Blow Fly

40

BACK AT THE US AIR GATE, Marino is seized by agitation and impetuosity.

His flight has been delayed another hour due to weather. Suddenly, he doesn't want to go home to Trixie and get up in the morning and realize what happened in Boston. Thinking of his small house with its carport in its blue-collar neighborhood sinks his spirit lower into bitterness and a need to fight back. If only he could identify the enemy. Why he continues to live in Richmond makes no sense. Richmond is the past. Why he allowed Benton to blow him off makes no sense. He should never have walked away from Benton's apartment.

"You know what due to weather means?" Marino asks the young redheaded woman sitting next to him, filing her nails.

Two rude behaviors Marino simply can't tolerate are public farts and the scratching sound of manicures accompanied by drifting nail dust.

The file continues to rapidly scratch-scratch.

"It means they ain't decided whether to fly our asses outta Boston yet. See? There ain't enough passengers to make it worth their while. They lose money, they don't go nowhere and blame it on something else."

The file freezes and the woman looks around at dozens of empty plastic seats.

"You can sit here all night," Marino goes on, "or come find a motel room with me."

After a moment of disbelief, she gets up and walks off in a huff.

"Pig," she says.

Marino smiles, civility restored, his boredom assuaged, if only briefly. He is not going to wait for a flight that probably will never happen, and then he thinks of Benton again. Anger and paranoia ooze into his skull. His feeling of powerlessness and rejection settle more closely around him, choking him with a depression that stalls his thoughts and fatigues him as if he hasn't slept in days. He can't stand it. He won't. He wishes he could call Lucy, but he doesn't know where she is. All she told him was that she had business to take care of that required traveling.

"What business?" Marino asked her.

"Just business."

"Sometimes I wonder why the hell I work for you."

"I don't wonder about it in the least. I never give it a thought," Lucy said over the phone from her office in Manhattan. "You adore me."

Outside Logan Airport, Marino flags down a Cambridge Checker cab, practically stepping in front of it and waving his arms, ignoring the taxi line and the dozens of weary, unhappy people in it.

"The Embankment," he tells the driver. "Near where the band shell is."