Snowblind

Chapter 18: The Bro Code

Oceano, California

November 23, 1995

Thanksgiving Day on California’s central coast region dawned with a few low clouds and a wet marine layer in the morning hours, but by the time Jake Kingsley put the fifteen-pound turkey on his barbeque at 11:00 AM the sky was bright blue and clear and the temperature was a pleasant 68 degrees with only a slight onshore breeze blowing. The Pacific Ocean out beyond his deck was a brilliant blue dotted with the occasional whitecap. It was a perfect day to celebrate with his family and closest friends.

In honor of the holiday, Celia and her band were taking a break from tour rehearsal, which they had been pushing ahead with eight hours a day, six days a week since the last week of October. Celia and Greg had gone in with Pauline and Obie to rent a helicopter to fly them to Oceano from Santa Monica and had arrived just a few hours before. They would be staying until Friday morning. The Nerdlys, including Kelvin, had flown in with Jake and Laura on Wednesday night. The parental Nerdlys and the parental Kingsleys had arrived on Wednesday evening by car, electing to visit their son’s new house for the first time via road trip instead of taking Jake up on his offer to fly them down on a private charter. It had taken them seven hours to make the drive, but they claimed they had enjoyed the adventure and were looking forward to driving the coastal highway all the way to San Francisco to go home.

Elsa, unfortunately (on several levels) was not present for the celebration. She had driven to Orange County on Wednesday morning to spend the holiday with her children and grandchildren. She would not be back until Monday and had threatened all manner of violence and retribution against her employers if the house was not as spotless upon her return as it had been when she left.

Jake made sure the turkey was positioned just so and far enough away from the smoldering briquettes. He then closed the lid on the barbeque and watched until the temperature gauge settled. It was at 330 degrees. That would be almost perfect. He threw a few handfuls of applewood chips soaked in water onto the coals to generate aromatic smoke. When it was puffing out of the vents at a rate he thought appropriate, he went back inside the house. He would need to come back out every half an hour or so to put more chips on the coals and to monitor the temperature, but for now, he could open that first bottle of wine of the day and relax a little.

Mary Kingsley and Cynthia Archer were both in the kitchen. Mary had just put a second turkey of similar size into the oven. Since Jake had never barbequed a turkey before, her tried and true oven-cooked bird would be both the backup and the supplement, as fifteen pounds was a bit on the small side for a gathering of this many people. Cindy was making some of her homemade stuffing out of sourdough bread, onions, and a few other ingredients. She also had a large plate of yams in the process of being candied.

“It smells great in here, Moms,” Jake told them as he went to the sink to wash his hands. “It reminds me of Thanksgiving back in the old days.”

“I only wish I’d had a kitchen like this in the old days,” Mary said. “No wonder Elsa moved here with you.”

“I told her to design her dream kitchen when I was putting this house together,” Jake said. “She totally embraced the project.”

“It really is a beautiful house, Jake,” Cindy told him. “I’m afraid to know how much it cost you, but you did good. The location, the floor plan, everything.”

“This is my dream house,” Jake said. “I mean, the one in New Zealand is nice too—you guys have to come out and see it sometime—but this has the location. I love going to sleep hearing the sound of the ocean out my window. I love not having any neighbors. And it’s just a short hop back to LA when I need to work.”

“You’ve done very well for yourself, honey,” Mary told him, giving him a brief hug of affection. “I used to worry about you endlessly, you know. Wondering whether you’d be able to make it in life when all you wanted to do was play your guitar and sing.”

“Yeah,” Jake said with a grin. “You used to tell me I would never be able to support myself that way, remember?”

She looked a little guilty, and perhaps a bit peeved, but she owned up. “I was wrong about that, Jake,” she told him. “I guess you had a little more talent than I was giving you credit for.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he told her. “But there was a fair amount of luck involved as well.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Jake,” Cindy told him. “You and William make a good musical team. I learned that when we were performing with you. You take your music very seriously.”

“Yes, we do,” Jake agreed. “Now, who’s up for a little wine?”

“At eleven o’clock in the morning?” Mary asked.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Jake said. “I seem to remember the two of you swilling down the chardonnay all day long back in the day when the families got together for Thanksgiving.”

“Well ... since you put it that way...” Mary said with a smile.

“I’ll be right back,” Jake told the mothers. “I’ve got some New Zealand stuff I’ve been saving for just such an occasion. Let me go pour and get this party started.”

“It would be rude to say no,” Cindy said with a smile of her own.

He left the kitchen and went into the entertainment room. Tom, Obie and Stan were sitting on the couch watching the Vikings play the Lions on the large screen television. None of them seemed particularly captivated with the contest. Pauline was on the floor, playing with Tabby and Kelvin and a bunch of toy cars. She seemed to be having more fun. Bill and Sharon were sitting at Jake’s computer, playing a game called Myst that Laura had bought for Jake a few months ago but that he had never even loaded onto the device. They seemed quite enthralled with what they were doing. They did not even look up when he entered the room. Celia and Greg were playing on Jake’s pinball machine, Celia currently behind the flippers. And Laura was sitting on one of the other couches with Eric Pale, the new violinist Celia had hired for the tour.

Eric was a slight young man, painfully thin, almost anorexic looking. Though he was twenty-three years of age and working on his master’s degree in music composition at USC, he looked no older than sixteen and would probably be routinely carded when he bought alcohol into his forties. He had long, stringy hair that was dyed black and he favored black clothing. He was painfully shy, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and never meeting anyone’s eyes when he did speak with them. Laura and Celia had invited him to the celebration because he had nowhere else to go, no one to spend the holiday with. His parents had disowned him when he came out to them as gay during his freshman year of college and he was not the type of person who made friends easily. Jake actually thought he was a little creepy (though the kid could play the fiddle with the best of them), but Laura had bonded with him on a certain level, probably because of their similar parental backgrounds. The two of them were flipping through some of the sheet music for the upcoming tour, this despite both Celia and Jake proclaiming a moratorium on any music-related work during the holiday.

“All right!” Jake announced. “I’m breaking out the wine. Who’s up for some?”

“Me!” said Laura enthusiastically.

“I’d rather have an appletini,” said Nerdly.

“Wine is for pussies,” said Obie. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat.”

“I’m pouring wine,” Jake said. “If anyone wants something else, the bar is right here. You’re on your own.”

“Some host you are,” Obie grunted.

Jake opened three bottles of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc he had been chilling in the bar refrigerator for just this occasion. Considered New Zealand’s finest wine from its finest grape growing region, Jake had shipped back several cases of it when he and Laura had been there for their honeymoon. He poured glasses for himself, the mothers, Greg and Celia, Laura, Sharon, Pauline, and the fathers. Nerdly went without a beverage, not wanting to leave Myst for the amount of time it would take to build an appletini. Obie took Jake’s advice and helped himself to a double shot of Jim Beam Black label, neat. Eric declined the offer of any beverage.

“Not a drinker, boy?” Obie asked him. They had met for the first time today.

“Only once in a while,” Eric said, his voice meek, his eyes looking down at the carpet. “I’m not supposed to drink with my medication.”

“Medication?” Obie asked. “At your age? What the hell do you need to take medication for?”

“Obie,” Laura admonished. “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?”

“It’s okay,” Eric said, still looking at the floor. “I have social anxiety disorder.”

“What the fuck is that?” Obie asked.

“Obie!” admonished Pauline. “There are children present, one of them yours!”

“Oh ... yeah ... sorry,” he said. “What the hell is that, then?”

“It means he has a phobia about being in large groups of people,” Laura explained. “It’s a legitimate medical condition.”

“I take Paxil for long-term control of the disorder,” Eric said softly. “And I take Xanax when I have a breakthrough case of panic or if I’m entering a situation, such as this social gathering, where I know a breakthrough case is likely.”

“Xanax?” Jake asked. “Isn’t that like Valium?”

“It’s the same class of drug,” Eric said. “A benzodiazepine. They help a lot in situations such as this, although, once I take a Xanax, I can’t drink alcohol.”

“If this is such a stressful situation, Eric,” asked Pauline, “why did you come here? Why did you put yourself through this?”

“Because Laura invited me,” he said simply. “It would have been rude to say no. Besides, the more I expose myself to these situations, the more used to them I get. And you’re all very nice people, not like those ... well ... never mind that. I wanted to come here; although I have to say flying on that helicopter was quite terrifying.”

“It wasn’t really my idea of a good time either,” said Celia.

“I thought it was exhilarating,” Greg said. “It reminded me of when I was filming Others. There’s nothing like riding in a chopper.”

“I disagree,” said Nerdly. “I have ridden in a helicopter on several occasions now and I must report that, while exhilarating, the sensation does not rise to the level of intimate physical activity and orgasm, either within or outside of a committed monogamous and legally sanctioned relationship.”

“What?” Greg asked, flabbergasted.

“He means that the helicopter ride isn’t better than sex,” Jake translated.

“Ohh,” Greg said slowly. He thought about this for a moment or two and then nodded. “Okay. Maybe it isn’t as good as sex, but it comes in a close second.”

“I would put the experience in sixth place,” Nerdly said. “Second would be witnessing the birth of your child.”

“Uh ... I haven’t experienced that one yet,” Greg said.

“Third would be achieving an approximation of perfect audio reproduction on a master CD,” Nerdly went on. “Fourth would be hearing your own musical performance on public airwaves for the first time, and fifth would be solving a complex physics equation in a manner that supports empirical and repeatable evidence of a hypothesis.”

“Uh ... yeah,” Greg said. “I guess those are pretty exciting moments too.”

“Bill,” Sharon said, indignant. “What about the moment I said ‘yes’ to your marriage proposal? What about our wedding, when we stood in our Star Trek uniforms before the rabbi?”

Bill shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid on a strictly momentary enjoyment level, the helicopter rides ranked just a bit higher than those.”

This proclamation was met by silence from all within earshot of it.

“What?” Nerdly asked. “I was just being truthful.”

“I think you need to learn the art of the little white lie, Nerdly,” Obie suggested.

“Please do,” agreed Sharon.

“Well ... all right then,” Jake said. “On that note, I think I’ll go check on my turkey.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Obie, standing. “Is it too early for a cigar?”

Jake thought about this for a second and then smiled. “Emily Post might think so,” he said, “but she doesn’t seem to be here at the moment. Let’s hit the humidor.”

“Hear, hear now,” said Greg, his face brightening. “A good cigar sounds like just the thing.”

“Let’s do it then,” Jake said. “Anyone else for a stogie out on the deck?”

No one else was up for it. Jake went over to his humidor and pulled three hand-rolled Cuban Cohibas from it. The three men went out through the sliding door onto the deck, their drinks in hand and took seats at the granite patio table next to the barbeque. Jake handed Greg and Obie their cigars. They took turns prepping them with his cutter and then fired up with the barbeque lighter sitting on the table. They blew the fragrant smoke out over the deck where the light wind carried it away.

“Good cigar, Jake,” Obie said, impressed. “Genuine Cuban. How do you get your greasy little hands on these things?”

It had been illegal to import Cuban cigars into the United States since 1962, but a fair number still found their way into the hands of those, like Jake, who coveted them. “I used to get them from a little cigar shop in West Hollywood that kept some under the counter for special customers,” he said, “but the price was high and a couple of times they sold me counterfeits. I could tell by the taste they weren’t the real deal. So, I stopped doing business with them and went without for a while. But when I moved here and started flying out of Whiteman, I met a cargo pilot who flies 747s for UPS. He owns a Mooney Bravo and keeps it in the hangars near where I park my truck. We got to talking one day—he’s an Intemperance fan—and he told me his route is from Vancouver, BC to Shanghai. After we got to know each other a little better, he let me know that he would be willing to buy me some of these Cohibas in Vancouver and bring them to me for just twenty-five percent above cost.”

“That’s actually pretty reasonable,” Obie said.

“It is,” Jake agreed. “It costs me six hundred and twenty-five bucks for a box of twenty-five. And they’re always genuine Cohibas and they’re always fresh. When I was getting them from the cigar shop, I was paying eight hundred a box for cigars that were usually a little stale and sometimes fake.”

Greg shook his head sadly. “I do abhor dishonesty when doing business with someone,” he said.

“Yeah,” Obie agreed. “It’s a bitch when your illegal goods supplier is screwing you, ain’t it? No fuckin’ Better Business Bureau to complain to.”

“Exactly,” Greg said, missing Obie’s sarcasm.

The three men puffed their cigars and drank their drinks for a few minutes, talking of unimportant things. Jake made a point to pay particular attention to Greg during the conversation. This was his first time in the actor’s company since the night of the Los Angeles premier of his film more than a month before. Jake had been on two trips with Gordon and his band since then, playing sixteen separate dates with them. He had just returned from the second one five days before and had been helping out with Celia’s tour planning and rehearsal every day until the Thanksgiving break started. Greg, in turn, had been busy doing promotional appearances, mostly in LA, and giving interviews for various entertainment media groups. Celia had confided in Jake during one of the lunch breaks at the rehearsal warehouse that her husband had been acting “a little strange” ever since returning from the trip across the country with Mindy Snow and the production crew.

“What do you mean by ‘a little strange?’” Jake had asked her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s nothing I can quite put my finger on, but there’s something off about him in some subtle way.”

“You don’t think anything ... you know ... happened between him and Mindy, do you?”

“No,” she answered immediately, shaking her head firmly. “It’s nothing like that. I’m sure I would know right away if he had been unfaithful to me with that puta.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jake told her.

“It’s just that it seems like he’s ... I don’t know ... putting up a false face for me.”

“A false face?”

“His acting face,” she said. “It’s like he’s playing a part whenever we talk these days. And he’s ... well ... much more interested in having sex.”

“You can’t blame a guy for that,” Jake said. Especially not when he has a wife that looks like you, he did not add.

“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but I can’t help but feel his increased interest is related to the false face.”

As he watched Greg now, Jake detected no real difference from the personality he had always known. Greg was arrogant, pompous, and somewhat of a square; just like always. But then again, Jake did not live with him day in and day out, nor was Jake someone Greg would necessarily be putting on an act for.

“What was it like being out on tour with Bigg G and his boys?” Obie asked now, derailing Jake’s thoughts. “That must’ve been some experience.”

“It was mostly great to be back out on the road again and performing regularly,” Jake said. “Playing in front of an audience has always been the best part of this life for me.”

“I would think the money you make would be the best part,” Greg said.

“I do appreciate the money,” Jake assured him. “And I also love composing and arranging new tunes, but performing live has always been the best part of this job for me. Hanging out with G lets me get a little taste of it again. It also shows me how much I’ve changed over the years.”

“What do you mean?” Obie asked.

“I don’t party like I used to,” Jake said. “G and his band after shows are kind of like me and Matt and Coop were back in our heyday. They do the whole bit. Cocaine, drinking whiskey out of the bottle, smoking out, tapping groupies.”

“Tapping groupies?” Greg asked. “Bigg G does that? He’s married now!”

“Apparently marriage doesn’t count out on tour,” Jake said with a shrug. “What happens on the road, stays on the road and all that.” He gave Greg a sharp look. “Don’t tell Celia about that, okay? She might tell Laura, and Laura is good friends with G’s wife.”

“My lips are sealed,” Greg promised. “I assume you were not engaging in such behavior.”

“I was not,” Jake said honestly. “After a show, I generally have a few beers and maybe a bonghit or two, but I retreat to my own area once they start rolling the groupies in.” He smiled. “Not that I wasn’t getting lots of requests.”

“Black groupies?” Obie asked.

“A lot of them were,” Jake said. “But there was a fair and reasonably equal representation of other races and creeds as well. One thing I’ll say about G and the boys, they don’t discriminate when it comes to their groupies.”

“That’s good to know,” Obie said with a grin.

“In truth,” Jake said, “I was a little disappointed in G. I thought he was above that kind of thing. But ... well ... what can you do? I’m not the morality police.”

“None of us are,” Greg said somberly.

“That ain’t no shit,” Jake agreed and then held out his right hand to Greg.

Greg simply stared at it. “What’s that for?” he asked.

“Oh ... sorry,” Jake said, putting his hand back down. “When you’re hanging with G and his people and someone says something profound, like ‘none of us are’, the proper response is for someone else to say, ‘that ain’t no shit’ or ‘that’s the fuckin’ truth’ and then an elaborate handshake is exchanged.”

“Really?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Really,” Jake said. “And a lot of profound things get said when the coke and the bonghits come out. I’ve gotten rather good at the ritual.”

“That’s some interesting insight there, Jake,” Obie said. “What other rituals are there?”

Jake thought for a moment. “Well, there’s the whole ‘that shit ain’t right’ thing.”

“That shit ain’t right?” Obie asked.

“Yeah,” said Jake. “Someone is supposed to say that anytime someone describes an injustice of any kind. It doesn’t matter to what degree the injustice is. It could be anything from a brother got shot in the back by the police during an unjustified traffic stop to you didn’t get a straw attached to the side of your juice box. Someone always has to solemnly say, ‘that shit ain’t right, man,’ and then everyone takes a moment to reflect upon the state of the world and the perpetual state of institutional racism that exists in it, nod quietly in agreement, and then the normal conversation can continue.”

“Are you making this up, Jake?” Greg asked.

“I am not,” Jake said. “That shit wouldn’t be right.”

Greg shook his head a little, unsure whether he was being teased or not. He then changed the subject. “So ... anyway, I heard Celia’s new song on the radio this morning while I was getting ready for the flight here.”

“Yep,” Jake said. “The Aristocrat promotion department came through. Saturation airplay of It Never Happened and my tune, Teach Me, is now in progress, both on the pops and the hards, all across the US and Canada. The CDs will be released for sale on December 5^th.”

“I heard Celia’s tune yesterday,” Obie said. “I liked it. Good melody, good mixing of the instruments. And the lyrics are kind of profound too. Almost like a good country song.”

“There’s no reason to get insulting, Obie,” Jake said.

Obie grinned and took a hit of his cigar.

“What did you think of the tune, Greg?” Jake asked him, perhaps a little nervously. After all, the song was about the night that he and Greg’s wife had spent in Portland, although, so far, no one else seemed to suspect that. “Was that the first time you heard it?”

“No, I listened to the whole master CD when she first brought it home,” Greg said. “I like the song. Her voice is as beautiful as ever.”

“Does she ever to sing to you when you’re slipping her the salami?” Obie wanted to know.

“Uh ... no,” Greg said, blushing a bit. “She does not do that.”

“Have you ever asked?”

“No,” Greg said firmly. “Anyway ... as I was saying, I’m not a music expert by any means, and perhaps I’m a bit biased, but I think It Never Happened might be one of her biggest hits yet. It just sounds good when you listen to it. It causes an emotional response of sadness and regret.”

“That’s exactly what a good tune is supposed to do,” Jake said.

“Who is she singing about anyway?” Obie asked, causing Jake to look sharply at him.

“What do you mean, who is she singing about?” asked Greg.

“I mean, it’s obvious she’s singing about some one-night stand hookup she had with someone she was intensely attracted to. Now, I would assume this is something that happened before she met you, Greg. But who is it? It must’ve been some kind of night.”

“She is not singing about anyone in particular,” Greg said firmly. “It’s just a song.”

Obie raised his eyebrows a bit but did not argue the point, though he, as a songwriter of considerable talent, knew that rarely was anything penned on that level ‘just a song’. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.”

“So...” Jake quickly interjected, changing the subject, “speaking of songs, Obie. Paulie told me you’re gearing up to hit the studio for your next release?”

“That’s right,” Obie said. “We’re doing the workups right now. I’m hoping to convince the Nerdlys to come up to Oregon and work their magic for me.”

“They might agree to that,” Jake said. “You’d have to make it worth their while though.”

“Naturally,” Obie said. “That’s the way the world works.”

“That ain’t no shit,” Jake said, holding out his hand. Once again, no one shook it. He sighed a little. It really was kind of a cool ritual. White people should learn to embrace it. “Anyway,” he continued, putting his hand back down, “they’ll be working with Celia and the band dialing in the concert sound until December 23. That’s when they’ll do the final dress rehearsals for the tour. After that, they all take a Christmas break and then the roadies and the techies will start their roll-in/roll-out training. Once they’re done with that and they load up the trucks to head for the first date on January 1, the Nerdlys will be free and clear, probably until we bring Brainwash back into the studio over the summer.”

“That sounds like a doable timeline,” Obie said. “I can plan to hit the studio in early January. We’ll be ready by then.”

They talked for a few minutes about some of the tunes that Obie was working on for his next release, or rather, Obie and Jake talked about it and Greg sat and looked bored. Jake then got up and popped back inside to refresh everyone’s drinks, pouring more wine for himself and Greg and another neat bourbon for Obie. After handing them out and then taking a few puffs on his cigar to maintain its combustion, Jake threw another handful of wood chips on the coals of the barbeque, causing a fresh billow of savory smoke to erupt. They all watched it drift away in the breeze for a bit and then Greg, seeming almost nervous, broke the silence.

“Laura told me that you’re flying to Phoenix on Sunday,” he said.

“That’s right,” Jake said. “I’m going to go check out a plane.”

“Check out a plane?” Obie asked.

“I’m looking to upgrade my Chancellor,” Jake said. “Laura wants a plane that has a bathroom in it. She really doesn’t like having to hold her pee on the longer flights; and she likes having to use the urinal even less.”

“You’re going to get a whole new plane just because of that?” Obie asked.

Jake smiled. “When your wife suggests that maybe you should upgrade your plane, you upgrade your plane. You don’t ask questions.”

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Obie had to admit. “Why do you have to go to Phoenix though? Ain’t there enough airplanes to look at in LA?”

“Not the airplane I’m interested in,” Jake said. “Or at least not the one I have a connection to.”

“What kind of plane is it?” Greg asked.

“It’s an Avanti 180,” Jake said.

“Never heard of it,” Obie said.

“Neither had I until I started talking to the pilots that fly the charter plane for G and the band. I told them I was looking to upgrade my plane to something with a bathroom in it and the copilot told me that basically the only plane that has a bathroom and can be flown by only one pilot is the Avanti. It’s built by an Italian company.”

“Italian, huh?” Obie said. “I hope they build their planes better than those fucking Fiats.”

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “That is a good point and something to consider. Anyway, Jeff, he’s the copilot, knows a guy that flies an Avanti out of a muni field in Phoenix. He’s the pilot for the CEO of that new pet store chain, PetShop.”

“Oh yeah,” Obie said. “They’re the motherfuckers that are putting all the independent pet shops out of business.”

“They are,” Jake said with a shrug. “In any case, this pilot—his name is Austin—is an Intemperance fan as it turns out. Jeff gave him a call and told him I was interested in checking out the plane. It just so happens that Austin is flying the plane empty to Denver on Monday for a major maintenance check. He invited me to come along with him for the ride.”

“Phoenix to Denver on a little plane?” asked Obie. “How long will that take?”

“Not as long as you think,” Jake said. “The Avanti is a twin-engine turboprop, like my Chancellor, but its speed and range is comparable to a Citation or a Lear jet. Jeff tells me it cruises at over three hundred knots and can fly as high as forty-one thousand feet. And it has a bathroom.”

Obie nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he said. “What would something like that cost?”

“I’m not sure,” Jake said. “I would guess I could get a used one for around half a million or so, depending on the avionics it has.”

“That’s almost reasonable, I suppose,” Obie said.

“This all sounds rather intriguing,” Greg said. “Listen, Jake ... uh ... I wonder if I could possibly impose upon you.”

“For what?” Jake asked. “Your wine glass is still full.”

“No, not that,” Greg said. “Would you consider taking me along with you on your adventure to Phoenix and Denver?”

This request caught Jake completely out of left field. Greg wanted to go to Phoenix with him? And then fly with him to Denver on a small aircraft? What the hell was this about? “You ... want to go with me?” he asked.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” Greg said. “I mean ... I understand I was not invited on the maintenance flight, but if there is any way I could go along, I would like to.”

“Why?” Jake asked. He was not opposed to the idea of Greg accompanying him on the trip, but the request itself was very out of character.

Greg gave a shrug. “I feel like I need to get out of LA for a few days,” he said. “And this trip of yours sounds like fun.”

“You understand that I’ll be flying my Chancellor to Phoenix, not a commercial flight?” Jake asked him.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Laura told me that. Is that a problem?”

Jake raised his brows a bit. “You’ve always told me that you wouldn’t fly in an aircraft as cramped as mine with an amateur at the controls.”

“That was in the past,” Greg said, “before I worked on Others. I’ve gotten used to small aircraft and have even learned to enjoy them. And besides, I flew with you from Catalina back to Santa Monica after we did that promo flight with Helen, remember?”

“You did,” Jake agreed. “And you didn’t even scream once, if I recall correctly.”

“You see?” Greg said. “So ... what do you say?”

Jake simply shrugged. “I’ll give Austin a call tomorrow and see if he’s okay with it. If he is, you’re welcome to come along.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, obviously pleased.

“Have you talked to Celia about this?” Obie asked the actor.

“Not yet,” he said dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll have no problem with it though.”

Jake’s smoked turkey turned out quite well and the guests demolished it (as well as a good percentage of Mary’s oven-cooked turkey). After dinner was cleaned up (Jake instituted Rule 1 for his guests) they had homemade pumpkin pie and cherry cream cheese pie with snifters of aged Courvoisier. After this, they played some music, Jake, Obie and Celia strumming guitars and singing some of the classics (Obie’s rendition of Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain brought tears to a few eyes). Jake’s father joined in, playing and singing some of the classics from his heyday as well (everyone was particularly impressed when he sang Hanky Panky). Jake had purchased a used Steinway piano from a shop in Santa Maria not long before, and both Cindy and Nerdly took turns playing on it as well. They ended the impromptu concert with a rendition of Hey Jude, with Cindy on the piano, Jake and Celia trading off the verses, and everyone joining in for the lengthy string of “na na na, na na na na’s” at the end.

After the singing, Greg mentioned to his wife that he wanted to go along with Jake on his aircraft inspection trip. She was not upset or objectional to the plan, but she was confused by it.

“That sounds like a good time to you?” she asked, her wifely gaze upon him.

“It does,” he assured her.

She shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” she said.

Everyone was in bed by eleven o’clock. The next morning, Jake and Mary prepared a large breakfast for everyone. After consumption and clean up, Jake dialed the number for Austin Grover, the Avanti pilot in Phoenix. Austin had no problem with Jake bringing a passenger along for the ride, especially when he was told that the passenger in question was Greg Oldfellow.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Austin said. “I loved what he did in So Others May Live. That was one of the most realistic flying movies ever made.”

“Be sure to tell him that when you meet him,” Jake said. “Only, don’t say ‘movie’. It’s a ‘film’ or a ‘project’.”

“If you say so,” Austin said. “I’ll see you at Deer Valley at nine o’clock Monday. Be ready to turn and burn.”

“I’m always ready for that,” Jake assured him.

“Great!” Greg said enthusiastically when told the news. “Where are we staying?”

“I booked a suite at the Hyatt downtown,” Jake said. “It’s big enough for both of us, but I assume you’ll want your own room?”

“Of course,” Greg said. “I’ll have my people book me a suite as well.”

“I have the number right here on my desk,” Jake said. “You could call them right now.”

Greg wrinkled his brow. It was obvious that the idea of booking his own room was about as foreign to him as changing the oil in his car or repairing his own toilet. “I’ll have my people handle it,” he said.

The parents were the first to leave. After hugs and goodbyes all around, the four of them climbed into their car just after eleven o’clock to start their long, rambling drive home up the Pacific Coast Highway. They planned to drive to Monterey and stay overnight there and then resume their drive the next morning.

Shortly after the mothers and fathers pulled away, it was time to make a trip to the airport. Celia, Greg, and Eric the violinist got into Jake’s car while Obie, Pauline, and Tabby got into Laura’s. They caravanned to Oceano Airport where the chartered Sikorsky S-76 helicopter was waiting to take them back to LA. While Obie and Pauline fussed with the luggage and Laura carried Tabby, and while Greg walked over to the pilot to discuss the preflight check (after all, he had a flight lesson in his logbook), Celia found her way over to Jake.

“So?” she asked him, her voice low. “Did he seem strange to you? Did you see what I was talking about?”

“Not really,” Jake said. “Other than asking to go along with me to Phoenix, he seemed pretty much like Greg to me.”

“And that in itself didn’t strike you as strange?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It kind of did. What do you think it’s all about?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I expect you to keep me informed.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Jake told her.

“Now remember,” Jake told Greg as he taxied to Runway 30 at Whiteman airport just past noon on Sunday, “you are not to touch a single knob, dial, switch, or control, no matter what happens.”

“What if you pass out in flight?” Greg asked, his hands gripping the sides of the copilot seat.

“You still don’t touch anything,” Jake told him. “You try to wake me up if that happens, but I’m not going to pass out. There’s a reason we have to have physical exams every two years.”

“But what if...”

“Not a single knob, dial, switch, or control,” Jake cut in. “No matter what. And keep your feet off the rudder pedals too. They’re not footrests.”

“All right,” Greg said, perhaps a bit dejected.

It was a beautiful southern California fall day, so Jake was flying VFR. He took off to the northwest and then followed the standard eastern departure route, setting his climb for nine hundred feet per minute and his altitude for 15,500 feet so he could make it over the San Bernardino Mountains with a good clearance margin. The plane bounced and bumped a little as it ascended over the eastern suburbs of Los Angeles. At 8000 feet, the bleed air from the engines was fed into the cabin to keep them comfortably pressurized. Greg watched the passing scenery with apparently genuine interest, though every jolt of turbulence they encountered made him jump a little and grip his seat tighter.

Greg said little until they passed over the heavily forested San Bernardinos and were flying in the smoother air high above the desolation of the Mojave Desert. That was when Jake finally got an idea of what this trip was all about.

“This plane ... uh ... it doesn’t have a cockpit recorder in it, does it?” Greg asked.

Jake looked over at him, remembering that Laura had once asked him that same question. He gave the same answer. “No. This is not a commercial aircraft so a CVR is not required. And, since it’s not required, I’ve never had one installed.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully.

“Is there a reason you asked?” Jake prodded.

“Uh ... well ... kind of,” he said.

Jake let a full minute pass before asking, “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

Greg sighed. “Yes, I guess I am,” he said. He shook his head. “I must be crazy telling you this considering how close you are to her.”

“Close I am to who?”

“To Celia,” he said. “Who else?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said carefully. “I’m not sure what we’re talking about here.”

“Jake,” Greg said, “I consider you my best friend.”

“Uh ... okay,” Jake said. “I’m flattered, of course. And I think you’re a pretty cool guy as well.”

“Thank you,” he said. “But what I’m getting at is that I have something I need to talk about and you’re the only one I think would understand what I’m going through. I trust I can count on your discretion?”

“If you have to ask, you can’t count on it,” Jake said simply.

Greg nodded. “A fair point. I don’t think I have to ask.”

“I do,” Jake said. “What the hell are we talking about?”

Greg looked down at his feet (which were well clear of the rudder pedals, as instructed). “Mindy Snow,” he said softly, so softly that his voice barely made it into Jake’s headphones.

Jake had been looking at his instruments. Now he turned his head and looked at the actor again. “Mindy Snow,” he said slowly. “Please tell me that you’re not trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me.”

Greg kept his head hung low, but he nodded slowly. “I had sex with her,” he said, “while we were out on that promotional tour we took last month.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Greg!” Jake said. “What the hell did you do that for? Didn’t I warn you about that shit?”

“You did,” he said softly. “And I didn’t heed your warning. She got to me.”

“She got to you?”

“She got me drunk in Chicago,” he said. “Kept feeding me drinks; on the flight there, at the hotel when we arrived, in the limo on the way to the premier, and at the premier itself. And she was matching me drink for drink!”

“Yeah, Mindy can put them away all right,” Jake said. “Almost as good as Helen. So ... you got drunk and fucked her?”

“No ... it wasn’t like that,” he said. “I’m not that easy.”

“Forgive me,” Jake said. “What did she do then?”

“She talked me into having one last shot at the end of the night,” he said. “That was after she spent the whole premier sitting next to me and rubbing my arm with her breasts and feeling my leg and ... and ... she even touched my ... you know...”

“Your dick?”

“Right,” he said. “My dick. She touched it right there in the theatre. By the time we got to my room ... I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said. “What did she do then?”

“She ... she ... put me in her mouth.”

“She gave you a blowjob?” he asked.

“That’s right,” he said. “She got down on her knees in front of me, opened up my pants, and started sucking me.”

“And you just let her?”

Another sigh. “I let her,” he said. “She knew about ... well ... a weakness of mine.”

“What kind of weakness?”

“Celia does not ever let me ... you know... finish when she’s doing that. Mindy knew that and she told me...”

“Whoa, hold up a minute,” Jake interrupted. He was surprised to hear that Celia didn’t let him ‘finish’ during that act, but that was not the current issue. “How did Mindy know that?”

“From Cheryl, the makeup girl I had that ... uh ... encounter with in Alaska. She ended up being Mindy’s makeup girl on a subsequent project and ... well ... the two of them developed a relationship.”

“Ahhh,” Jake said, things becoming a little clearer now. “Mindy did mention the makeup girl to me at the LA premier.”

Greg looked over at him sharply. “She did? And you didn’t tell me about it?”

“I didn’t really have a chance,” Jake said. “We both left town the next day. And it didn’t seem that relevant anyway.”

“Christ, what a mess I’ve made,” Greg said, shaking his head again.

“So ... you told the makeup girl that Celia wouldn’t let you come in her mouth and the makeup girl told Mindy and Mindy used that to get you to let her give you a blowjob?”

“More or less,” Greg said. “I was not in a rational state of mind at the time. You have to understand that. I was extremely intoxicated and very ... aroused. When she said that she would let me ... do that ... well ... I let it happen.”

Jake nodded. He took another look at the view outside, another scan of his instruments, and then looked back at Greg. “Mindy is very seductive,” he allowed. “Trust me, I know.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you about this,” Greg said. “You have experience with her.”

“And she does give a hell of a blowjob,” he said, a strong hint of nostalgia in his tone.

“I have never had a better one,” Greg admitted.

“Did she put her fingers up your ass?”

“What?” Greg asked, appalled. “No! That’s disgusting! She didn’t do that to you, did she?”

“Uh ... no, of course not,” Jake said. “Anyway, she gave you a blowjob. That’s not so bad, is it? I mean, technically, it’s cheating, but...”

“That’s not all we did,” Greg said.

“It’s not?”

“No. The next night ... well ... she got me a little drunk again and we started talking about ... well ... about other things that Celia won’t let me do, and ... again, I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but I ended up ... you know ... performing anal sex with her.”

Jakes eyes widened almost comically. “You ass-fucked Mindy Snow?”

“I’d never done that to any woman before!” Greg cried, as if that was a valid defense. “I’ve always wanted to try it, and ... and ... she offered, and I was drunk, and so ... I did it.”

“Jesus, Greg,” Jake said.

“Didn’t you ever do that to her?” Greg asked.

“Of course I did,” Jake said. “Multiple times! Mindy takes it up the ass like a champ. She loved it! But I wasn’t married when I backdoored her. You were!”

“I know,” Greg said miserably. “And, in truth, it wasn’t even all that enjoyable. The friction was almost unpleasant. And the mess afterword...”

“I’m sure Celia will be happy to know you didn’t enjoy your Mindy Snow buttfuck all that much,” Jake told him.

“A valid point,” Greg allowed.

“Is that all?” Jake asked.

“No,” Greg said miserably. “There was one more incident.”

“You fucked her?”

He nodded. “On the last night,” he confirmed. “She came into my room and basically raped me.”

Jake raised his eyebrows again. “Raped you?”

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” he said. “She was very aggressive—again, something that Celia does not typically do—and I responded. I allowed her to do it.”

“And that was the end of it?” Jake asked.

“That was the end of it,” he confirmed. “We’ve seen each other multiple times at the promos since then, but she hasn’t even been flirtatious with me. She’s back to being a staunch professional.”

“Interesting,” Jake said. “Usually when Mindy gets her hooks in someone, she doesn’t let go until she gets whatever she’s after.”

“Maybe having sex with me was what she was after?” Greg theorized.

“Maybe,” Jake said doubtfully. “But that’s not the Mindy I know.”

“Then what is her game?” Greg asked.

“Only Mindy knows that,” Jake said. “Did any of this happen in a place where she might have had a photographer stashed? Her friend Paul Peterson, perhaps?”

“No,” Greg said. “All three times it was in my hotel room. Unless she somehow managed to get him into my suite ahead of time...”

“I wouldn’t put anything past her,” Jake said, “but if getting blackmail pictures was her game, I would think she would have just had you come to her room instead. You would have gone there, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably,” Greg admitted.

“It must be something else then. Or maybe you’re right and she just wanted to bone you. She does have quite the sexual appetite and you are a good-looking guy.” He shrugged. “It still seems too simple though.”

“I truly hope this ordeal is over and done with,” Greg said.

“For your sake, I hope you’re right. Tell me though; why did you feel the need to tell me all this?”

“Because I needed to talk to someone,” Greg said miserably. “This is eating me alive.”

“And you know that Celia would not tolerate another incident of this sort,” Jake said. “Particularly not with Mindy Snow, the puta of all putas.”

“That’s part of it as well.”

“How do you manage to keep Celia from knowing about this?” Jake asked. “She is of the opinion—and I would have agreed with her until just now—that you would be incapable of hiding infidelity from her, that your guilty conscious would give you away as easily as a signed and notarized confession.”

A miserable smile formed on Greg’s face. “That’s the irony of all this,” he said. “Mindy herself taught me how to conceal it from Celia. She reminded me that I’m an actor. All I have to do is act; put myself in the character of the Greg Oldfellow who has not had sex with Mindy Snow. So far, it seems to be working.”

“Mostly working,” Jake told him.

“What do you mean?”

“Celia knows something is off about you,” he said. “She’s mentioned it to me on several occasions and she even pins the start of it as when you returned from the cross-country premier trip.”

Greg’s eyes widened in alarm. “What did she say, exactly?” he demanded.

“She said, and I quote: ‘It’s almost like he’s playing a role for me, putting on a false face’.”

“Wow,” Greg whispered.

“In your favor, however, I did actually ask at one point is she thought that something might have happened between you and Mindy, and she thought the idea ridiculous, once again repeating her assurance that there is no way you could pull off a secret like that.”

“Thank God,” he said.

“I suppose,” Jake said, making a check of his instruments again. Everything remained exactly as it should. “What are you going to do now?”

“Now? I’m not going to do anything now. I just needed to get this off my chest. Like I said, it’s eating me up inside. Here I am, at what should be one of the best times of my life; I have a hit movie that’s blowing up the box offices and will undoubtedly be nominated for multiple Oscars next year and maybe even win a few; I have a beautiful wife who is making almost as much money as I am; yet I’m popping antacid pills like they’re going out of style and drinking far too much alcohol.”

“And did talking to me about this help any of that?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg replied. “I think maybe it did, assuming you’re not going to tell Celia about this conversation.”

“The bro code prohibits me from doing that,” Jake said.

“The bro code?”

“The unspoken rules of male friendship,” Jake clarified. “We don’t rat each other out about stuff like this.”

“Oh ... I see,” he said. “The bro code. I like it.”

“That same bro code, however, also prohibits you from telling Celia that I know about you and Mindy if she should find out by some other means. Remember, I have to keep working with her for the foreseeable future.”

“I understand,” Greg said. “And I will comply.”

“Excellent,” Jake said.

Deer Valley Airport was a large, general aviation facility fifteen miles north of the Phoenix city limits. Jake had never been there before and was unaware that it was one of the busiest general aviation airports in the world, averaging more than a thousand takeoffs and landings every day. He found this out when he had to circle in the landing pattern for nearly thirty minutes before he was cleared to touch down on Runway 25R.

He was directed to a parking area nearly a half mile from the operations office. After tying down the Chancellor and making sure it was locked, Jake and Greg took their baggage in hand and made the hike. Fortunately, the weather was pleasant. Late November is one of the more pleasant times of the year in the Phoenix metropolitan area.

Jake paid his landing and tie-down fees and then secured a BMW 5 series from the rental car agency. He spent a few minutes perusing the map in the vehicle and then they made the drive to the Hyatt Regency in downtown Phoenix.

He and Greg hung out at the hotel for the rest of the day. They went down to the pool for a bit but had to retreat when some of the patrons recognized them and they got mobbed by autograph seekers and the just plain curious. They signed a few autographs, answered a few dumb questions about why they were here, and then returned to their rooms. Jake took a nap and then they met for dinner in the hotel restaurant and had a few drinks at the bar. Greg did not mention Mindy Snow or the conversation they’d had on the flight in. Jake did not bring it up either.

They climbed into the Beemer at 8:00 AM the next morning and made the drive back to Deer Valley, where the CEO of PetShop kept his plane. The arrived a little early and had to wait a few minutes before Austin Grover, the CEO’s pilot emerged from the airport office.

Austin was a short, stocky man who sported a mustache and a goatee, probably because he would have looked ridiculously young without them. His dark blonde hair was cut short on the sides, spiked on the top with some sort of gel, and he wore a simple pair of blue jeans and a white, button-up shirt. He seemed very starstruck at meeting the two celebrities and was a bit tongue-tied initially, until they were able to assure them that they were mostly normal people who put their pants on one leg at a time, just like him.

“How old are you, Austin?” Jake had to ask as they strolled toward the hangars.

“Twenty-eight,” he said. “Been flying since I was sixteen.”

“No kidding?” Jake asked.

“Yep,” he said. “Got my private license just after my eighteenth birthday and started working as a CFI shortly after that, working for peanuts, you know. Gradually got enough hours in and got my commercial license. Started doing a lot of odd flying jobs after that; flying mosquito abatement runs, cloud seeding over the San Joaquin Valley, photography runs over the agricultural regions. Got to fly a lot of different planes doing that. Eventually got my multi-engine and pressurization certs and then, three years ago, got my passenger transport cert.”

“How long have you been working for the PetShop guy?” Jake asked.

“A little over a year now,” he said. “It’s a pretty sweet gig. He’s a cool enough dude, not all that much older than me, really. He pays me seventy per flight hour plus standby wages and full benefits. And the 180 is a sweet fuckin’ aircraft. Have you ever seen one, Jake?”

“I have not,” Jake said. “I understand it’s a pusher, not a puller, right?”

“That’s right,” Austin said.

“A pusher?” Greg asked. “What does that mean?”

“The props face to the rear instead of the front,” Austin explained. “That means that the thrust pushes the plane forward instead of pulling it like a traditional prop setup.”

“What is the reason for that?” Greg wanted to know.

“There are several advantages,” Austin said. “It’s a quieter ride since the engines are in the back. It’s a smoother ride since the thrust is not passing over the wing, and it’s less vulnerable to foreign object damage.”

“Then why don’t all aircraft do that?” Greg asked.

“Well ... there are some disadvantages too,” Austin said with a shrug. “You need a longer takeoff roll because you don’t have the thrust passing over the wings, and, though it’s quieter inside the aircraft, it’s noisier outside of it. If you’re on the ground near the airport, the 180 sounds like a goat getting its balls squeezed in a vice when it takes off. Also, it’s more vulnerable to icing on the wings and the ice can break off and damage a prop.”

“I guess we try not to allow any icing then?” Jake asked.

“You know it,” Austin agreed. “How many hours do you got in your logbook, Jake?”

“Eleven twenty-five as of my landing at Deer Valley,” Jake said. “Most of that in the Chancellor.”

“That’s a pretty sweet aircraft too,” Austin said. “I would assume you’re IFR, multi-engine, and pressurized rated then.”

“I am,” Jake confirmed. “No commercial rating though. Never needed it.”

“Out of fuckin’ sight,” Austin said.

They reached the large hangar where the aircraft was stored. Austin produced a keyring from his belt and unlocked the door. He then slid it open. Jake looked at the red and white twin engine plane for the first time. It was not a case of love at first sight, but it was definitely a case of lust at first sight.

It looked like something out of a science fiction story. The fuselage was curved from nose to tail in an airfoil shape (Austin would later explain that a sizable fraction of the aircraft’s lift came from the fuselage itself). Just behind the nose was a small wing that made it look like the business end of a hammerhead shark. The primary wings were mounted in the middle of the fuselage behind the passenger cabin, just forward of a large T-tail. The engines were mounted atop the wings with the five-bladed propellers facing the rear.

Greg was not so impressed. He looked a little fearful as he took it in. “This thing actually flies?” he asked.

“Like a motherfucker,” Austin assured him. “It’s the fastest, most fuel-efficient twin-engine prop-driven transport aircraft in the world. It’ll climb at 3K per minute and soar up to flight level 410 if you want it to. Once up there, it’ll cruise at three hundred and twenty knots and carry you more than sixteen hundred miles if the tanks are full. The way my boss has it configured, it’ll hold up to ten passengers, not including the pilot.”

“And it has a bathroom?” Jake asked.

Austin gave him a strange look. “Yes, of course it has a bathroom. You think the CEO of Pet-fucking-Shop pisses in a urinal while I’m hauling him and his fellow suits to Vegas or Houston?”

The primary door for the aircraft was on the left side, just behind the cockpit. Austin opened it and then pulled a small staircase out of a hollow on the bottom side. He invited them to climb aboard and take a look. They did so.

The passenger compartment was compact, with a ceiling too low for Jake or Greg to stand up straight (although Austin, at around five foot seven inches was able to do so, which meant that Laura, Pauline, Nerdly, Sharon, and Elsa would all be able to do so as well). There was no door between the cockpit and the passenger compartment, although it appeared there could be one there if one wished there to be. The passenger seats were situated on either side of a central aisle. They were plush, luxuriant chairs that each had a video monitor mounted in front of them and a retractable table that slid out from an inset in the wall. The chairs immediately behind the cockpit were oriented to the front while the other four were oriented facing each other. Behind the chairs were two couches that could each sit two people. Behind that was a small bar and refrigerator setup. Behind that, was a small door that was currently closed.

“Not bad, huh?” Austin asked. “There are other configurations, of course, but this is the most popular one for executive transport.”

“It’s very nice,” Jake said. “Just like the business jets we ride on.”

“This basically is a business jet in all but propulsion,” Austin said. “And you only need one pilot to fly it. Let me show you the flight deck.”

“Hold on a second,” Jake said. He pointed to the door in the rear. “Is that the bathroom?”

“Uh ... yeah,” Austin said.

“I want to check it out,” he said. He lowered his head and started walking that way. The height of the cabin gradually decreased as he moved aft.

“Dude,” Austin said to Greg, “what is up with him and the bathroom?”

“His wife wants a bathroom on the plane,” Greg explained. “That’s why he’s upgrading.”

“Just for a bathroom?” Austin asked, amazed.

“Seems like a good reason to me,” Greg said.

The bathroom was tiny and cramped, about half the size of an airliner bathroom and much shorter. But it had a mirror and a sink and a toilet that could be flushed (presumably anyway, once the engines were on).

“All right,” Jake said, smiling as he saw it. “I like it.”

He closed the door, made sure it was firmly latched, and then they walked forward again and took in the flight deck. All of the instruments were currently dark since the power was off, but it was only slightly more complex than that of his chancellor. There were the yokes and a bank of analog instruments that would back up the digital display instruments in case of failure. There was a map screen and, something that his aircraft did not have, a Garmin GPS.

“Is the GPS linked to the autopilot?” Jake asked.

“Hell yeah,” Austin said. “I love that thing. I still use the VOR signal as a backup, but it keeps you steady as a rock on course once you program in your flight path. It’ll take you all the way to the landing threshold if you want it to.”

“Nice,” Jake said, envisioning himself behind the controls.

He did not have to envision for long.

“I already filed my flight plan,” Austin said. “Let’s roll this bitch out of here and head to Denver.”

“Let’s do it,” Jake said enthusiastically.

Greg was not quite as enthusiastic—he was, in fact, starting to look like he regretted his decision to come along—but he echoed the sentiment.

They pulled the aircraft out of the hangar and Austin started going through the preflight checks. Jake followed him around happily, watching everything he did, but asking no questions, not wanting to distract the pilot from this important duty. In all, it took the better part of fifteen minutes before the exterior check and the interior check were done. Austin then radioed for a fuel truck to come pump eleven hundred pounds of fuel into the tanks.

“That’s all?” Jake asked. “For a flight to Denver? That’s about six hundred miles, right?”

“Six hundred and eighteen on the route we’re taking,” Austin said. “And we already have four hundred pounds aboard, but yeah, that’s all we need.”

“That’s not that much more than my Chancellor would need.”

“This baby is very fuel-efficient,” Austin said.

“It runs better than a Fiat though, right?” asked Greg from the seat behind them.

“A little bit,” Austin assured him.

After fueling, Austin went through the final preflight check and everything was copacetic. He activated the IFR flight plan he had filed (since they were flying above eighteen thousand feet, they had to fly IFR) and then received permission to taxi to Runway 25L, the longer of the two runways.

“What’s the takeoff roll on this thing?” Jake asked, technically violating the sterile cockpit, but it was a minor infraction.

“Thirty-three fifty at this temperature and altitude,” Austin said mechanically. “Thirty-one at sea level.”

That was the first bit of bad news. If he bought one of these, he would not be able to fly into or out of Oceano any longer. Its runway was only twenty-three hundred feet in length. He would have to base out of San Luis Obispo Airport, which was another fifteen minutes away from his home by car.

Austin pulled up to the hold line and had to wait for one aircraft to take off and two to land. While he was waiting, he configured the aircraft for liftoff, setting the flaps to fifteen, setting his airspeed bugs for V1 and VR. Finally, they were given clearance to depart.

“All right,” Austin said. “Let’s fuckin’ do it.”

“Hell to the yeah,” Jake said enthusiastically.

“Please don’t say that,” Greg said.

Austin turned onto the runway and slowly pushed the throttles forward. The engine noise increased but remained negligible. You could still converse without headsets if you wished. The aircraft accelerated nicely down the runway. At 94 knots, Austin pulled gently back on the yoke and they broke contact with the ground.

“Nice,” Jake said, feeling the thrilling moment where the miracle of flight was achieved. He always enjoyed it.

“You gotta be careful with a pusher on takeoff,” Austin said, his hand pushing the gear lever up. “You pull up too sharply, you don’t get a tail strike, you get a fuckin’ prop strike, which is infinitely worse.”

“That makes sense,” Jake said. Destroying your props as you were lifting off the runway was not just a recipe for disaster, but an absolute guarantee of it.

They climbed rapidly through three thousand feet and Austin pushed the nose down a bit and retracted the flaps. They began to pick up speed. He then turned and looked at Jake.

“All right, my man,” he told him. “Take it.”

“Take what?” Jake asked, genuinely confused.

“The aircraft,” Austin said. “Take it.”

“I’m not checked out on this plane,” Jake said.

“I’ll talk you through it, bro,” Austin told him. “It’s easy. Not that much different than your Chancellor.”

“But...”

“Uh ... this sounds like a bad idea,” Greg added nervously from his seat behind them.

“Naw, it’s a good one,” Austin said. “Come on, Jake. Take it. Just follow the line on the GPS display.”

Jake took it. And that was the moment that he passed from lust to love.

“My aircraft,” he said.

“Your aircraft,” agreed Austin.