Chapter 7
“How?” I asked. “How are we supposed to do that?”
“Use your instincts,” said Reggie. “Watch for anyone who’s jittery or way too composed. There’s always a tell, like in poker. If someone’s carrying contraband, they’re either going to be completely fine every second or sweating and jumpy. You’ll figure it out.”
“On your left,” said Timothy, as we passed a stalwart pilot, his hair silver at the temples, in his uniform with five stripes of gold braid at the cuffs of his sleeves.
“I’m feeling cabin pressure already,” said Brock.
“Okay, I’m just going to say this,” said Timothy. “I mean, we’ve all joined the Mile High Club, right, by giving a blowjob in one of those tiny bathrooms. But if I did it with that pilot in the cockpit and the plane crashed, would you blame me?”
“Only if you don’t stop giggling after saying the word ‘cockpit,’ ” I told him.
We simultaneously nodded at a trio of female flight attendants from a competing airline, who offered a satiric salute. I was getting into this, even after Brock hissed at me, “Stop swiveling your hips. You’re not a Vegas showgirl.”
“It’s called a runway for a reason,” I replied.
I respect flight attendants beyond measure because they’re tireless, both physically and in being continually good-natured and helpful.
They run tight-quartered, airborne daycare centers filled with scared, obstreperous passengers, who sometimes try to open the cabin doors after the plane has left the ground, but the crew never complains.
They’re paid to be of agreeable, attentive service, but their hospitality isn’t false—I was going to emulate these sky-high Samaritans.
We breezed past the check-in desk at our assigned gate, which the grousing passengers took as a positive sign that the flight would be departing on time.
I gave them a cursory glance, hunting for the courier, but I didn’t want to come off as an obvious plant working undercover, or cruising, say, that young guy with the baby in a carrier on his chest. But was the baby really his, or a camouflaged gambit?
What if the diamond was in the baby’s diaper?
Or inside the baby itself? I’d seen a long-forgotten seventies movie called King of the Gypsies (which nowadays would be titled Social Worker of the Roma).
In the jaw-droppingly unlikely storyline, Eric Roberts, Susan Sarandon, and Brooke Shields play members of the same larcenous clan, who steal a jewel by having a child swallow it at an exclusive Fifth Avenue boutique and then poop it out at home.
This factoid alone made me a valuable Tux.
After stowing our wheelies in a private corner, Brock greeted First Class and Business Elite passengers as they began to board, saying, “Welcome aboard Flight A-43,” “Thank you for flying Delta,” and in one case, “I love your Hermès scarf, or is it ironic?”
Timothy was taking beverage orders in Business, while I’d been exiled to Comfort+, Premium Economy, and the only class I’d ever personally flown, Basic Economy. I’ve long believed that more desirable men, at clubs and on apps, take one look at me and think, “Basic Economy.”
Our courier might be seated toward the back of the plane, to lose themself in this more populated area, but before I could start scrolling through passengers on my tablet manifest, a woman was blocking the aisle while trying to cram a quilted duffel, a cheap plastic hard-sided suitcase, and a packed tote bag into the overhead bin, most of which had already been filled by her seatmates.
“Let me give you a hand,” I said. “Although if you’re willing to leave some of this at the gate, it can still be checked through.”
“This is carry-on,” she insisted. “I carried it on. This is your fault because these bins are so small. I need my medications, my extra poncho because this plane is so goddamn cold and stop shoving Mr. Fluffyhead! Oh my God, I’m calling security!”
At first I wasn’t sure who or what Mr. Fluffyhead might be, until I saw a long, not especially clean ear sticking out of the tote bag, and something began making distressed yipping noises.
Mr. Fluffyhead was the woman’s security animal, an elderly rabbit that she plucked out of the tote bag and slung atop her shoulder like a ratty mink stole or a wilting corsage.
She continued, “Mr. Fluffyhead goes everywhere with me, because even with the Xanax and the Rexulti booster gelcaps, I’m prone to severe panic attacks and convulsive nausea.
” She began stroking Mr. Fluffyhead and speaking to him: “I’m sorry, Mr. Fluffyhead, that this mean flight attendant hates animals and wants me to projectile vomit.
” Then, to me: “Do you have any fresh lettuce?”
As I got the woman settled and vowed to obtain lettuce, parents with three kids, seated across a middle row and a side seat, began imploring me in a language I didn’t recognize, so I aimed a forefinger at various areas of my body—Did they want a headset?
Slippers? A cup of water? They aggressively refused each zone until I touched my crotch, then they wagged their heads affirmatively, so I indicated the nearest restroom, while another passenger griped, “Why were you grabbing your genitals? Does this airline screen its employees for sexual predators? Did I see you on Dateline? Were you a youth pastor in Des Moines?”
As I denied this, which only made me sound creepier, I blessedly heard Brock’s voice over the PA system announcing, “Will all passengers please take their seats, secure your seatbelts, and move your seatbacks to the upright position, in preparation for takeoff.”
Happily, the video of safety instructions was playing on screens set into the seatbacks, so I didn’t have to deliver the expected speech, but I did stand in the aisle at the front of the section and point to exits, along with demonstrating how to wear the oxygen masks that would drop from the ceiling if we were all about to die horribly as the plane burst into flames.
I took this opportunity to survey the almost-full flight for a potential courier.
I lectured myself, Don’t be waylaid by the cutest guys, the courier isn’t necessarily a man, don’t be so politically correct that you eliminate racial minorities, and remember that old age or infirmities can be faked—in grade school I’d sprayed my hair with gluey silver radiator paint and drawn thick black lines on my forehead with a Sharpie to play crochety old codgers, with a teacher calling me “Our own Wilford Brimley.” It’s called range, people.
The young father with the suspiciously quiet baby was smiling at me, proving he was either (a) a horny gay man, (b) a nice person, or (c) a resourceful psychopath.
I ditched him as a suspect because he was rocking the baby affectionately, and the family groups were also disqualified because kids aren’t given to keeping secrets.
This left couples and anyone traveling alone, which narrowed the candidates to a young pair obviously on the verge of divorce, because the more employed wife was humoring her scruffier husband by squeezing into a cheap seat beside him: she was stewing while he was bingeing Seinfeld reruns on his phone.
I checked out lone wolves, including a Hasidic rabbi who’d already asked not to be seated next to any women; a preppy teenager in a blazer and sweatpants; and a grandmotherly type in a rhinestoned pastel-pink tracksuit and oversized reading glasses, paging through the latest paperback about Princess Diana.
The rabbi seemed like a too obvious costume (and I didn’t want to be pilloried by my relatives for antisemitism), the kid was self-consciously sulky, but the sweet older woman was pinging because she had a grandchild bracelet rattling around her wrist, which included several jewellike charms, her bottle of Tums contained pills that weren’t brightly colored Tums, and peeking out from the neckline of her white, lace-trimmed T-shirt top, with its watercolor portrait of a kitten, was ink that might be a dagger or a torched American flag. I’d keep an eye on her.
As the flight neared its third hour, I checked in with Brock and Timothy, as we deliberately bypassed Reggie, in his plaid flannel shirt and Polartec vest, seated in the last row of Business, clearly the air marshal.
“Nobody’s jumping out at me,” said Brock, as he used the galley microwave to prepare doll-sized filet mignons, which I plated and put on his wheeled trolley.
“Except that guy in 3A, who’s wearing a cashmere zip-up and Ferragamo loafers.
Maybe he’s a finance bro, but he keeps pretending to watch a rom-com, which a regular-guy douchebag wouldn’t do.
His self-tanner is clammy and he wouldn’t let me put his Bottega Veneta briefcase in the overhead—it’s under his feet. ”
“Business seems pretty clear,” reported Timothy.
“There’s a priest who asked for my autograph and two guys who I think are on a college basketball team, which might be a cover story, but wouldn’t two guys be a little conspicuous?
The only person I’m thinking about is this French lady who’s making a big hoo-ha about being bored and getting grossed out by the wine list and acting like she’s asleep while making sure her hair doesn’t get messed up.
She keeps checking her phone and using her pinkie to put these little dabs of night cream under her eyes. ”
“So she’s probably just French,” said Brock.
“Except I looked over her shoulder at her phone and it’s on airplane mode so why is she checking it? Unless the diamond’s inside the phone.”
Someone screamed from Economy, so I ran to see what was going on as the other passengers looked concerned yet up for drama.
When I wrenched back the curtain the pissed-off young wife was sloppy drunk and hissing, “I hate your guts and I know you’re fucking that whore in your poetry whatever the fuck it is! ”