Airport (42 page)

Running a hand through his sparse graying bair, the D.T.M. observed, “I like to check that there’s still some left up there, It’s things like this that are making the rest of it fall out.” He considered, then rasped, “You got us into this mess; you’d better do the salvaging. Talk to Flight Dispatch; ask them to call the captain of Flight Two on company radio and fill him in on what happened. I don’t know what he can do. Personally, I’d like to throw the old hag out at thirty thousand feet, but that’ll be up to him. By the way, who is the captain?”

“Captain Demerest.”

The D.T.M. groaned. “It would be. He’ll probably think it’s all a great joke because management boobed. Anyway, advise him the old biddy’s to be detained on board after landing, and is not to be allowed off without escort. If the Italian authorities want to jail her, so much the better. Then get a signal off to our station manager in Rome. When they arrive it’ll be his baby, and I hope he’s got more competent people around him than I have.”

“Yes, sir,” Tanya said.

She started to tell the D.T.M. of the other matter concerning Flight Two–the suspicious-looking man with an attaché case whom Customs Inspector Standish had seen going aboard. Before she could finish, the D.T.M. cut her off.

“Forget it! What do the Customs people want us to do–their job? As long as the airline’s not involved, I don’t give a damn what the guy’s carrying. If Customs here want to know what’s in his case, let them ask Italian Customs to check, not us. I’ll be damned if I’ll interrogate, and maybe offend, a fare-paying passenger for something that’s none of our business.”

Tanya hesitated. Something about the man with the attaché case–even though she hadn’t actually seen him–bothered her. There were instances she had heard of where… Of course, the idea was absurd…

“I was wondering,” she said. “He might not be smuggling at all.”

The D.T.M. snapped, “I said forget it.”

Tanya left. Back at her desk, she began writing the message to Captain Demerest of Flight Two concerning Mrs. Ada Quonsett.

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I
N A TAXI
en route to the airport from downtown, Cindy Bakersfeld leaned back against the rear seat and closed her eyes. She was neither aware, nor cared, that outside it was still snowing, nor that the taxi was moving slowly in heavy traffic. She was in no hurry. A wave of physical pleasure and contentment (Was the right word euphoria? Cindy wondered) swept over her.

The cause was Derek Eden.

Derek Eden, who had been at the Archidona Relief Fund cocktail party (Cindy still didn’t know
which
Archidona); who had brought her a triple-strength Bourbon, which she hadn’t drunk, then had propositioned her in the most unimaginative way. Derek Eden, until today only a slightly known
Sun-Times
reporter with a second-grade by-line; Derek Eden with the dissolute face, the casual air, the nondescript unpressed clothes; Derek Eden and his beat-up filthy-inside-and-out Chevrolet; Derek Eden, who had caught Cindy in a barriers-down moment, when she needed a man, any man, and she hadn’t hoped for much; Derek Eden who had proved to be the finest and most exciting lover she had ever known.

Never, never before had Cindy experienced anyone like him. Oh, God!, she thought; if ever there was sensual, physical perfection, she attained it tonight. More to the point; now that she had known Derek Eden… dear Derek… she wanted him again–often. Fortunately, it was unmistakable that he now felt the same way about her.

Still leaning back in the rear of the taxi, she relived mentally the past two hours.

They had driven, in the awful old Chevrolet, from the Lake Michigan Inn to a smallish hotel near the Merchandise Mart. A doorman accepted the car disdainfully–Derek Eden didn’t seem to notice–and inside, in the lobby, the night manager was waiting. Cindy gathered that one of the phone calls which her escort had made was to here. There was no formality of checking in, and the night manager showed them directly to a room on the eleventh floor. After leaving the key, and with a quick “goodnight,” he left.

The room was so-so; old fashioned, spartan, and with cigarette burns on the furniture, but clean. It had a double bed. Beside the bed, on a table, was an unopened bottle of Scotch, some mixes and ice. A card on the liquor tray read,
“With the manager’s compliments”
; Derek Eden inspected the card, then put it in his pocket.

When Cindy inquired, later on, Derek explained, “Sometimes a hotel will oblige the press. When they do, we don’t make any promises; the paper wouldn’t go for it. But maybe sometimes a reporter or a deskman will put the hotel’s name in a story if it’s an advantage; or if the story’s a bad one–like a death; hotels hate that–we might leave it out. As I say, no promises. You do the best you can.”

They had a drink, and chatted, then another, and during the second drink he began to kiss her. It was soon after that she became aware of the gentleness of his hands, which he passed through her hair quite a lot to begin with, in a way which she could feel through her entire body; then the hands began exploring slowly, oh, so slowly… and it was also then that Cindy began to realize this might be something special.

While he was undressing her, demonstrating a finesse which he had lacked earlier, he whispered, “Don’t let’s hurry, Cindy–either of us.” But soon after, when they were in bed, and wonderfully warm, as Derek Eden promised in the car they would be, she
had
wanted to hurry, and cried out, “Yes, yes!… Oh, please! I can’t wait!” But he insisted gently, “Yes, you can. You must.” And she obeyed him, being utterly, deliciously in his control, while he led her, as if by the hand like a child, close to the brink, then back a pace or two while they waited with a feeling like floating in air; then near once more, and back, and the same again and again, the bliss of it all near-unendurable; and finally when neither of them could wait longer, there was a shared crescendo like a hymn of heaven and a thousand sweet symphonies; and if Cindy had been able to choose a moment for dying, because nothing afterward could ever be that moment’s equal, she would have chosen then.

Later, Cindy decided that one of the things she liked about Derek Eden was his total lack of humbug. Ten minutes after their supreme moment, at a point where Cindy’s normal breathing was returning and her heart regaining its regular beat, Derek Eden propped himself on an elbow and lighted cigarettes for them both.

“We were great, Cindy.” He smiled. “Let’s play a return match soon, and lots of others after that.” It was, Cindy realized, an admission of two things: that what they had experienced was solely physical, a sensual adventure, and neither should pretend that it was more; yet together they had attained that rare Nirvana, an absolute sexual compatibility. Now, what they had available, whenever needed, was a private physical paradise, to be nurtured and increasingly explored.

The arrangement suited Cindy.

She doubted if she and Derek Eden would have much in common outside a bedroom, and he was certainly no prize to be exhibited around the social circuit. Without even thinking about it, Cindy knew she would have more to lose than gain by being seen publicly in Derek’s company. Besides, he had already intimated that his own marriage was solid, though Cindy guessed he wasn’t getting as much sex at home as he needed, a condition with which she sympathized, being in the same situation herself.

Yes, Derek Eden was someone to be treasured–but not to become involved with emotionally. She
would
treasure him. Cindy resolved not to be demanding, nor let their love-making become too frequent. A single session like tonight’s would last Cindy a long time, and could be relived just by thinking about it. Play a little hard-to-get, she told herself; see to it that Derek Eden went on wanting her as much as she wanted him. That way, the whole thing could last for years.

Cindy’s discovery of Derek had also, in a strange way, provided her with a freedom she had not possessed before.

Now that she had better-than-average sex available as it were, on a separate shelf, she could view the choice between Mel and Lionel Urquhart more objectively.

Her marriage to Mel had, in some ways, already terminated. Mentally and sexually they were estranged; their slightest disagreement resulted in bitter quarreling. All that Mel appeared to think about nowadays was his damned airport. Each day, it seemed, thrust Mel and Cindy farther apart.

Lionel, who was satisfactory in all respects except in bed, wanted divorces all around so that he could marry Cindy.

Mel detested Cindy’s social ambitions. Not only would he do nothing to advance them; he impeded them. Lionel, on the other hand, was well established in Illinois society, saw nothing unusual in Cindy’s social aims and would, and could, help her fulfill them.

Until now, Cindy’s choice had been complicated by the remembrance of her fifteen years of marriage to Mel and the good times together, mental and physical, they had once enjoyed. She had hoped vaguely that the past–including the satisfactions of sex–might somehow be rekindled. It was, she admitted to herself, a delusive hope.

Lionel, as a sexual partner, had little or nothing to offer. Neither–at least for Cindy, any more–had Mel.

But if sex were eliminated–an elimination which Derek Eden, like a secretly stabled stallion, had now made possible–Lionel, as a competitor to Mel, came out far ahead.

In the taxi, Cindy opened her eyes and mused.

She wouldn’t make any firm decision until she had talked with Mel. Cindy didn’t like decisions, anyway, and invariably put them off until they could be delayed no longer. Also, there were still imponderables involved: the children; memories of the years with Mel, which hadn’t
all
been bad; and when you once cared deeply for someone, you never shook it off entirely. But she was glad she had decided, after all, to come out here tonight.

For the first time since leaving downtown Cindy leaned forward, peering out into the darkness to see if she could determine where they were. She couldn’t. Through misted windows she could see snow and many other cars, all moving slowly. She guessed they were on the Kennedy Expressway, but that was all.

She was aware of the cab driver’s eyes watching her in his rear-view mirror. Cindy had no idea what kind of man the driver was; she hadn’t taken notice when she got into the cab back at the hotel, which she and Derek left separately since they decided they might as well start being discreet immediately. Anyway, tonight all faces and bodies merged into the face and body of Derek Eden.

“That’s Portage Park over there, madam,” the driver said. “We’re getting close to the airport. Won’t be long.”

“Thank you.”

“Lotsa traffic going out there besides us. Guess those airport people must have had their problems, what with the big storm and all.”

Who the hell cares?,
Cindy thought.
And didn’t anyone ever think or talk of anything besides that cruddy airport?
But she kept quiet.

At the main terminal entrance Cindy paid off the cab and hurried inside to avoid wet snow which gusted under canopies and swirled along sidewalks. She threaded the crowds in the main concourse, moving around one sizable group which seemed to intend some kind of demonstration because several people were helping assemble a portable public address system. A Negro police lieutenant, whom Cindy had met several times with Mel, was talking to two or three men from the group who appeared to be leaders. The policeman was shaking his head vigorously. Not really curious–nothing about this place really interested her–Cindy moved on, heading for the airport administrative offices on the mezzanine.

Lights were on in all the offices, though most were unoccupied and there was none of the clatter of typewriters or hum of conversation, as during daytime working hours. At least some people, Cindy thought, had sense enough to go home at night.

The only person in sight was a middle-aged woman, in drab clothes, in the anteroom to Mel’s office. She was seated on a settee from where she seemed to be looking vacantly into space, and took no notice as Cindy came in. The woman’s eyes were red as if she had been crying. Judging by her clothes and shoes, which were sodden, she had been outside in the storm.

Cindy gave the other woman only a mildly curious glance before going into Mel’s office. The office was empty, and Cindy sat down in a chair to wait. After a few moments she closed her eyes and resumed her pleasant thoughts about Derek Eden.

Mel hurried in–he was limping more than usual, Cindy noticed–about ten minutes later.

“Oh!” He appeared surprised when he saw Cindy, and went back to close the door. “I really didn’t think you’d come.”

“I suppose you’d have preferred me not to.”

Mel shook his head. “I still don’t think there’s anything to be gained by it–at least, not for what you seem to have in mind.” He looked at his wife appraisingly, wondering what her real purpose was in coming here tonight. He had learned long ago that Cindy’s motives were usually complicated, and frequently quite different from what they appeared to be. He had to admit, though, that she looked her best tonight; positively glamorous, with a kind of radiance about her. Unfortunately, the glamour no longer affected him personally.

“Suppose you tell. me,” Cindy said, “what you think I have in mind.”

He shrugged. “I got the impression that what you wanted was a fight. It occurred to me that we had enough of them at home without arranging another here.”

“Perhaps we’ll
have
to arrange something here; since you’re hardly ever home any more.”

“I might be home, if the atmosphere were more congenial.”

They had been talking for just a few seconds, Cindy realized, and already were sniping at each other. It seemed impossible nowadays for the two of them to hold a conversation without that happening.

Just the same, she could not resist answering, “Oh, really! That isn’t usually the reason you give for not being at home. You’re always claiming how all-fired important it is for you to be here at the airport–if necessary, twenty-four hours a day. So many important things–or so you say–are always happening.”