Bill Satherwaite stood and looked around his shabby office. On the far wall was a state of South Carolina flag and a Confederate flag that a lot of people found offensive, which was why he kept it there. The whole country had gone to hell, he thought, politically correct faggots were in charge, and even though Bill Satherwaite was from Indiana, he liked the South-except for the heat and the humidity-he liked their attitudes, and he liked his Confederate flag. "Fuck 'em."
On the side wall was a large aeronautical plotting chart, and beside the chart was an old poster, faded and wrinkled from the humidity. It was a photograph of Moammar Gadhafi with a big bull's-eye drawn around his head. Satherwaite picked up a dart from his cluttered desk and flung it at the poster. The dart hit the middle of Gadhafi's forehead, and Satherwaite yelled, "Yeah! Fuck you!"
Bill Satherwaite went to the window of his small office and looked out into the bright sunshine. "Nice day for flying." Out on the runway, one of his two aircraft, the Cherokee 140 trainer, was just lifting off, and in the afternoon heat and turbulence, the small airplane's wings wobbled as the student pilot strained to gain altitude.
He watched the Cherokee disappear as it continued its wobbly climb. He was glad he didn't have to be in the cockpit with this kid, who had no balls, no feel for aviation, and too much money. Back when he was an Air Force student pilot, they just axed out the dead wood. Now, he had to cater to them. And this kid would never see a minute of combat-he wanted to fly to impress his main hump. The country was going down the toilet, fast.
To make the day worse, his customer was some stupid foreigner, probably an illegal alien running drugs up to the hopheads in Philly, and the bastard was late. At least the guy wouldn't say anything if he smelled the bourbon. He'd probably think it was an American soft drink. He laughed.
He walked back to his desk and checked out a note he'd made. Alessandro Fanini. Sounded like a spic or a greaseball. "Yeah, a wop. That's not so bad. Better than some Pedro from south of the border."
"Good afternoon."
Satherwaite spun around and saw a tall man wearing dark sunglasses standing at the open door. The man said, "Alessandro Fanini. I apologize for my lateness."
Satherwaite wondered if the guy had heard him. He glanced at the wall clock and said, "Only half an hour. No problem."
The two men walked toward each other, and Satherwaite put out his hand. They shook, and Khalil said, "I was delayed at my last appointment in Charleston."
"No problem." Bill Satherwaite saw that the man carried a large black canvas bag and was dressed in a gray suit. He asked, "You got any other luggage?"
"I have left my luggage in my hotel in Charleston."
"Good. You don't mind my jeans and T-shirt, I hope."
"Not at all. Whatever is comfortable. But as I said, we will be staying overnight."
"Yeah. I got an overnight bag." He motioned to an Air Force bag on the dirty floor. He said, "My girlfriend will be here later to watch the store and lock up."
"Good. You should be back by midday tomorrow."
"Whatever."
"I have left my rental car near the main building. It will be safe there?"
"Sure." Satherwaite walked to a sagging bookshelf and scooped up a stack of rolled charts, then retrieved his overnight bag. "Ready?" He followed his customer's gaze, which was fixed on the poster of Gadhafi. Satherwaite grinned and said, "You know who that is?"
Asad Khalil replied, "Of course. My country has had many confrontations with that man."
"Yeah? You got into it with Mr Moammar Shithead Gadhafi?"
"Yes. He has threatened us many times."
"Yeah? Well, for your information I almost killed that bastard once."
"Yes?"
Satherwaite asked, "You're from Italy?"
"I am from Sicily."
"No shit? I could've wound up there once if I'd run out of gas."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a long story. I'm not allowed to talk about it. Forget it."
"As you wish."
"Okay, if you open that door for me, we're outta here."
"Oh, one more thing. There has been a slight change in my plans that may necessitate some change on your part."
"Like what?"
"My company has ordered me to New York."
"Yeah? I don't like flying to New York, Mr…"
"Fanini."
"Yeah. Too much traffic, too much bullshit."
"I am willing to pay extra."
"It's not the money, it's the bullshit. Which airport?"
"It is called MacArthur. You know of it?"
"Oh, yeah. Never been there, but it's okay. A suburban airport out on Long Island. We can do that, but it's extra."
"Of course."
Satherwaite put his things down on the desk and looked for another chart on the shelf. He said, "Funny coincidence-I was just talking to a guy on Long Island. He wanted me to stop by-maybe I'll surprise him. Maybe I should call him."
"Perhaps a surprise would be better. Or call him when we land."
"Yeah. Let me get his phone numbers." Satherwaite flipped through a tattered Rolodex and extracted a card.
Khalil said, "Is he close to the airport?"
"I don't know. But he'll pick me up."
"You may take my rental car if you wish. I have a car reserved, as well as two motel rooms for us."
"Yeah. I was going to ask you about that. I don't share rooms with guys."
Khalil forced a smile and replied, "Neither do I."
"Good. As long as we got that straight. Hey, you want to pay up front? You get a discount for up-front cash."
"How much will this amount to?"
"Oh… now that it's MacArthur, plus the overnight and I lose some flight instructing time tomorrow, plus gas… let's say eight hundred in cash should do it."
"That sounds reasonable." Khalil took out his wallet and counted eight hundred dollars in cash, then added another hundred dollars to it and said, "Plus a tip for you."
"Thanks."
That was most of the cash that Khalil had, but he knew he would get it all back soon.
Bill Satherwaite counted the money and pocketed it. "Okay. Done deal."
"Good. I am ready."
"I gotta take a piss." Satherwaite opened a door and disappeared into the toilet.
Asad Khalil looked at the poster of the Great Leader and noticed the dart in the forehead. He removed the dart and said to himself, "Surely no one deserves to die more than this American pig."
Bill Satherwaite came out of the toilet, picked up his charts and bag, and said, "If there's no more changes, we can get moving."
Khalil said, "Do you have any beverages we can bring with us?"
"Yeah. I already put an ice chest in the plane. Got soda and beer-beer's for you if you want. I can't drink."
Khalil clearly smelled alcohol on the man's breath, but said, "Do you have bottled water?"
"No. Why spend money for water? Water is free." Idiots and fairies buy bottled. "You want water?"
"It is not necessary." Khalil opened the door, and they went out into the sweltering air.
As they walked across the hot concrete ramp toward the Apache parked a hundred feet from the office, Satherwaite asked, "What kind of business you in, Mr. Panini?"
"Fanini. As my colleague told you when he called from New York, I am in the textile business. I am here to buy American cotton."
"Yeah? You came to the right place. Nothing's changed here since the Civil War, except now they have to pay the slaves." He laughed and added, "And some of the slaves are Spanish and white now. You ever see a cotton field? Talk about shit work. They can't find enough people to do it. Maybe they should import some stupid Arabs to pick cotton-they love the sun. Pay 'em in camel shit, and tell 'em they can take it to the bank for money." He laughed.
Khalil did not reply, but asked, "Do you need to file a flight plan?"
"No." Satherwaite pointed to the clear sky as they continued their walk toward the airplane. "There's a big-ass high-pressure area across the entire East Coast-great weather all the way." Thinking he might have a nervous passenger, he added, "The gods are shining on you, Mr. Fanini, 'cause we've got a great day for flying all the way to New York and, probably, when we come back tomorrow, too."