Airport

Barely fifteen minutes earlier Tanya had thought of the developing contest between herself and Ada Quonsett as a battle of wits. If it was, without doubt the little old lady from San Diego had won.

With uncharacteristic savageness, Tanya wished that the airline would make an exception and prosecute Mrs. Quonsett. But she knew they wouldn’t.

Young Peter Coakley started to say something.

Tanya snapped, “Oh, shut up!”

The District Transportation Manager returned to his office a few minutes after Coakley and the gate agent left. The D.T.M., Bert Weatherby, was a hardworking, hard-driving executive in his late forties, who had come up the hard way, beginning as a ramp baggage handler. Normally considerate, and with a sense of humor, tonight he was tired and testy from three days of continuous strain. He listened impatiently to Tanya’s report in which she accepted the main responsibility herself, mentioning Peter Coakley only incidentally.

Running a hand through his sparse graying hair, 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 attache 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 attache 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.

2

In 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, 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 seem 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