Moments later, the G-Unit members each had twenty-five dollars in hand.
The ride’s operator collected money and pointed at a stack of plastic bowls. “Put all your personal possessions in those.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want anything flying off.”
Ethel and Edna went first.
“
The remaining gals shielded their eyes, squinting up into the bright sky as an open-air ball sailed up until it was a tiny dot. It reached the ends of its bungee cords and jerked back down. Then up again, down, bouncing over and over with decreasing range until it ran out of steam.
The ride’s operator stepped onto the platform and raised the padded safety bars. The women climbed down.
“How was it?”
“Mind-fucker!” said Ethel.
The others’ turn on the Rocket Launch. The operator locked the safety bars over Eunice and Edith. “Sure you put everything in the plastic bowls?”
They nodded.
He went back to his control station. “Ready?”
“Hurry up before we croak.” The catapult released. “
At the top of the arc, Eunice covered her mouth and looked up at a jettisoned piece of space debris heading for orbit.
“What was that?” asked Edith.
“My dentures.”
Edith looked at the safety bar and into the tiny camera filming them. “I’m definitely buying this video.”
Down below, Coleman led the students across the beach. “… I once bought a modified Frisbee from a head shop that had a secret pot chamber in the middle. It was called Catch a Buzz…”
One of the kids looked up at faint screams. “Hey, check out those old ladies.”
They continued through the sand. A rescue team from
Johnny Vegas sat in the background, tears trickling down his cheek.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“What do you mean a preexisting condition!”
Randall Sheets caught himself and lowered his voice on the phone. “It was not preexisting. She was in perfect health when we bought the policy… What? She already had it and we just didn’t know? That’s garbage!… But I don’t have the money and she’s going to die without treatment… Could you repeat that?… It’s classified as uncovered hospice care instead of corrective medicine?… Now you’re just making up reasons… Look, don’t think I won’t sue… Why can’t you talk to me anymore?… What company directive?… Because I mentioned litigation I can only talk to your attorneys from now on?… Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Randall slowly closed the phone.
“Honey…” The voice came from down the hall. Randall entered the master bedroom, his weak wife propped up on pillows. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody important.”
“Insurance people again?”
Randall pulled up a chair. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
He lightly grabbed her hand. “I’m supposed to be here.”
“I’ll be fine. You should go to work.” She smiled. “It’s not like we need the money or anything.”
“But-”
“Go ahead.” She grabbed a remote control. “One of my shows is coming on.”
Randall drove across town with a head full of thoughts.
An hour later, a Cessna came into view. It cleared the fence of another private strip, this one in southern Palm Beach County. The landing was more than shaky, skipping twice before the wheels stayed down for good. No cross draft.
The propeller slowed to a jerky stop. Randall removed headphones and turned to the dermatologist in the passenger seat. “Not bad for a first landing. Same time next week?”
They climbed down from the four-seater with cursive lettering on the side:
TRADEWINDS F LIGHT S CHOOL.
The student hopped in a Corvette and sped off. Randall headed the other way for his own car. Next to it, four men with arms crossed leaned against the front of a BMW.
“Randall Sheets?”
“How can I help you fellas?”
“We need to hire a plane.”
“You want flying lessons?”
Guillermo shook his head.
“Then what?” asked Randall.
“We’ll get to that later.” Guillermo bent down and released a handle.
“What’s the briefcase for?”
“You.”
Randall hadn’t been in trouble a day in his life, the proverbial community pillar, as far removed from criminal circles as one gets. But he’d also been a pilot in Florida during the eighties, and he’d seen this movie before-what temptation had done to other pilots he’d known.
“I think you should leave.”
“How’s your wife?”
Randall’s expression changed. “What about my wife?”
“If we’re going to be friends-”
“We’ll never be friends! Leave! Now!”
“Have we offended you in some way?”
Randall reached in his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Guillermo opened the BMW’s driver-side door. “We’re late for an appointment.”
The others piled back in.
“You forgot your briefcase,” said Randall.
“No, I didn’t.” Guillermo started the car. “Give my best to Sarah.”
They drove off.
Randall stood motionless and stared down at the brown leather case for what seemed like an eternity. Brain racing. He finally crouched, set it on its side and slowly raised the lid. Breathing shallowed. Then he heard something, like a far-off explosion.
Randall looked up through yellow aviator glasses at the clear southeastern sky: a tiny fireball smaller than a dime a thousand feet above the horizon toward Bimini. At a range of thirty miles, the sound of the blast still carried, but nothing like what the boats below in the Atlantic heard as twisted metal fluttered into the ocean from a Cessna registered to Cash Cutlass.
THE PRESENT
