favorite… no, that was too obvious, too unoriginal. She sighed deeply, her chest heaving against her pounding heart. There's only one way to get to a man, a lesson she'd learned years ago, and that's in bed. Yes, she'd tell him the plan and then seduce him. Yeah, a few drinks first just to warm him up.

Hours later she sat in the same chair, still overlooking the spaciousness of the empty sky now approaching sunset, her mood a repetition of her afternoon's torment. She examined herself in the full mirror next to the fireplace. Yes, this should do it! she thought as she studied her image, a provocative image of a full length evening gown secured in the front by a single circle which gathered the fabric from the front, attaching it to the bikini strapless top that barely covered the melon-like mounds of her sumptuous breasts. The back was bare to well below her waist, her hour-glass waist, she mused as she stood up to primp her hair. She ran her long slender fingers over the outline of her body, lending her needed confidence. Picking up her Tequila Sunrise for a sip to help slow her pounding heart, she heard a key turn in the door. This was it!

"Darling!" Ann ran to her husband, still handsomely dressed in his pilot's uniform, and threw her lithe tanned arms around his neck.

"What's this?" he chuckled pleasantly, "I thought you had a couple of exams tomorrow?"

She loosened her grip. "Oh yes," she stammered, "but I've already studied. I wanted to have some time alone with you tonight."

"Sounds good to me," he bent down, giving her a peck on the cheek and, moving with slow steps so typical of the cautious pilot, sat down in the rocker. Ann watched her husband as he slowly removed his hat and cradled it on one knee. He returned her glance.

"What's up?" he beamed, showing off his generous full mouth and pearly white teeth set off by the deepness of his olive skinned tan.

"Guess what?" she feigned happiness, "I ran into an old friend of mine from my old days when I was a stewardess and…" she cleared her throat, hoping the three drinks would lend her the courage to go through with her evil plan. "… and he wants you to fly a charter job for him." She gulped down the remains of her glass sitting next to John on the marble end table.

"Sounds good, honey, but I really don't feel like discussing flying tonight. Had a hard flight," he said, wiping his beaded forehead with the back of his large hand. "Those thirteen hour flights are real killers."