Death Flight

by Melissa Yi

  She jabbed a neon red nail at me. I stared at it, hypnotized by the ring of crystals embedded in it, as she said, "You're a doctor. You should be supporting us. We use condoms, even though it limits our overseas market!"

  Alessandro nodded. "We've used condoms since 2014."

  "Yes, and we do it voluntarily. We have to in L.A., but there's no law for San Fernando Valley. We do it of our own volition, because Pounding Flesh cares about its performers—"

  Tucker snapped his fingers. "Right, since that guy who got HIV and killed himself."

  Both Staci Kelly and Alessandro looked taken aback. Tucker explained to me, "That case was in the newspapers because he was from Montreal. Holden West, uh, contracted HIV because, uh, one of the other performers, uh ... "

  Staci Kelly raised an eyebrow behind her sunglasses.

  Alessandro said flatly, “He did double anal."

  Double anal. Did that mean ...

  "Two black cocks up his ass at the same time," said Staci, watching the expressions play across my face. "It can be pleasurable if done right."

  I couldn't imagine how, but I tried to appear impassive.

  "We use a lot of lubricant, and the performers know how to work together to maximize both their pleasure and optimal viewing. We're professionals."

  She used the word "professional" a lot. Strangely enough, doctors do, too. My head ached. I tried to drag the conversation back on track. "Is that how you made your money? By making ... edgy adult movies?"

  Staci issued a hard, bright laugh. "That's not edgy. You should see the last one I co-produced, The Vampire Diarrhea."

  My brain couldn't even compute that.

  She laughed and tossed her mass of hair. "Scat porn is a thing. Vampires are another thing. It did very well."

  Ugh. I had to swallow down another sudden surge of vomit. It tasted like acid, and this time I felt chunks. I took a few deep breaths and thought of blue skies. No, not blue skies. After this flight, skies were no longer calming. I pictured myself as a whale swimming with my mate. Just the two of us, swimming and singing our whale song, peaceful and beautiful.

  When I tuned back in, she was still laughing at me. "You're not a virgin, are you?"

  My face contorted. Why did people keep asking me that? Tucker's hand tightened on my shoulder. He didn't like the implication either. I told her, "It's none of your business."

  "I only want to know if Jane the Virgin can handle everything she finds out about me and my husband in this investigation. I could tell you so much shit about everyone on this plane."

  My heart gave a double thump. "Like what?" I said, ignoring the swearing.

  Her scarlet upper lip curled, but I could tell she was tempted. "You really want me to do that? You want me to out all the porn stars and porn watchers on this flight?"

  Of course I did. I didn't, but I did.

  This was going to get ugly.

  25

  "Let's start with my section," she said, smiling a little. “You see the old couple at the very front?"

  I nodded, puzzled. "You mean the Yarboroughs." No one could miss them. He'd started pounding on his tray table, from the sounds of it. Pascale had gone to try and calm him down.

  "The woman made millions of dollars from her underwear."

  I was confused. Not even the richest celebrity makes millions from selling her underwear. Not from literally selling her used panties, and not even from an advertising campaign.

  Alessandro explained, "She made ShapeR."

  Oh. ShapeR Shapewear. Now I knew what Mrs. Yarborough had been calling China about, and how she could afford business class. Even before the Santa girl and my mom, I knew ShapeR. My friends cursed it as they struggled into it, or out of it—it's not meant for public display, and if you've had a few drinks, it's hard to fight your way free. I don't wear it, but I'm small-built in all respects, and after my mother forced me into a few options, I swore, like Scarlett O'Hara, that I would never again be squooshed into torture devices masquerading as clothes.

  However, I represented the one percent of the global female population holding out against the modern reinvention of the corset. The rest of the world loved ShapeR, which billed itself as the more comfortable, more sleek, 2.0 version of shapewear.

  "What does that have to do with ... your industry?" said Tucker.

  Staci Kelly snorted. "She should call it ShaperXXX. I'm sure she got the idea from staring at naked bodies all day, trying to make them as perfect as possible."

  I shook my head. "She was a porn star? Back in ... " I was trying to figure out Mrs. Yarborough's age. Did they have porn fifty years ago? But then I remembered a picture of a smutty black and white postcard from the cowboy days. Yes, they would have had porn. And yes, Mrs. Yarborough could have starred in it.

  Staci Kelly laughed. "No, that old horse face wasn't a porn star. As if." She gave a little shudder. "She did makeup. There used to be good money in makeup. Like, $1200 or $1500 a day."

  Damn. Canadian doctors want to make that much, and we don't get paid in American dollars. That's serious coin. A makeup artist wouldn't have to put out on camera, and could work for decades. Mrs. Yarborough was smart.

  "Before the Internet ruined everything, of course."

  Ah, yes, the evil Internet. But if you went from $1200 a day to $200 a day, that would seem Satanic.

  "I gotta hand it to her, though." Staci Kelly snorted at her own joke, probably because hands are key both in porn and in makeup. "Making that kind of money, most of 'em would've stuck with that. But she didn't want to spend her whole life fixing girls' mascara. She left and made a shit ton of money. More than my husband, and doing what? Making bras and underwear? That's nothin'."

  "I'm sure she worked at it. It's a different industry," said Tucker.

  "Yeah. I should be in that industry."

  "Well, maybe you could talk to her. You're on the same flight," I said.

  "Are you nuts?" She stared at me. "Yeah, you're nuts. Either that or stupid. Get it together, or you'll never figure out who killed my husband."

  I thought she was the stupid one. If I were sitting near a millionaire and wanted to work with her, I would say hi. But that wasn't my problem right now. "Can you tell us who else you recognize?"

  "It's more like who don't I recognize." She grinned. She enjoyed having secrets and didn't want to give them up too easily. "That stewardess."

  Tucker and I were stunned. "Pascale?" I said, when I unlocked my lips. She was so elegant and reserved, but I'm sure guys would throw down the cash to see her lose control.

  "I don't know her name. The old one."

  "You mean ... Linda?" I said. The head flight attendant, who looked like she wouldn't know which end of the dildo was up? Man!

  "She's not in the industry, but she comes to sex clubs sometimes. I know who she is."

  It was hard not to let my jaw drop. I'm pretty sure my eyes bulged more than a British bulldog.

  Staci smirked. "It's the pilot she hooked up with. Kinky guy."

  I like gossip as much as the next bored bystander, but this was too much. It was like I'd said, Sure, let me peek behind this curtain, and stumbled upon a full-blown orgy.

  "When you get to the top—or the bottom—L.A. is a small town. We all know each other." Staci Kelly held up her thumb. "You probably noticed the whale in business class. He likes golden showers." Oh, dear.

  She'd moved on to her index finger. "Trina, the synth pop singer, used to do some work for us under a different name. You might have noticed her." She used her chin to indicate the mixed race woman sitting across from Alessandro, hiding behind a pair of sunglasses. "She's hung over or strung out or both."

  Third finger. "Darren Adam, the accountant, took the exit row in cattle class. That guy loves money more than his own dick. He's richer than me and Joel put together, but he wouldn't spring for first class even if he knew he was gonna die tomorrow."

  Fourth finger. "The girl with the 32F's beside Darren tried out for us a
few times."

  Fifth finger. "One of the guys who used to do work for us is here too, but I won't out him because he left the industry. You want me to keep going?"

  I rubbed my temples. The plane bumped again, which didn't help. "That's too many suspects. You're only in the first few rows of the plane, and all these people knew him and could have hated him."

  "And they could have helped hold him down," said Tucker, his lips thin. "I didn't pay attention to where everyone was. Did you?"

  I shook my head, and instantly regretted it. "I was backwards half the time, remember?" I was doing reverse cowgirl on his lower half while someone was stabbing Joel. Tucker would have had a better view, but he'd probably been watching me, especially after Joel punched me.

  In a way, it was good that Joel had punched me, because if Staci Kelly sued us, I'd sue her right back. Her husband had whacked me hard enough to give me my first concussion. A doctor's brain is her primary asset.

  "Ask around," said Staci, waving her talons. "You can do that right now. Go on. I can pay you whatever you need."

  She was trying to get rid of us. The whole thing stank worse than an abandoned cargo hold of fish guts.

  Time to jump ship. I said to Staci Kelly, "This definitely sounds complicated. I wouldn't blame you for hiring a professional."

  "You two," she said. "That's your job. Find out what happened to my husband. Please. I'm a widow now. I have nothing left.”

  Yeah, right. She still had a production company, the rights to The Vampire Diarrhea, Alessandro slobbering over her, and the best plastic surgery that money could buy. We should run, not walk, away from her. "You have my condolences."

  "And mine as well." Tucker interlaced his fingers with mine. "We'll do everything we can to help you."

  I shook my head at him. "Dr. Tucker—"

  "Everything," he repeated, clasping my hand.

  26

  Who's we? I detached my fingers and walked away while Tucker was still talking to Staci Kelly. He touched my shoulder, but let me go. In other words, our teamwork snapped as soon as the code ended.

  "Excuse me," said the woman on my right, the one across from Alessandro's original seat. Her musical voice arrested me in my tracks.

  "Hi," I said. Even I knew that this was Trina, the singer with the most downloaded synth song of all time.

  "Could I speak to you in private?" Trina rose to her feet in one smooth movement. I'd never paid much attention to her music, because I'm not much into processed sound, but she was physically striking even before she removed her sunglasses, revealing the most beautiful face I'd ever seen. Everything else, including the plane's crazed vibrations, became irrelevant.

  Somehow, I was mesmerized by her liquid brown eyes, the sweep of her eyelashes, the height of her cheekbones, and the point of her chin. She was so thin that she probably weighed less than me, even though she was about a foot taller. To make things even more unfair, she still had slender but real-looking curves. Yet I wasn't truly jealous. What would be the point? She was so extraordinary, it would be like resenting a galaxy. The galaxy doesn't care. It simply is.

  "Sure! Let's talk." Tucker zipped behind me and beamed over my shoulder at her.

  "Hey!" squawked Staci Kelly, starting to rise from her seat.

  "I'm Katrina Masserman." The richness of her voice heightened her allure.

  "Hi!" Tucker chirped.

  Most people fall somewhere on the bell curve of good looks, ranging from ugh to meh to pleasant. This was the kind of woman who seized every eye. She made Staci Kelly, with her masses of blonde hair and her giant white teeth, look like a plastic, oversexed Barbie. No wonder Trina masked herself with sunglasses and nondescript clothes. She still couldn't hide her gloriousness.

  "Nice to meet you, Katrina." I tried to concentrate on her actual words. I never knew her full name. It sounded Jewish, which was kind of cool. I've gotten to know Jewish culture a bit more since living in Montreal. Katrina reminded me of Hurricane Katrina, though.

  Trina glanced at the front of the cabin, where Pascale was trying to placate Mr. Yarborough with a bottle of water, and then at Staci Kelly and Alessandro, who were watching us. We were all hemmed so close together that Alessandro could have grabbed both cheeks of Tucker's bum with one hand and Staci Kelly's with the other.

  "Maybe we could head toward the back?" Trina asked. Even her smell made me want to lean closer. It wasn't only perfume, although there was a hint of vanilla.

  "Sure," said Tucker again.

  I couldn't blame him. Still, I hoped he remembered who had just fucked his brains out. Twice.

  "You don't have anything to say." Staci Kelly tried to step over Alessandro. "You were here the whole time, with me. What do you want to tell them that you can't say in front of me?"

  "We're having a private conversation," said Trina.

  "They already know that you used to be one of Joel's sluts. You think you're too good for us because of your music? I remember when you couldn't make rent because of your music, darling. I remember exactly what you did. You remember that too, hmmm?"

  I recoiled at her viciousness. I'd only spent a few seconds with Trina, but she seemed intensely private. Even shaking her hand would be a violation. Her self-contained beauty probably spurred on whoever starred in those films with her. I got that flash again, that same feeling of kinship with Alessandro, only stronger. This time, I knew what it was.

  I wanted to protect Trina.

  What? I shoved the thought away. She was richer than me, more powerful than me, and more beautiful than me. Why did she need me to protect her?

  Plus, shielding people was the exact wrong attitude for the detective doctor. Everyone here was a suspect. I couldn't forget that.

  They do studies on how we react to looks, and good-looking people earn more, get married more easily, become elected President, and even elicit more reaction from babies. That's right, life is sweeter from the cradle onward.

  It only made sense that beauty would get away with murder.

  I shook myself. My vision wobbled, and I ignored it. Trina had been sitting in business class the entire time, same as Staci Kelly. I needed to stick to the facts. Beauty was irrelevant.

  Tucker laid his hand on the back of my neck gently, as if he sensed my concussion. He said to Trina, "Maybe we can borrow the galley. Let's go."

  "You don't need to go anywhere. I told you. What about me? I'm his wife! You should be talking to me!" Staci Kelly scrambled over Alessandro, shoving her way into the aisle.

  Tucker quickly backed up before her breasts hit his chest.

  I darted to the curtain, beside Trina.

  Staci Kelly started humming a tune, and after few seconds, I realized it was "Weathervane," Trina's breakout song, but too high, and twisted.

  Trina started before she caught herself. "Stop it," she said, her hands forming fists at her sides.

  "That's enough," I said. Not only was she making fun of Trina, it felt like she was satirizing me singing "Give Peace a Chance."

  Staci Kelly placed her hands on her hips. "Hell, no. These two work for me. Leave them alone, you Fluorescent Seaweed Kokeshi Doll!" Staci Kelly mashed up Trina's song titles, goading her, before she drew herself up to her full height, clasped her fingers around an imaginary microphone, and began singing about luminescent seaweed.

  Mr. Yarborough tried to join in from the front of the plane.

  "We're not working for you," I said, cutting through their ululations. We were poor, but we weren't Staci Kelly's slaves. There is dignity in not taking money from someone. "Come on."

  I grabbed Tucker's hand. Staci Kelly couldn't stop us from exiting her section, even if she was a horrendous singer and even worse person. Time to go.

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Staci Kelly snapped.

  "Hey!"

  That was Tucker, so I whipped around. Staci Kelly had snatched his 42 shirt from behind.

  She twisted her hand, winching the material around his armpits. Trina and I
glimpsed his scarred abdomen before he spun around to detach her talons.

  More images flashed into my head:

  Tucker yelling through the smoke on 14/11.

  The police hauling me away from him when I thought he was dead.

  Mr. Money's shirt yanked up to his armpits.

  The flash of stork scissors in Tucker's hand.

  Tucker pulling blood clots out of Mr. Money's chest.

  "You're not getting away from me. I own you!" screamed Staci Kelly, hauling me back to the present, and to my own body.

  I ran at her with my fists raised. "Get away from him!"

  If I'd had a weapon in my hand, I would have killed her. Hell, if I'd had the stork scissors, I would have driven them into her eyeball.

  But it was Alessandro who tackled her around the waist.

  27

  "What the fuck?" Staci spat.

  Alessandro didn't answer. He concentrated on acting like a human handcuff for her arms and torso as he tried to drag her backwards a foot or two, into Joel's seat.

  We followed in case she managed to break away. Tucker was in the lead and wouldn't let me cut past him. Over Tucker's shoulder, I saw Staci Kelly’s face turn puce with wrath.

  Alessandro looked agonized. He strained to walk backwards down an unstable airplane aisle while carting a hellion.

  "Let go of me!" Staci Kelly tried to wrench her arms free from her sides, but the disadvantage of her Scarlett O'Hara waist was that Alessandro could easily encircle her. She hadn't expected an attack from him.

  "Excuse me," said Pascale, hurrying down the aisle from the front of the plane. "Mrs. Kelly? Would you ... could I interest you in ... " She floundered.

  "More zip ties," I said, "The medical kit. And get help."

  Staci Kelly wouldn't take Benadryl by mouth, that was for sure, but maybe there was something else I'd missed earlier.

  Pascale pounded up the aisle, already calling for help.

  Mr. Yarborough swiped at Pascale as she passed him. "Hey, missy!"