Blue Moonlight (4 page)

I lunge for the gray curtain, pull it up and over my hand, and pull it back down. For just a split second I see a scattering of passengers. All of them strapped to their seats. Some are crying, some praying with rosary beads in their hands, some folded over at the waist, their heads pressed between their legs like they’re trying to kiss their asses good-bye.

Behind me I hear Zumbo’s pounding footsteps.

I don’t have time to focus on the scared-to-death passengers.

I run. Up the narrow aisle toward business class, through another gray curtain. But before I draw the curtain back, I steal a quick glance over my right shoulder only to see Zumbo coming for me, his automatic gripped in his right hand, barrel pointing toward the ceiling, glassy eyes focused on me like I’m a linebacker who’s intercepted a pass meant for him. He’s not running so much as he’s hobbling as fast as he can.

Bad knees.

Bad head.

Bad day.

I draw the curtain and slip on through.

Like economy class, business class is sparsely populated with scared-shitless passengers. I see only the backs of their heads. I pay them no attention as I sprint toward the pilot’s cabin.

It takes a couple of seconds to get there.

A flight attendant tries to stand in my way. This one is a man. He’s got gray hair and a mustache to match, and he’s wearing the traditional US Airways blue uniform of blue slacks, matching jacket, and tie.

“Please take your seat! We have an in-flight emergency!”

He peers into my eyes with all the power of his authority until he glances over my shoulder at the monster approaching me from behind.

“We most certainly do,” I say.

From where I’m standing I can see beyond the luxury seats, and the rich people strapped into them, to the cockpit door. I brush past the attendant and make an all-out run for it. If I can get inside, I can grab the captain’s attention and bolt the door closed behind me.

“Stop!” shouts the flight attendant.

“Get! Back!” screams Zumbo. “Sweetie! Dies!”

That’s when a man jumps up from a port-side window seat positioned closest to the cockpit, pulls out what looks like a pistol, assumes combat position, and aims the barrel point-blank for my chest. He fires and a snakelike coil leaps from it at lightning speed, slaps my chest, and makes my entire body feel as if it’s been dipped in hot lava.

The plane bounces and bucks.

The man who shot me falls to the floor directly in front of the cabin door. I try to maintain my balance, my posterior pressed up against an upright seatback. But the battle is lost before it begins. The beefy NFL monster behind me loses his
balance and falls onto a first-class passenger who is screaming her lungs out and weeping.

I feel the plane falling again as my knees give out, and I lose consciousness.

When I wake up I’m occupying the same bucket seat in the plane’s aft where I woke up in the first place. The long gray curtain is back in place, Zumbo is seated beside me again, and once more I’m cuffed to his tree stump of a wrist. The cute redheaded flight attendant is nowhere to be seen, but the man who Tasered me is seated across the narrow aisle from Zumbo. I’m thinking he’s the air marshal. Air marshal’s got the Taser gun out. It’s gripped in his right hand. I can also see that he’s got Zumbo’s automatic stuffed into his belt.

As for the turbulence, it seems to be history. Outside the window, nothing but blue skies. Peaceful, calm. But I know better than that. Zumbo is asleep. I can hear his snores. After our midair chase, I can’t imagine how anyone, let alone an overweight former New York Giant with bad knees and a bad headache, can sleep at a time like this. My guess is he’s been forcibly medicated after pulling that little chase-the-rabbit stunt with me. Oh, the crazy, mindless things a head injury will cause a formerly logical thinker to do. Take it from me: Captain Head Case.

Air marshal shifts, leans forward to get a look at me.

I close my eyes, pretend to still be passed out.

A voice over the intercom. Captain’s voice.

“Please be advised, ladies and gentlemen, that we will be making an emergency landing at JFK International Airport in approximately seven minutes. You’ll have noticed that we have already begun our descent. Further instructions will be relayed to you by our flight attendants. We ask that you remain calm and cooperative for the remainder of the flight and follow strict emergency disembarking procedures, which include leaving all carry-on bags behind. When requested upon landing, utilize your closest emergency exit in a calm and orderly fashion. Thank you in advance for your cooperation, and thanks for choosing US Airways.”

Seven minutes.

Out the corner of my eye I catch the flight attendant approaching the air marshal. I bet she thinks he’s cute. I try to get a decent enough look at them by leaning forward so that I can see around Zumbo’s giant, bulbous head. Here’s what I see: the flight attendant reaches down for Zumbo’s piece, which is still stuffed into the air marshal’s crotch. I see her grip the piece and pull it toward her. She pulls back the bolt, checks to make sure a round is chambered, or perhaps no longer chambered, which is more likely the case. She closes the bolt, thumbs the clip release, and allows the clip to drop into her hand. Shoving the clip into her shirt pocket, she doesn’t hand the piece back to the air marshal. Instead, she gently opens Zumbo’s shirt and slides it back into his holster.

“Told you we shouldn’t have let Zumbo pack his standard issue,” she whispers. “He might have fucked this whole thing up.”

The air marshal shrugs. “Far as Zumbo the Dumbo knows, Moonlight’s a terrorist, an IRS bomber,” he murmurs. “Then he gets his head hit and he turns into psycho boy. He played
pro ball, remember? His brains are already scrambled, probably worse than Moonlight’s. He comes to, Moonlight’s on the loose. He goes all Action Jackson on a bad acid trip.”

“Trying to get one hundred crew and passengers killed. Nice.”

Cocking his head, working up a smirk. “All these people will have something to tell their grandchildren,” the air marshal says. Mr. Bright Side.

“That turbulence was enough to tell their grandchildren.”

“Yes, but it worked in your favor. I was able to put Moonlight down.”

Zumbo grunts, bobs his head forward. My cue to lay my head back, resume passed-out position. But just as quickly as he stirs, the ex-fullback begins to snore again.

Through my lashes, I watch both the flight attendant and air marshal focus their gaze on us sleeping beauties. Or should I say
uglies
.

“I know Zumbo can sleep through anything even without being dosed. But how long will Moonlight be passed out like that?”

“Don’t know,” the air marshal says. “You got the body bag ready?”

She nods. “You might have killed him for real with that Taser. I know it’s your job as AM, Kevin, but I’m supposed to take extreme care of his head. He can die from a stroke at any time even without the help of a Taser. And the FBI most certainly needs him alive.”

“No further arguments from me, Agent,” the air marshal comments.

“Soon as we land,” she says, “you guys will be the first ones down those chutes. The car will be waiting for you, along with two NYPD blue-and-whites. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Gotcha, Chief.”

The air marshal leans in toward the flight attendant/FBI agent, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into him.

She pushes him off with a giggle. “Not here. Not on the job. Not at all. We’re history, Kevin. We had a good run, but—”

“Don’t embarrass the bureau, is that it?” Air Marshal Kevin grouses. “You’re turbulence enough for one man. You’re why I left the bureau.”

She slaps his hand as she steps back into the galley, and the descending passenger jet enters into the thick cloud cover.

Soon as we’re through the thick gray cloud cover and the plane has once again stopped bucking like a bronco on speed, the Manhattan skyline comes into view, its towers looming over the horizon like giant steel-and-glass needles pinpricking the sky. The pilot makes a couple figure-eight revolutions in preparation for the emergency landing. I still feign sleep while the little flight attendant straps herself into the wall-mounted foldout seat just outside the galley.

My wrist jerks as Zumbo is jarred awake.

“Are we there yet?” he barks, swiping the drool from his mouth with the back of his good hand. The lump above his eye is more black and blue than before.

“Landing,” answers the air marshal.

“Better than crashing,” I say, pretending to have only now woken up.

Zumbo jerks his wrist, sending electric pain shooting up my right arm. “Shut up, sweetie,” he spits. “Don’t say another word.”

I’m not sure if it’s head-injured Zumbo speaking or the real-deal Zumbo. His words aren’t slurred anymore, so I’m guessing the latter.

The pilot comes back on the PA then, tells us all to assume crash position while he lands the big bird on an out-of-the-way runway where emergency crews will be awaiting us.

Air Marshal Kevin leans forward, head between his legs.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Zumbo mocks. Then, “What about you, Moonlight, sweetie? You gonna tongue your nut sack good-bye too?”

I stare out the window onto water, which quickly turns into the brown terra firma of Queens. “I’ll take whatever comes sitting up,” I say, my heart jumping up into my throat.

Moonlight the terrified.

Terra firma fast becomes a runway. We feel the thump of the landing. Brakes quickly applied, we all lurch forward as the pilot parks the US Airways Airbus onto a wide expanse of tarmac.

We’re not stopped for more than three seconds when we’re greeted by a team of EMS vans, fire trucks, and cop cars. Flashers flashing. Sirens screaming.

“Unbuckle, Moonlight,” Zumbo insists.

I do it.

“We’re going for a ride.” He pulls me up and out of my seat by the cuffs. I feel like my hand is about to be severed at the wrist. Maybe that’s what he’s going for.

Cute flight attendant/FBI agent unstraps herself, shoots up from her seat. Heading back into the galley, she comes back out with a rolled-up bag. I’m the son of a mortician. I know a body bag when I see one.

“You’re not serious?” I say.

“Do it, Moonlight,” Zumbo orders while the flight attendant, or whatever she is, rolls it out onto the floor. “Get in.”

I just stare down at it.

“Now!”

Situation beyond my control. I’m powerless. Might as well be dead. I lay myself down, slip my left foot inside, followed by my torso, and then the rest of my body. The zipper is quickly zipped and my world turns black.

“Make even a peep, Moonlight,” Zumbo warns, “and you’ll never leave the body bag alive.”

There’s some real irony for you.

I don’t speak as I hear what has to be the emergency exit opening and the loud pop of the emergency chute inflating. What happens next happens fast. I’m lifted off the floor and tossed onto the chute for a fast ride, straight down. My heels hit the tarmac hard, my knees buckling, my breath escaping my lungs.

From up above I can hear Zumbo laughing. I hear him scream, “Geronimo!”

I hear the commotion that a whale of a man makes when he slides down an emergency chute.

“Whaddaya think, Moonlight?” he shouts upon crash-landing. “Wanna go again?”

Too bad he didn’t land on his head. Maybe this time the already head-banged big beast would have lost consciousness for a while. Maybe for the rest of his life.

I try not to speak. Not because it would constitute a peep. But my breath is still knocked out of me.

Then the sound of a car or van pulling up. I’m lifted off the tarmac and shoved into the back of the vehicle, the door closing behind me. From there, we speed off, rooftop sirens blaring.

Once again, I’m dead.

Lord help me, I’m dead.