The Mentor

by Pat Connid

  "Hey, he rolled that bag through the metal detector. Metal handle, metal wheels. And by the look of him, probably a steel flask in the coat pocket," I said and earned another smile. "I think Oddjob over there needs to come and recalibrate your machine."

  The big fellah didn't flinch. He was asleep. And standing. Impressive.

  "They're charter flights. They don't have to go through metal detectors or x-ray. This machine is here for overflow if things get really hectic at the main terminal. I'm certified on it," she looked it up and down, "but I'm not certain I know how to even turn it on."

  I grabbed an empty soda can out of the trash and walked through the machine. Nothing.

  Oddjob said: "Don' do that."

  No. Not sleeping. And, now, a degree more scary.

  "Sorry, sir. I just… I thought I saw a kitten," I said and slipped back through. "So, how do they rate? No metal detector, no x-ray."

  "It's their plane. They own it or their business does. They can bring whatever they want on board."

  "No way."

  "Yep," she said, smacking the "p" particularly hard. Kinda sexy. But by this time, she could have winged out armpit flatulence, and I would have found her sexy.

  "Even dangerous items?" I knew better than to say the g-word in an airport. "Nunchucks, ski poles, Russell Crowe? All that goes on, not even a blink."

  "They own the plane. I just make sure they have a ticket to get down to the terminal and point them in the right direction. They can bring anything they want."

  "Anything." I said, and then thought, Hold on. "What if I was taking my buddy for a bachelor party, he got wasted and slept from the limo all the way to the plane. When he got to you, he was all 'Weekend at Bernie's.'"

  "You mean dead?"

  "No, silly, silly girl. But, you know, out light a light."

  She leaned back, rubbed her neck again. "Whatever. You've got his ID, steady as she goes, sailor. These guys pay thousands, millions. I’m not going to be the one that turns them to one of the other 'ports."

  "Aren't you pricier here, though?"

  "Sure, but we've got a Captain's Lounge. Free booze, beer and cocktail peanuts."

  I let that thought sink in for a moment. If The Mentor had hauled me from Georgia all the way to the Big Island, he did it on a charter. A charter plane would have to have a record. If I found out who owned that plane…

  "So, who normally takes those sorts of flights?"

  She looked down the hall again. This time, it seemed as if she were looking for something more interesting. I'd asked one of those I-get-that-every-day questions, sure, but I couldn't help it.

  "Those who can afford it."

  "No, seriously. If I wanted to grow up and be like one of these guys--"

  "Grow up? You're like thirty-five, right?"

  "Not even thirty. I only look older because of all the testosterone coursing through me. Most of it’s even mine."

  She blushed. Sexy. I added, "But how would you get a list of the people who came through here?"

  "You wouldn't."

  "Seriously, if--"

  "Seriously, you wouldn't. Do you think you can walk up to a hotel and ask for a list of guests staying there?"

  I nodded. "Yeah, but I'd ask really, really nicely."

  A small smile. Back on my side. "Still. You're not going to get it. Just work hard, long hours, screw over your wife and friends and maybe you, too, can one day plant your ass in a cushy, leather seat on Charter Air." I was in love. Or the next best thing.

  "I'm not married," I said. "If that's what it takes--"

  "That's Standard Fatcat Operating Procedure."

  "Then,” I said to the pretty girl, “will you be my wife?"

  A genuine laugh and she looked to Oddjob who was back to sleeping/not sleeping. She dug down under the table.

  "When's your flight?"

  "My, you want to consummate our marriage before the big day? I am not that kind of--"

  "Do you EVER stop?" she said and smiled. "Listen-- take this pass down the tiled hall. The Captain's Lounge is on the left. Beer and peanuts on the house. If anyone asks, they won't, but if they do just tell them your pilot is late. Make sure you clear out in time for your flight."

  I took the certificate. It was actually embossed with a faux gold seal.

  Just when I am convinced the world has all gone dark and that every person I meet is looking to use the crown of my head as a step to get up to the next rung, I meet someone who shatters that completely. Still, I think, one day, that will most likely stop happening. But for now, I'm going to be satisfied that there are at least a few humans left with any sort of humanity.

  Humanity and free beer and nuts certificates! Those are the best humans!

  The Captain's Lounge did not have any windows (at least not facing the long hall) and nothing to indicate it was the Captain's Lounge. The only thing to set it aside from a bathroom door was that it looked like its entrance had been carved from a redwood in one piece. Subtle.

  The handle wasn't really a handle at all. It was an indent, inside of which was a laser scanner. Pressing my Golden Ticket into the space, the laser met the QR code and I heard the clack! of the latch within the door snap back.

  The door opened and I stood there for a moment, like a freshly combat-slain Viking might at the gates of Valhalla (but only if he had a certificate). Inside, beautiful, warm yellow incandescent bulbs were everywhere (theme: fuck energy-saving bulbs) and nearly all surfaces were either wood or red leather or, often, both (additional theme: fuck trees and cows).

  The bar was arched and pitched away from circular windows. Behind the bartender, rows upon rows of bottles, and behind them distressed mirrors. It hadn’t dawned on me until I realized the ropy tapestry canopied over the bar was actually fisherman's netting that this was supposed to be a ship’s interior.

  The chief magistrate of the aforementioned Captain’s Lounge was not the pilot of a plane but the skipper of a boat. And, noting the parrot next to the register perched on the brass spittoon (for tips), it seemed, arggh!, this Captain might be a pirate. Thankfully, the bartender wasn’t sporting a billowy, white shirt and black-dotted chin. It seemed the Caribbean theme ended with the decor.

  Still, I watched out for a cocktail wench. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  The windows, huge “portals,” were tinted (certifying the authenticity of the illusion, certainly), which lent a surreal quality to the images outside: the planes, luggage carts, and yellow trams that whirred dangerously fast around the tarmac.

  Those not at the bar were seated at a maze of small tables, each made to look like a part of a ship or dock loaded down with rigging and each circled by comfy chairs. Longer tables similarly designed offered booth-style seating.

  I took a deep breath in. Life delivers the oddest treats every now and--

  "Theeere he is," a voice called from the bar.

  Looking up, a scraggly man with a ball cap and burst of chin whiskers waved at me with a huge, calloused hand. His smile was wide, his eyes glass.

  Either I knew him somehow or this guy's job was to sit at the bar all day and welcome folks like we were all besties. Good work if you can get it.

  I nodded and smiled wider than I would have normally at a guy with so few teeth (why provoke them, right?).

  "Hey, man!"

  He waved me over, uneasy in his chair. Very drunk. So, probably a pilot.

  The bartender looked me up and down, disapprovingly. He dropped a plate of candied peanuts and asked what I wanted to drink. I told him and he turned to pour it.

  "You!" The drunk said. "Youuuu!"

  "Me," I agreed. "No question."

  He nodded, looked up at me, took a drag from a cigarette, blew it toward the bartender and nodded again.

  "Shit, you look a hell of a lot better than when you came in here," he said and laughed. Then he caught sight of my hands and wrists, torn up from my parachuting excursion the day before. "But not much."

  Huh?
/>
  "At least you're upright," he said, slapped the bar and hacked out a quarter of his lung. "You upright, that's a good thing ’cause when you and your buddy came in here, I actually checked to see if you were dead when he went to the john!"

  Another peel of laugher, the rest of his lung coming this time with a long rack of coughing.

  "You remember me?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I was in here before?”

  Nodding, he said: "Yeah, well, no, no. Not in hereee. The big, black fellah, your friend, he carried you on and off the damn plane. But I never forget a face." He waved at the bar in a big sloppy circle. "You need a beer."

  I said, yes I did.

  HIS NAME WAS REGGIE. He was a pilot, he was a drunk, and he’d taken me and the man I called The Mentor from an airfield in south Atlanta off Ponce de Leon Street (pronounced, by the way, regionally as Ponce duh-LEE-on).

  We’d apparently made a touch-and-go in San Francisco for some jet fuel and then onto the big Kahuna.

  “Why not Los Angeles? You had to go north and then south again.”

  His smile was still frozen in place, this hadn’t been the conversation he’d hoped to have when he saw his formerly passed out passenger. “Uh, well, it’s a faster in and out, and we’ve got an account there.”

  “We?”

  “Well, we got an account everywhere, just about now, to be clear for ya. From Sydney to Bonn to Moscow to Brazil...”

  “Who is w-- uh, you do know Brazil’s a country and the others were all-- never mind, it... that sort of thing just kinda bugs,” I said and shook my head clear. “You said ‘we.’ Who is we?”

  He looked down at his beer then to the bartender, then back to me.

  “We is, uh, the guys drinking a beer, um, at the airport?”

  “No, no. Sorry. I mean, you said ‘we have an account’ in a bunch of cities... and one country, but whatever... what company?”

  If I could find out the company that owned the plane that may, should, lead me back to my midnight travel agent.

  From there, who knows? maybe I don’t get a name for him but at least I’d have an idea who was signing his paychecks (for whatever he was paid in. Probably little boys. Or small dogs. Or little boys riding on small dogs).

  Reggie grew a little uncomfortable again.

  “Listen, man, I-- we just fly the planes,” he said and looked to the bartender, a quick nod for the check. “I’m sorry you and your bro’ had a falling out or whatever, but I don’t want nothing to do with it.”

  “No, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble--”

  “Man, in my 'sperience when someone says shit like that it usually means they do want to get someone in trouble!”

  Me, I’m so delicate, so suave. Swoon, ladies.

  Here was my only link to The Mentor and I turned that link into a drunk trying to run away from a bar.

  That, my friend: talent.

  “Listen, listen--”

  His check came. “Don’t wanna. I’m done with this. You got a problem; you take it up with SkipJet. Only do me a favor and don’t bring my name up.”

  Oh?

  “Reggie, I lost my damn wallet is all I was saying, brother. If I call up SkipJet they’re going to ask me on which flight and your name, hmmm, it’s going to come up.”

  This turned him to stone for a moment.

  “I mean, my wallet was with me,” I said, exaggerated a laugh, “when I left, right? Am I right?”

  “I don’t--”

  “And now, I don’t have it. You should be fine, though, it’s not like you’ve got priors or anything and they’re going to--”

  “Listen, friend...”

  “Irwin,” I said. Why not?

  “Listen, Irwin, I don’t need no trouble from you, your employer or mine. If you lost your wallet it wasn’t my bad. Ask your buddy.”

  “He already left.”

  I wanted to get into that plane and see if there was anything, even a dirty glass. Who knows, maybe I could convince Detective Clower to run the prints with some wild story. He’d hate me (more) but I thought there was a chance I could pull it off.

  “Listen,” Reggie said and gave a quick glance around him. “I’m not even supposed to take people on that are flat-out like that. We ain’t supposed to take nobody drunk on board.”

  “That’s only for the guys in the front.”

  “Right,” he said, not listening to me. “And, it don't matter if I didn’t believe him when he said you had that, uh, sleep thing, you know.”

  “No.”

  “It’s... where you can’t stay awake? Narcro-- necrophilia--”

  “Sure, right.” I had to introduce this guy to Pavan. They’d have a ball. “Listen, we don’t need to ring up to SkipJet, Reggie. Just let me take a look around the plane for a minute or two. Where were we, in the back, right?”

  Reggie looked as if he’d just gotten off a playground merry-go-round.

  “Wha? Yeah, in the-- but you can’t go looking on the jet.”

  “Just two minutes. In and out. If I don’t find it, so be it. No harm, no foul. That’s the end of it.”

  “No, man,” he said and took the last sip of his beer. “That plane is long gone. About ninety minutes after we set down, it took off again.”

  “Damn. Someone from SkipJet took it? Well, it’s a big damn company, I suppose. My friend is one of their security team.”

  Reggie got back on the merry-go-round for a moment, held tight, and this time looked at me from its spinning center.

  “It... what? He don’t work for SkipJet.” He looked down at the bar, then back to me. “I work for them. He... he don’t work for SkipJet.”

  “We borrowed it?”

  Reggie explained slowly after I’d ordered him a beer (which bothered the barman. Crew like Reggie, they didn’t get free booze, but high fallutin passengers like Yours Truly (wink, wink) did. “Buying” Reggie a beer was just one more that the bar had to eat).

  SkipJet wasn’t a big conglomerate with offices and accounts in every major city in the world. It was what you might call a "millionaire's taxi."

  The jet-for-hire company owns about one hundred seventy planes, which hop from city to city to city all day and night. A businessman in London gets the nod for a big deal in Tokyo but has to leave ASAP, but the next commercial flight is tomorrow? There’s a SkipJet at Heathrow (probably more than one), his company rents it out, and it lands in Tokyo a few hours later.

  Then, let's say, there’s a wealthy, nearly-wedded couple in Tokyo (in my mind it’s the groom and, aghast!, maid-of-honor who skipped out an hour before the original wedding and are heading to Vegas for their own ceremony). Once our businessman lands from London, the plane is turned over and the scalawag-lovers board for The Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  I had to find out the name of the company that rented the jet. That was my breadcrumb.

  “Well, hell,” I said. “How am I supposed to look through a plane that isn’t here?”

  “You really can’t, you know?”

  “Well, I suppose I can reach out to SkipJet, like you were saying.”

  Reggie took a big swallow of beer. “Or, now, hold on. Listen. I could see where it went. Maybe there’s a crew member, where it went to, that could look through the craft for you. Now, hey. That, right? That would be almost like you did it yourself.”

  “How would you know where it went?” I said as doe-eyed as possible.

  “Easy,” he said, happy to have calmed the panicked ex-passenger and happy to not have any questions about missing items associated with his name. “Take a look at the manifest,” he said, pulling a device off his hip that looked like a cross between an iPhone and Spock’s tricorter.

  I watched, trying not to be too eager.

  “You can do that?” Ugh.

  “Sure, heck yeah. “

  After a few taps, he brought up the ID of the aircraft. The manifest, just as he said, showed the plane had left Hawaii, gone to Hong
Kong then to a small airport in the south of France.

  I didn’t care about where it was but where it had been.

  “There’s you guys,” he pointed on one line. Client, origin and time, destination and time and pilot name. “R. Davis over here, that’s me. That’s jet-- oh yeah, a Citation X. Love those."

  I scanned across the line, past his finger.

  “Where are we listed? Did he use my real name?” Could The Mentor’s real name be a finger-tap away from me? “I try to keep a low profile.”

  “Don’t worry ‘bout that,” he said, his words casual and slow now. “Even though we had to cross way out this way from the mainland, it’s still a domestic.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “So, it don’t require we have passenger names on domestic. Unless they insist or wanna show it off to their girlfriends, we got a bunch of Don Joes and Jane Smiths,” he said, slurring. “And, see, your Citation is, right now... in a port south of Paris!” He smiled, looking like he’d taken his first, tasty cigarette drag of the day. “I know a guy in that hanger. Perfect. He can give it a look. If it’s there, they can drop it in a pouch. Have it to you in no time.”

  I looked again at the line a couple rows up from the one detailing the hop to France.

  Honolulu was the destination. Point of origin, Atlanta. Jet’s range was 3,450 miles, so we’d broken up the trip going wheels down for refueling in San Francisco. That’s not what interested me.

  I recognized the entry under “Client.” I'd heard of them, of course.

  “Thanks, Reggie.”

  Reggie stood and started to dial his cell phone, giving me the thumbs up. I hit him back with it but my mind was already somewhere else.

  What did The Mentor have to do with a charity owned by one of the world’s wealthiest men?

  Chapter Eight

  On the plane back to the States, I was lucky enough to find some headphones in the magazine pouch and I wore those for the entire trip, even when not listening to music. Just needed to sleep.

  Of course, Reggie’s friend had not found any wallet aboard le jet. I thanked him for trying so hard, it meant the world to me he’d cared enough to check, and told him “no harm, no foul.” We tried, so forget all about it.