Standing On Top

Chapter 7a

August 11, 1988, 2:37 PM

2100 feet above Ventura County, California

The single engine Cessna 172 was in a thirty-degree bank to the right, its engine turning at forty percent power, its nose pointed slightly downward, its flaps partially deployed. Jake Kingsley sat in the left hand seat, his hands on the stick, his feet on the rudder pedals, his eyes flicking back and forth between the compass, the altimeter, and the view outside. Sitting next to him was Helen Brody, one of the two certified flight instructors for Brody Flight School.

Brannigan Airport was a rural general aviation field in southern Ventura County, some fifty miles north of Los Angeles and thirty miles east of Ventura. As the plane continued to bank the airfield's single runway came into view from the right side. It was a 16/34 runway, which meant it was aligned northwest to southeast. Horse and cow pastures stretched off to the east and an automobile junkyard was situated to the west. Jake slowly and smoothly straightened out his bank until the nose was pointed directly at that runway and his compass read 160.

"Beautiful," Helen said, her hands resting comfortably in her lap but prepared to take over the controls in an instant if it became necessary. "No need for adjustments on this one. Now bring us down."

"Bringing us down," Jake said, reducing the throttle and letting the nose slip downward. Their airspeed began to increase as gravity acted upon them. Jake slowly increased the flaps to maximum deployment, slowing them up but also increasing lift and causing the nose to come back up. He pushed down on the stick and throttled down some more until they were descending exactly on a glide path that would put them down on the first third of the runway. Their airspeed was sixty-nine knots, just two knots above the 172's stall speed with flaps deployed. Jake continued to make minor adjustments with the stick and rudders, adjusting their course to compensate for the twelve-knot south wind that was blowing. As they passed over the perimeter fence Jake throttled down to almost idle. The plane dropped a little faster. Just before it reached the ground he pulled up slightly on the stick. The nose came up and the plane went into a controlled stall. The fixed tricycle landing gear thumped softly down on the pavement with a slight screech. Jake retracted the flaps, neutralized the controls, and pulled the throttle all the way back.

"Very nice," Helen said, reaching out and giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Now let's do it again. We have time for two more."

"Yes, Sensei," Jake said with mock formality as he pushed the throttle forward once again. The engine screamed with horsepower and the plane rapidly accelerated. When it reached 85 knots he pulled back on the stick. They rose back into the air with three hundred feet of runway left to spare. Thus, his twelfth touch and go of the day was complete. Now he would take it back around for lucky thirteen.

The It's In The Book tour had come to an end June 15 with two sold out shows in Heritage. Since then the entire band had been on a much-deserved hiatus from most of their normal obligations. The only real task was for Matt and Jake to compose some new music for the next album. Since Book was now approaching five times platinum and five of the eleven songs on it were still receiving continuous airplay all over the North American and European continents, National was in no particular hurry to begin work on the next album.

"Just be in the rehearsal warehouse by mid-September," Crow had told them at the beginning of their vacation. "We've pushed your submission deadline all the way forward to November 15."

Since this was quite a departure from National's previous post-tour demands — they usually wanted the band in the rehearsal warehouse immediately and in the recording studio shortly after, regardless of when they actually planned to release the next album — the band was understandably suspicious at first. Jake, Matt, and Pauline had wondered if National's kindness was nothing but another plot to revert to the old contract, which failure to submit by the deadline could have done. Crow had squashed this suspicion before it could even be fully formed when he presented them with an addendum to their contract specifically stating what the new submission date was.

"Why are they doing it?" Pauline asked Jake. "I can't think of a reason."

Jake had simply shrugged. "Maybe they're starting to realize that we compose better when we're not pushed so hard. Who knows? I'm not going to question it too much. I'm just going to enjoy it."

And so he had been. So had they all.

Coop had taken up dirt bike riding, purchasing two high-end Yamahas, a truck, and a trailer to haul the bikes with. He spent most of his days out in the wilderness or the desert somewhere, riding up and down hills and sand dunes. He had dislocated his shoulder once and his left kneecap twice and bumped and bruised himself numerous times pursuing his new hobby but he seemed to be having fun.

Matt had acquired a house in Cabo San Lucas. He didn't actually own it since Mexican law forbid foreigners from actually purchasing land in their country but he had a ninety-nine year lease on two acres of beachfront property with a thirty-five hundred square foot house sitting upon it. This property and the building upon it, which would someday be worth over two million American dollars, he had picked up for just over two hundred thousand. He had been there ever since the close of escrow, partying and fishing his ass off.

Nerdly was spending all of his spare time at the National Records recording studio, learning all there was to know about mixing, overdubbing, and generally blending music so it would sound good when put on a master recording. He was now a fixture in there, helping with the production of nearly every album being produced in any genre — everything from Polka to hard-core ghetto rap. The studio technicians had at first considered him a nuisance they had to put up with to keep the bosses happy but they had long since learned to respect his opinions and suggestions and he was now so good at mixing that he was often sought after by one team or another when a snag or problem developed.

Charlie had gone back home to Birmingham where he'd used his newly acquired wealth to open a vegetarian restaurant in the downtown portion of the city. Though there were many who said that attempting such a venture in the industrial deep south was a losing proposition, Charlie's newfound fame as the bassist for Intemperance was, so far, keeping the seats full and the bottom line printed in black ink.

Darren was still in the hospital suffering from the aftereffects of his bout with botulism. He had regained the ability to walk but his muscles were still so weak he could only stand for ten to fifteen minutes at a time, could only lift ten pounds or so. He was undergoing physical therapy but it didn't seem like it was helping that much. The doctors were starting to fear that he would never fully recover his strength and live a normal life. Darren didn't really seem to care about this. Whenever one of the other band members visited him he was always in a happy mood. This was mostly due to the sedatives, tranquilizers, and anti-anxiety medications he was perpetually stoned on. It was clear that he would not be able to participate in the development or recording of the next Intemperance album.

Jake had enjoyed some minor participation in all of the others' endeavors. He had gone dirt bike riding with Coop several times (getting a second degree burn on his right leg when he'd crashed and had the tail-pipe push into his calf). He had flown down to Cabo twice to spend a few days with Matt and get his fill of deep-sea fishing for the year (as well as to reinforce his desire to own a seagoing vessel of some sort). He had flown to Birmingham to attend the grand opening celebration of Charlie's restaurant (and the food there was pretty damn good, he had to admit, despite not having any meat in it — Charlie had hired the best vegetarian chefs he could find). He made a point of visiting Darren at least once a week (although he usually came away feeling depressed at the state Darren was in). But he had chosen to use his vacation time to pursue a hobby he had always wanted to learn: how to fly.

Finding someone to teach him and getting certified as a student pilot had not been as easy as he'd thought it would be. He had assumed that when one had money falling out of one's asshole, as he did, that you could just pick up the phone and get things rolling. That had not been the case. Four of the most popular flight schools in the Los Angeles region had turned him down when he'd applied just on the basis that he was Jake Kingsley.

"What's gonna happen," one school administrator asked him, "when you go off and get yourself all doped up and mid-air into a 747 and kill four hundred people? That will be on our conscience and, more importantly, the liability lawyers will come looking for us because we taught you."

"I'm afraid we only accept people who are responsible," said another administrator. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kingsley."

The other two schools had not even bothered to explain themselves. They'd just said no. Finally he found Brody Flight School at Brannigan Airport. It was a small school, owned by John Brody, a crusty, no nonsense pilot who had flown an A-1 Sandy for four years in Viet Nam and who had more than fourteen thousand hours at the stick in more than sixteen different aircraft. His twenty-four year old daughter, Helen, was the only other instructor he employed. He owned three aging but lovingly maintained Cessna 172s and rented a hanger at the airport from which to teach from. He had expressed the same concerns as the other schools but, unlike them, he had taken the time to listen to Jake's rebuttal to his concern.

"Yes," Jake had told him, "I drink a lot of booze. I smoke a lot of pot. I've been known to snort some coke on occasion. I'm a liberal, left wing, semi-communistic, womanizing, longhaired musician who likes to have a good time. But I'm also a very serious and committed person. I have never used any intoxicating substance before stepping onto the stage to play my music and I will never use any intoxicating substance before I get behind the controls of an aircraft. I take matters that involve my own life very seriously, Mr. Brody."

Brody had looked at him, his piercing blue eyes seeming to stare directly into Jake's soul. Finally, he nodded. "Okay," he said. "You seem sincere enough so I'll take you. But the first time you do anything that leads me to believe you will be an unsafe pilot, your ass is out of here. Is that understood?"

It was understood. The next step had been getting an FAA physical to certify that he was medically fit enough to fly an airplane. Again, the first three doctors he went to refused to certify him, not because of any physical malady — he was in top physical shape thanks to all the aerobic exercise that was involved in being a musician and his eyesight was tested at 20-15 — but because of his reputation in the media. All three of the doctors focused on a portion of the medical questionnaire that asked the applicant if they had certain medical or psychiatric conditions. One of the questions was "Have you been addicted to either drugs or alcohol in the last two years?"

Jake had answered 'no', as any reasonable person would do even though he was in the habit of drinking just about every day and smoking pot at least twice a week. Since he did not consider this to be addicted, per se, and since he did not intend to ever imbibe before flying he felt he was being truthful. The doctors, however, did not see things the same way.

"I'm rejecting you for lying on the medical form," the first had said.

"Lying?" Jake had asked, fighting to keep his temper in check.

"You said you're not addicted to drugs or alcohol."

"I'm not," he'd said.

The doctor had chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't you snort cocaine out of a girl's buttocks on one occasion?"

"No," Jake said.

"That's not what the papers say," the doctor replied. "And weren't you caught in a hotel room in New York with a couple of pounds of cocaine in your possession?"

"That case was dismissed," Jake said. "I have never been convicted of any offense in any court of law. I've never even had a speeding ticket."

"Nevertheless, there have been numerous reports of your drunken and drug addicted antics. I cannot, in good faith, certify you as fit to fly."

His exams with the next two doctors had gone pretty much the same. Finally he had brought Pauline along with him for the fourth exam. As soon as the doctor started questioning Jake's honesty on the drug or alcohol section Pauline had stepped in.

"Do you have any proof that Jake is addicted to drugs or alcohol, Doctor?" she'd asked.

"It's been in all the papers," the doctor said.

"There are reports of UFOs and Bigfoot in the papers as well," Pauline said. "Just because it's written down doesn't mean it's true."

"I have a reasonable suspicion that Jake is not fit to fly," the doctor said. "It is therefore my duty to..."

"Your duty," Pauline interrupted, using her courtroom voice, "is to examine Jake fairly and competently and come to a simple conclusion based on your training and the factual findings you uncover. He is in good physical condition, his eyesight and blood pressure are within parameters, and you have nothing other than third and fourth hand hearsay to conclude that intoxicating substances are a problem with him. If you reject him because of what you've read in newspapers or seen on the news I will haul your butt before the medical review board and tear you into little pieces before them. When I'm done with you you'll be lucky to get a job squeezing the testicles of death row inmates at San Quentin."

The doctor crumbled, and quickly. "What the hell do I care if he's out flying a plane drunk?" he mumbled as he signed Jake's forms and gave him his certification.

And so, with everything nice and legal, the lessons began. Jake had paid a lot of money for them to be crammed into as many hours of the week as he could be there. John Brody had expressed trepidation at this at first.

"Usually we only have our students come in twice a week or so," he said. "That lets you spread things out and absorb the information gradually."

"I don't have that kind of time, Mr. Brody," Jake told him. "I want to be soloing before we start work on our next album or I won't have any time at all to finish what I started. I like to finish what I start, you know what I mean?"

Brody reluctantly agreed, probably figuring his rich rock star student would quickly lose interest or flunk out. To his surprise, Jake had proved to be an adept student in all aspects of the training. He had passed the ground school portion of the lessons with flying colors and had demonstrated an almost eerie ability to grasp the fundamentals of flying during the practical flight lessons themselves.

Day after day he would go through the extensive and repetitious pre-flight list for one of the Cessnas and they would take to the air above Southern California. Brody had started him with the basics, teaching him how to turn, how to navigate, how to ascend and descend, how to climb while turning, how to descend while turning. From there they'd worked on stalls and other emergency procedures, teaching him how to recover the aircraft when something went wrong. And then came take-offs and landings, at first just at their home field but gradually working their way up to navigating to other fields and utilizing the air traffic procedures in place there.

The elder Brody had been his primary instructor at first but as he'd watched Jake apply himself and had become a little more confident in his student's motivation and abilities he had started letting Helen take him up instead, gradually working it to the point where Helen was the primary instructor. As Jake practiced his touch and go procedures now, on this hot August day, he had logged just over sixty hours at the stick, more than enough under the law to solo for the first time, although neither Helen nor her father, who had final say in when he soloed, had yet authorized him to do this.

"Okay," Helen said now as he banked around into the landing pattern of Brannigan Airport and began to deploy his flaps to slow down. "Another good approach. I think you're starting to get the hang of this, Jake."

"It's just like learning a new tune," Jake said, concentrating on his controls and his instruments. "Keep doing it over and over again and it becomes second nature."

"Maybe," Helen said with a smile as he pointed the nose down and began to descend again. "But if you screw up one of your tunes you don't die, do you?"

Jake nodded respectfully. "Point taken," he said.

His relationship with Helen Brody made Jake a little uncomfortable at times. It wasn't because she was in a position of authority over him. It was because she was attracted to him. This had not been the case initially. The first time they'd met she had looked at him like he was a piece of bug excretement on her windshield. She had only taken over the role of flight instructor for him at her father's steadfast insistence. During those first few flights the cockpit had been as cold as ice and the conversation had been businesslike and nothing else. He had sensed the feelings of fear and disgust at him radiating off of her as surely as if she'd sprayed them on like perfume.

Gradually, however, her mood had lightened as they got to know each other better. The chill started to thaw when Jake had figured out the basis for her feelings toward him. She had snapped at him one day when he'd gone just a few feet over the altitude she'd told him to level off at — a common mistake among beginning pilots. Her reaction to it had been much more than he deserved.

"Hey, chill out a little," he'd said as he brought the plane back down to where it belonged. "I'm a student, remember?"

"And what if I don't chill out?" she'd asked. "Are you going to hit me?"

He looked over at her, seeing that her eyes were dilated with nervous adrenaline, that her face was flushed with the fight or flight response of fear. "Hit you?" he asked. "Is that why you're so skittish around me? You're afraid I'm going to hit you?"

"Keep your eyes forward," she'd barked. "You look at your instruments and your view, not at me."

He took a glance at both and then turned back to her. She was still withering under his gaze. "I'm not the person you read about in the papers," he told her. "I know you don't believe me, but I've never hit a woman in my life, nor have I ever raped one, nor have I ever thrown one off a boat."

She didn't respond to this. She simply told him once again to keep his eyes forward.

But after that her attitude seemed to change. Slowly, day-by-day, conversation began to occur between them that was separate from the flight instruction she was giving. It was just the mundane kind of conversation at first. They talked of the weather, of the state of the economy, of the upcoming elections and whether Dukakis stood an ice cube's chance in hell of beating George Bush. From there, the talk gradually grew more intimate. They spent many hours together flying from airfield to airfield, around in circles, or practicing various aspects of flight, and it wasn't long before Helen got to know the real Jake Kingsley, before she discovered his dry and witty sense of humor, his intelligence on political and sociological topics, and, most significant, his almost forlorn sense of emotional loneliness despite the wealth and fame he had at his fingertips.

"I was wrong about you, Jake," she told him one day after he'd successfully pulled the aircraft out of ten powered and twelve unpowered stalls. "I thought you were an elitist, sexist, abusive rich prick and I now know that you are not like that at all. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," he'd said. "And I thank you for giving one. Now what are we going to do now, Sensei? Can I try a few of those barrel rolls again?"

She'd smiled. "Go for it," she told him. "And after that I'll teach you how to loop."

The attraction she felt for him started to develop soon after. At times he would catch her looking at him in ways that teachers really weren't supposed to look at their students. He made a conscious effort to keep himself from encouraging this attraction. After his experience with Rachel the previous year he did not feel he was ready for another relationship with a woman, especially not a woman who had a say in whether or not he received his pilot's license. At the same time, however, he was finding himself increasingly attracted to her despite his best efforts to remain aloof.

Helen was not a gorgeous woman. She would never be asked to model clothing or underwear, would never get past the first stage of an audition for an acting job. She was also not an ugly woman. Cute was perhaps the best word to describe her. She was about five-six and maybe fifteen pounds heavier than what was considered ideal for that height. She didn't look fat by any means, or even chubby, she was just voluptuous, with larger than average breasts and a cute, chubby-cheeked face topped with dark brunette hair that was almost black. Her eyes were hazel and very expressive, very easy to read. She was not the kind of girl that turned heads when she walked down the street, but rather one that grew on you the more you looked at her.

Aside from being physically attracted to Helen, Jake found he enjoyed her personality as well. She was not a girly-girl by any means. She was very tomboyish, in mannerisms, speech, and actions. She enjoyed playing golf and baseball. She liked drinking beer and shooting pool. And, of course, she loved piloting aircraft and teaching others to do the same.

Her tomboyish persona was really not that surprising once she told Jake her basic biography. She had been born an Air Force brat in 1964 and raised primarily by her mother for the first six years of her life while her father deployed to a series of bases around the world and, eventually, to Vietnam from 1966 to 1970. In 1971, less than a year after John Brody's return from that unpopular war, Cynthia Brody, his wife, Helen's mother, had been killed in a car accident while driving home from the grocery store. From that point on Helen, an only child, had been raised by her gruff and masculine father. She had become the son he'd never have through default, learning to play sports and drink beer and, most significant, to fly airplanes long before she learned to drive a car. When John had retired from the Air Force six years before and started up his flight school, Helen was right there by his side, an equal partner in every way.

This tomboyishness was something that intrigued Jake. The idea that she was better than him at golf (which she was — although they had never played each other, her handicap was a solid 5 while Jake's was currently a 12), that she could beat him in poker, that she could out-cuss a longshoreman, that she knew how to change the oil in her car, when contrasted with her obvious femininity made him want to get to know her better. Much better. So far he'd resisted the urge to ask her out even though he knew she would say yes if he did. He liked her, but he didn't want to date her or get involved with her on that level. He didn't want to treat another girl the way he'd treated Rachel. He didn't want to hire a new girlfriend.

Unfortunately Helen, tired of waiting for him to ask her out, decided to take matters into her own hands. After Jake finished his last two touch and goes she directed him to climb back up to 3100 feet and navigate them to a small airport just outside Santa Barbara. Jake turned the plane to a northwest heading and climbed up to his assigned altitude. Once there he quickly figured out which navigation beacons he would be using and programmed his equipment.

"What's our flight time?" Helen asked him.

"Thirty-five minutes," he responded.

"Very good. And what's the ATC frequency we'll use for our approach?"

He rattled off a frequency number to her.

"Bitchin," she said. "Do you want to actually land there and stretch our legs a little? We have privileges at that field." This meant they had an arrangement with the flight school based out of that airport and would not have to pay a landing fee for touching down.

"Sure," he said. "I'd like to try it at a different field. We've never been into that one."

"Okay then," she said. "What's the elevation and runway configuration for our destination?"

"Elevation 148," he said. "Runway is a 27/9."

"And what is our likely approach going to be?"

"Winds are probably onshore this time of day," he said. "So most likely we'll use 27."

She smiled, looking at him warmly. "Not bad for a dumb rock star," she told him.

"I still have a few brain cells left," he replied.

They flew on in silence for a few minutes, the plane bumping a little as it passed over the mountains below.

"So listen," Helen said. "Maybe after we land we could grab a taxi and head into town for a little bit. There's a nice restaurant I know down on the waterfront. I'll buy you dinner."

Jake's hands clenched the tiniest bit on the controls. "Uh... that's very nice of you to offer," he said, "but my housekeeper is already making dinner for me. She gets upset with me if I don't come home for dinner without telling her in advance."

"Oh..." Helen said. "That's very... accommodating of you." She considered for a moment. "Maybe I could come over to your place and have dinner there? Would there be enough?"

Jake let out a little sigh. She was persistent like a man as well, even when she shouldn't be. "Helen, listen," he said. "I like you — don't get me wrong — but I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to get together in that sort of way."

"I don't understand," she said softly, her face expressionless. "I thought you and I were... that we... uh... you know, had some sort of a connection. Was I imagining that?"

"No," he said. "You weren't. I am attracted to you and I enjoy being around you."

She held her hands up in a gesture of confusion. "Then what's the problem, Jake? You've told me several times you don't have a girlfriend — not a permanent one anyway."

"The problem is me," Jake said.

She looked at him perplexed, and a little angry. "The old it's-not-you-it's-me speech already?" she asked. "I think you're getting them mixed up, Jake. You're supposed to use that one for breaking up, not for turning down a date."

He didn't laugh. "I'm not using a standard line on you, Helen. I'm being honest with myself and with you. You don't want to get involved with me. Every woman who has ever done that has ended up hurt — well, except for Mindy Snow, that time it was me who ended up hurt. My point is that I don't seem to do real well in intimate relationships."

"Don't you think I should be the one to evaluate my chances on that?" Helen asked.

"No," he said. "You don't know me like I know me."

"I know you well enough, Jake," she said. "I know you well enough to know that I'm incredibly attracted to you, that I love your personality, and that I want to spend more time with you."

Jake was shaking his head. "I can't, Helen," he said. "I'm sorry. I think our relationship needs to stay where it's at."

She nodded and said nothing else about it. In fact, she said nothing else that wasn't related to instruction the entire flight. They did not land in Santa Barbara. They simply navigated to the beacon and then turned around and flew back to Brannigan. The day's lesson was over.

As they pushed the Cessna back into it's hanger Jake turned to her. "Are you still going with me to Omaha this weekend?" he asked her. "Maybe your dad might go if you're uncomfortable doing it." For the past month Jake had been working on purchasing a plane of his own so he wouldn't have to rent one when he started flying solo. He'd finally located exactly what he was looking for in Omaha. An insurance executive was trying to unload a 1986 Cessna 172 with less than a thousand hours on it. It was a more modernized version of the plane Jake was training in. He had just closed the deal two days before and Helen had volunteered to fly down to Omaha with him and sit with in the cockpit as he flew it home. That was before he'd rejected her advance, however.

"I'll be there," she said quietly. "I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it."

"Thank you," he said.

She did not tell him he was welcome. They finished stowing the aircraft for the night and went their separate ways.

The Pacific View Country Club was one of the most exclusive and expensive private golf courses in the greater Los Angeles region. Located in the hills above Malibu it was a links style course with — as the name suggested — spectacular views of the ocean from eleven of its eighteen holes. The waiting list for membership at the club was reputed to be more than five years in length and each new member had to be approved by an executive committee who were notoriously (and perhaps illegally) stringent about the sorts of people they admitted into their sacred ranks.

At just past 7:00 AM the day following Jake's rejection of Helen, he pulled up to the gate that guarded entrance to the grounds and showed his identification to the guard manning the booth.

"Mr. Kingsley," the guard said politely after giving his license a thorough look. "You are indeed on my list. Go right in."

"Thank you," Jake said, taking his license back and dropping his Corvette back into gear.

Jake was not a member of the club and it was doubtful that they would accept him if he were to apply. He had never even been here before but today he was an invited guest of Gregory Oldfellow, the actor whose current film was being considered for an Oscar nomination and, more significant, was Celia Valdez's fiancée.

Though the press had never caught wind of the fact that Jake and Celia had spent the night together before the Grammy Awards in March, Celia had told Gregory about it the next time they'd spoken. At first he hadn't been too keen on the fact that his fiancé had spent the night with one of the most notorious womanizers on the Hollywood scene but her assurances to him that nothing had happened, that they were just friends who had spent the night drinking and playing guitar for each other, had reassured him.

Since returning home from the It's In The Book tour Jake had had lunch with Celia twice, once at his house and once at Greg's. Both times Greg had been present. To Jake's surprise he found that he actually liked the handsome actor. In his experience most screen actors were arrogant, narcissistic asses who constantly kept whatever conversation was occurring steered toward the subject of themselves and who felt the need to top anything that anyone else said. Greg did, in fact, have a trace of these shortcomings in his personality but for the most part he seemed a decent, down to Earth kind of guy who genuinely had strong feelings for Celia and enjoyed being with her. He was intelligent and well spoken and proclaimed to love Intemperance's music. He had even thanked Jake for keeping Celia out of a sleazy hotel room on her big night and keeping her company in his absence.

The three of them had not gotten together in over a month now, nor had they really kept in touch. Greg was busy basking in the runaway success of his new movie and Celia was locked into the brutal grind of putting together the next La Diferencia album. It had been Greg who had called him up three days ago to ask Jake if he was interested in a little golf at the country club.

"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I've been kind of busy with flight school."

"That's okay," Greg said. "You should see how Celia plays. She only started six months ago and a bogey is like a birdie to her. You couldn't possibly be more embarrassed than she will be."

"Okay," Jake replied. "What day?"

"You pick it," Greg said. "I'm free any day these days and Celia can break loose when she needs to. It's part of that rebellion thing you planted in her head."

"How about Friday?" Jake suggested. "I'm not flying that day and I'm on vacation from composing."

"Friday it is," Greg said. "How does a 7:45 tee-off sound?"

"Works for me."

"Come a little early if you want to hit some balls first. We'll be there around seven or so. It's best if Celia does some time on the range before she goes out."

"I know the feeling," Jake replied.

And so here he was now. He pulled into a parking spot just outside the clubhouse and before he could even get out of his car a young employee dressed in shorts and a Pacific View polo shirt was there to retrieve his clubs for him.

"How are you doing, sir?" the young man asked, obviously recognizing Jake but making no allusion to it.

"I'm fine, thank you," Jake said. He held out his hand. "Jake Kingsley."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Kingsley," the kid said, shaking with him. "Are you a guest today?"

"I am," Jake said. "Greg Oldfellow invited me."

"Oh yes," the kid said, as if he hadn't already known this. "Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez just arrived a few minutes ago. Allow me to take your clubs and put them on a cart for you."

"By all means," Jake said, taking a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and attempting to hand it over.

The kid didn't take it. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Kingsley," he said, "but we're not allowed to accept gratuities."

"No shit?" Jake asked.

"That is correct," the kid said.

"Well that sucks ass, doesn't it?" Jake asked.

The kid hid a smirk as he took Jake's bag from the passenger seat of the car and hefted them onto his shoulder. He took a look at the layer of dust that had accumulated since the last time Jake had played. "I'll just clean these up a bit for you before you head out, sir," he said.

Thanks," Jake said. The kid headed off toward the clubhouse.

Jake was dressed in accordance to the strict dress code of the country club. He wore a pair of blue pleated shorts and a collared white shirt. Atop his head was a visor he'd bought years ago at Hannigan Oaks golf course in Heritage — his dad's favorite course and the course Jake was most familiar with. He took a few moments to change from his tennis shoes into his golf shoes and then headed off toward the clubhouse.

He found his clubs mounted on the back of an electric golf cart parked just outside the clubhouse. He went inside to sign in and, though he received a few glares and confused stares from the other members inside, the middle-aged staff member behind the counter treated him with nothing but respect.

"Mr. Oldfellow and Ms. Valdez are out on the driving range if you'd care to join them," he said.

"Sure, thanks," Jake said. "Do I need a range token or anything like that?"

The staff member actually winced as he heard this. "We do not have range tokens here, Mr. Kingsley," he said. "Our range balls are entirely complimentary."

"Oh... cool," Jake said.

"In fact," he went on, "I was told by Mr. Oldfellow that if you required any golf equipment before heading out that I was to provide it to you and put it on his account. Do you need golf balls, Mr. Kingsley?"

"No thanks," Jake said with a smile. "I've got all the balls I need."

He blinked a little but held his composure. "Very well. Do you know how to get to the range?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out," Jake said. "Thank you."

The driving range was a lovingly maintained piece of landscape set on one of the hills with an ocean view. Instead of buckets of balls handed out by an attendant each range station had a number of balls stacked into an aesthetically pleasing pyramid shape. Celia and Greg were down near the far end of the range. Jake parked his cart on the cement path behind them. Both dropped the clubs they were holding and came over to greet him. Jake had to fight to keep his eyes on Celia's face as she approached. She was dressed in a burgundy polo shirt that outlined the swell of her breasts and a pair of white shorts that contrasted alluringly with her long, sun browned legs.

"Hi, Jake," she greeted, smiling at him, pullin him into a friendly hug and giving him an even friendlier kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you could join us."

"Me too," Jake said, wondering if Greg would have a problem with her manner of greeting him. It seemed he did not. He stepped forward and shook Jake's hand warmly, welcoming him to the country club.

"Thanks for inviting me," Jake said. "But are you sure that people are okay with me being here? I've gotten some pretty funny looks since I pulled in."

"From the members or the staff?" Greg asked.

"The members," Jake said. "Or at least I assume they're members."

Greg nodded. "I can't do much about the members," he said apologetically. "There are mostly good people here but a lot of stuck-up snobs too. If any of the staff shows you the least bit of disrespect, however, let me know and I'll deal with it. I pay a lot of money to be a member here and I expect my guests to be treated with the utmost courtesy."

"Sure," Jake said, wondering just how he would deal with such a thing. Did he have the power to get someone fired? "I usually get along with staff people at places like this though. They tend to be my kind of people."

Greg laughed as if he'd made a joke and clapped him on the back.

They shared a few moments of small talk while Jake pulled a selection of clubs from his bag and then stretched out his arms, legs, and back. The three of them then walked over to the driving range stations to hit some balls.

Jake started with his driver, topping his first two shots and slicing the next three before finally crunching one right down the middle. He kept hitting drives until he was consistently blasting them 230 to 240 yards in the general direction of where he was aiming them. He then dialed in his fairway woods, his long irons, and his short irons until the entire pyramid of balls was gone.

"Ready to do it?" Greg asked.

"I'm as loose as one of Matt's girlfriends," Jake said, making Celia giggle.