MINUS 023 AND COUNTING

The back of the seat in front of Richards was a revelation in itself. There was a pocket with a safety handbook in it. In case of air turbulence, fasten your belt. If the cabin loses pressure, pull down the air mask directly over your head. In case of engine trouble, the stewardess will give you further instructions. In case of sud­den explosive death, hope you have enough dental fillings to insure identification.

There was a small Free‑Vee set into the seat panel at eye level. A metal card below it reminded the viewer that channels would come and go with a fair degree of speed. A touch‑control channel selector was provided for the hungry viewer.

Below and to the right of the Free‑Vee was a pad of airline stationery and a G­A stylus on a chain. Richards pulled out a sheet and wrote clumsily on his knee:

“Odds are 99 out of 100 that you’re bugged, shoe mike or hair mike, maybe mesh transmitter on your sleeve. McCone listening and waiting for you to drop the other shoe, I bet. In a minute have a hysterical outburst and beg me not to pull the ring. It’ll make our chances better. You game?”

She nodded and Richards hesitated, then wrote again:

“Why did you lie about it?”

She plucked the stylus out of his hand and held it over the paper on his knee for a moment and then wrote: “Don’t know. You made me feel like a murderer. Wife. And you seemed so”—the stylus paused, wavered and then scrawled—“pitiful.”

Richards raised his eyebrows and grinned a little‑it hurt. He offered her the stylus but she shook her head mutely. He wrote: “Go into your act in about 5 min­utes.”

She nodded and Richards crumpled the paper and stuffed it into the ashtray embedded in the armrest. He lit the paper. It puffed into flame and blazed brightly for a moment, kindling a tiny reflective glow in the window. Then it collapsed into ashes which Richards poked thoughtfully.

About five minutes later Amelia Williams began to moan. It sounded so real that for a moment Richards was startled. Then it flashed across his mind that it probably was real.

“Please don’t,” she said. “Please don’t make that man . . . have to try you. I never did anything to you. I want to go home to my husband. We have a daughter, too. She’s six. She’ll wonder where her mommy is.”

Richards felt his eyebrow rise and fall twice in an involuntary tic. He didn’t want her to be that good. Not that good.

“He’s dumb,” he told her, trying not to speak for an unseen audience, “but I don’t think he’s that dumb. It will be all right, Mrs. Williams.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

He didn’t answer her. She was so patently right. Nothing, anyway, that he hadn’t lost already.

“Show it to him,” she pleaded. “For God’s sake, why don’t you show it to him? Then he’d have to believe you . . . call off the people on the ground. They’re tracking us with missiles. I heard him say so.”

“I can’t show him,” Richards said. “To take it out of my pocket would mean putting the ring on safety or taking the full risk of blowing us up accidentally. Be­sides,” he added, injecting mockery into his voice, “I don’t think I’d show him if I could. He’s the maggot with something to lose. Let him sweat it.”

“I don’t think I can stand it,” she said dully. “I almost think I’d rather joggle you and have it over. That’s the way it’s going to end anyway, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t—” he began, and then the door between first and second was snapped open and McCone half strode, half lunged through. His face was calm, but beneath the calm was an odd sheeny look which Richards recognized imme­diately. The sheen of fear, white and waxy and glowing.

“Mrs. Williams,” he said briskly. “Coffee, if you please. For seven. You’ll have to play stewardess on this flight, I’m afraid.”

She got up without looking at either of them. “Where?”

“Forward,” McCone said smoothly. “Just follow your nose.” He was a mild, blinking sort of man‑and ready to lunge at Amelia Williams the moment she showed a sign of going for Richards.

She made her way up the aisle without looking back.

McCone stared at Richards and said: “Would you give this up if I could promise you amnesty, pal?”

“Pal. That word sounds really greasy in your mouth,” Richards marveled. He flexed his free hand, looked at it. The hand was caked with small runnels of dried blood, dotted with tiny scrapes and scratches from his broken‑ankle hike through the southern Maine woods. “Really greasy. You make it sound like two pounds of fatty hamburger cooking in the pan. The only kind you can get at the Welfare Stores in Co‑Op City.” He looked at McCone’s well‑concealed pot. “That, now. That looks more like a steak gut. Prime cut. No fat on prime cut except that crinkly little ring around the outside right?”

“Amnesty,” McCone repeated. “How does that word sound?”

“Like a lie,” Richards said, smiling. “Like a fat fucking lie. Don’t you think I know you’re nothing but the hired help?”

McCone flushed. It was not a soft flush at all; it was hard and red and bricklike. “It’s going to be good to have you on my home court,” he said. “We’ve got hi-­impact slugs that will make your head look like a pumpkin dropped on a sidewalk from the top floor of a skyscraper. Gas filled. They explode on contact. A gut shot, on the other hand—”

Richards screamed: “Here it goes! I’m pulling the ring!”

McCone screeched. He staggered back two steps, his rump hit the well‑padded arm of seat number 95 across the way, he overbalanced and fell into it like a man into a sling, his arms flailing the air around his head in crazed warding‑off ges­tures.

His hands froze about his head like petrified birds, splay fingered. His face stared through their grotesque frame like a plaster death‑mask on which someone had hung a pair of gold‑rimmed spectacles for a joke.

Richards began to laugh. The noise of it was cracked at first, hesitant, foreign to his own ears. How long had it been since he had had a real laugh, an honest one, the kind that comes freely and helplessly from the deepest root of the stomach? It seemed to him that he had never had one in his whole gray, straggling, earnest life. But he was having one now.

You bastard.

McCone’s voice had failed him; he could only mouth the words. His face was twisted and scrunched like the face of a badly used teddy bear.

Richards laughed. He held on to one arm of his seat with his free hand and just laughed and laughed and laughed.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 625