I had a lot of respect for Boehlert. If nothing else, when Parker had made Eagle Scout, our Congressman, Sherry Boehlert, had issued a very impressive Congressional Proclamation for the occasion. I would have to make sure that Babs and Cheryl knew about that sort of stuff. It costs nothing, wins votes, and impresses the hell out of people.
Marty called me the middle of the week to confirm his coming to the house on Friday, and again Friday morning. I hadn't told him our mode of travel yet, deciding to keep that a surprise. He showed up at my office with a two-suiter on a strap around four in the afternoon. "We'll take my car. It'll be easier that way.", I told him.
"Fine by me. Did you have to remind Marilyn who I was?"
I laughed. "Yeah, she remembered the big guy who used to check out her tits!"
"Great! Some help you are!"
I laughed even more at that. I called for my driver and we headed down. I just needed to bring my briefcase. We threw everything into the back of the limo and climbed in the back. Marty commented, "You know, you really live a tough life."
I smiled. "It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."
That earned a derisive snort from him. Then he noticed what direction we were heading in. "Hey, I thought you lived in Maryland. That's out of the city, not into it."
I smiled. "Trust me. I know a shortcut."
He gave me a curious look, and looked at the signs along the highway. "Your shortcut goes through National Airport?!"
I grinned as we pulled off the approach road towards the charter base. When the car stopped and we climbed out I pointed towards a white helicopter without any logos or artwork on it. "There's my shortcut.", I said.
"We're flying to your house?", he asked, staring at me incredulously.
"Not quite, but close though. Come on, grab your bag." I waited for Marty to retrieve his bag. The driver, one of my security people, would wait until the LongRanger lifted off before heading out.
Meanwhile, Tyrell Washington, a large black guy in a heavy jacket and slacks came out and waved at us. I waved back and the three of us converged on the helicopter. "Afternoon, Tyrell. All the parts put back together after the last crash?", I asked.
Marty's eyes opened wide at that, which Tyrell noticed. "Yes, sir, pretty much. They found some extra pieces, though. We've got them in a box back at the hanger. We won't need them until the next safety inspection, though.", he replied, deadpan.
"I sure hope you two are joking.", said Marty.
"Only one way to find out!" Tyrell opened the rear door on the right side and tossed in my briefcase and Marty's bag. Marty was told to get in the right hand seat and buckle up. Tyrell handed him a pair of headphones. Then I went around to the front left, and got into the co-pilot's seat, while Tyrell got into the right side pilot's position. I have no idea why they have to do things differently than everybody else. Chopper pilots are a little different, is my explanation.
Once inside, Tyrell settled a pair of headphones on his head, and I did the same. Marty was somewhat bewildered, but when he saw me do this, he did the same, although he got them on backwards. The engine was already starting to wind up, so I yelled for him to turn them around, and demonstrated with mine. That got the mike in the proper spot, and I said, "Can you hear me?"
"You commute to work in a helicopter?!"
Tyrell laughed at that. I answered, "It's a two hour drive otherwise. I can cut it in half, or less this way."
The engine had spooled up loudly now, and Tyrell broke in on our chatter. "Quiet, please, while I talk to the tower." I nodded and Tyrell flipped a switch and started chattering with the control tower. A few minutes later we lifted off and started flying.
The biggest problem with National is that it is right downtown, in a very congested area by flight standards. Washington is chock full of secure airspace that you're not allowed to fly in (no buzzing the White House) and National is a relatively old and small airport without any room for expansion. For general aviation purposes College Park, just northeast of D.C. would be better, but probably twice as far from either the Capitol or the house on 30th Street and couldn't handle the G-IV. Dulles, the newest major airport, is at least a half hour west of the city.
After a bit, we were out of the city and climbing up to about 5,000 feet, and Tyrell's voice came up through the headphones. "Okay, that's out of the way. Welcome to Buckman Air. We'll try not to crash, or double your money back."
"Anybody ever tell you that nobody likes funny pilots?", said Marty.
"Well, we don't have the room for any stewardesses, and Mrs. Buckman probably wouldn't approve of them anyway.", was the reply.
I twisted around in my seat some, so I could look over my shoulder at Marty. "Sure beats driving for two hours, doesn't it?"
"You do this every day? This must cost a fortune!", he protested.
"Marty, I know you're a lawyer now, and have lost your math skills along with your morals, but think back to the days we were at college together. Remember the difference between million and billion. Start doing the numbers. It's scary at times."
I saw Tyrell glance at me out of the corner of his eye, and then he gave me a wry shrug. You don't get to be a chopper pilot by being stupid, and he could do the numbers too. I made more in interest each day than I could spend in a month.
I had Tyrell give a running commentary of the view and sights below. Once we were at altitude and outside of the D.C. flight area we made quick time on the way to Westminster. We landed in a circle near the terminal and Tyrell helped Marty out of his seat. Twenty minutes later we were at the house.
Marty commented as we climbed out of the car, "I'm surprised you didn't have your pilot land you in the driveway, and save all that time."
I had to smile at that. I waved a hand around. "Get real, there's nowhere near enough room in the driveway." Marty snorted and smiled, and followed me into the house. "Watch out for the idiot dog. She's harmless, but gets excited."
True to form, Dum-Dum raced in. When she saw somebody new, she ignored me, but tried to jump up on him. Marty submitted to her for a minute, and then I pulled her away. She immediately began racing around the house at full speed, running off and then running back, only to get stopped by me.
"Don't worry. In fifteen minutes she's back to normal. During the first fifteen minutes, though, she's simply uncontrollable.", I said.
"DUM-DUM! KNOCK IT OFF! DOWN!", yelled Marilyn. I grabbed a newspaper and when she raced back, I smacked her on the nose with it. Dum-Dum was now eight years old, 56 in dog years. She qualified for AARP, the American Association of Retired Pooches.
Marty and I left our bags in the foyer and I led him inside. "Marty, you remember Marilyn Lefleur. Now she's Marilyn Buckman. Honey, remember Marty Adrianopolis from Kegs?", I said, re-introducing each of them.