Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

was an open personnel file lying on the huge desk and O’Brien spoke while pointing to it. “During your first year management reviews your employment record at least twice. I’ve been going over yours and even though there’s nothing negative, I remain concerned about your role in the Boston incident.”

“Like I told you, it had nothing to do with me.” Was O’Brien on a fishing expedition or had Woody or Christina said something?

Ignoring Erik’s comment, a red-faced O’Brien continued. “In retrospect, do you want to fill me in on any other details of what transpired?”

“There’s nothing more to say,” Erik replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

Erik could see the lines in O’Brien’s face and crow’s feet around his eyes deepening. He asked Erik, “Are you’re nervous with your job?”

“No. I’m very comfortable.”

A stern-faced O’Brien began. “Captain Shepard wrote about…” but stopped. He quickly closed the folder and told him. “You can leave now.”

While checking in for his flight Erik pondered what, if any connection there might be between Christina’s plan and O’Brien’s grilling? He would ask her when the opportunity arose.

.     .     .

Christina heard nothing further from Juni so after work on Friday she provided Erik with directions to Pepi’s, telling him, “Let’s take two cars.” He desperately wanted to get her take on O’Brien’s most recent fishing expedition, but decided to see if she said anything first. Erik changed into jeans and tee shirt in his car, while Christina left her uniform blouse and slacks on, removing any airline related items.

.     .     .

The dented Ford the size of a cabin cruiser that seemed to instinctively dodge the Brooklyn potholes came to an abrupt halt in the parking lot and Juni exited. Running beefy hands over the suit lapels, he fired up a Marlboro. All the medical hoopla not withstanding, he wouldn’t quit smoking for fear of gaining more weight. He glanced into the outside rearview mirror and patted down his well-greased, gray and black hair combed in the pompadour style because a full head of hair was important to his image. Recalling the words of an old paisan, “For us guineas, when you get old, you lose hair where you want it and find it growing where you don’t,” he paid extra attention to a small thinning spot he’d recently noticed on the crown, making sure it was covered. Since it was unknown who might be watching, with the butt dangling from his lips he unbuttoned his jacket and paraded across the street in his best Brooklyn swagger, leather heels thundering on the concrete.

After entering the still-crowded restaurant and after a warm greeting, the owner ushered him to an out of the way table. It was easy to pick out the few made men who had proven themselves in some manner and taken a solemn oath of allegiance to the Mafia organization, La Cosa Nostra that police insisted no longer existed, post-Giuliani. These well dressed and bejeweled guys were surrounded by their hangers-on, with the remainder of the diners mostly old-time Italians sporting five o’clock shadows; the hard-working guys, masons, carpenters, landscapers and the like, marked by their permanently dirty fingernails. Most had emigrated from different sections of the old country, now fortunate to be able to afford to eat dinner out once or twice a month with the old lady; the latter usually the result of an arranged marriage and the immediate acquisition of a coveted green card. Their wives were mostly first-generation Brooklyn-Italian; short, pudgy, with fat thighs that stuffed three or four cream-filled cannolis into their mouth for dessert, but made certain to put Sweet and Low into their cappuccino. Juni recently heard rumors the neighborhood was changing, with many Italians moving to the suburbs, replaced by first-generation Asians and newly-arrived Russian-Jewish immigrants. But obviously from the numbers, the paisans that might no longer live here still drove to get the food.

.     .     .

Erik parked behind Christina and entering together, many patrons gave them the once-over. Pepi’s was roughly thirty miles and a universe away from Farmingdale and Erik wondered if someone would be needed to do cultural interpretations. Between the barroom jukebox and loud conversations, there was a constant buzz, probably purposely done to make electronic eavesdropping impossible. Christina mentioned Juni’s name to a grungy-looking maitre d’ with thick eyebrows and some missing teeth and was ushered to an isolated table where a short, more horizontal than vertical forty-something guy with black hair fading to gray, looking worn down by hardship, work, or both was seated. Although his body exuded an undefined intensity, he resembled any other Italian. They sat down and pointing to Erik, Juni asked, “Who’s the kid? I thought you were bringing another pilot with you?”

“He’s the one.” Christina introduced them.

As they shook hands Juni blew pungent smoke into Erik’s face, asking, “Jesus Christ, you still in high school?”

Erik glared back and Juni immediately apologized. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was out of line, but I thought airline pilots were, well, older.”

“You have to start sometime.”

“Why do you want to get involved in this shit when you still have your entire life in front of you?”

Erik relaxed and opened up a bit, which he inexplicably found easy to do, quickly synopsizing the story about his loan Christina had only partially related to Juni who muttered while shaking his head, “A woman captain and a kid pilot? I guess the times have changed.”

“It’s a new world out there,” Christina added.

“Forgive me. Right now I feel like an asshole in a room full of proctologists,” Juni replied. “I’m not certain I like this new world a hell of a lot.”

“It’s no Dick and Jane fairyland any more, but there’s nothing we can do about it.” To lighten things up a bit Christina added with a wide grin, “The next work needed in this new world is changing the name of the COCKpit.”

They all laughed.

The toothless guy came and took drink orders. Juni requested a bottle of white wine