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

got messy. You should do well house hunting because lots of homes are for sale. Which part of town are you interested in?”

“I’m not familiar with East Boston, but maybe close to the water?”

“Try Smith’s Real Estate on Bennington Street. They handle the nicest waterfront and water-view homes.”

The chambermaid would no doubt see the wetsuit and other paraphernalia, so he wanted to cover himself. “Do you know if there’s a beach where snorkeling is allowed? It’s my favorite hobby.”

“There’s Orient Heights public beach and as long as you don’t use a spear gun you can snorkel. I dated a guy who liked to dive and he told me the water there is pretty murky and cold, meaning you probably won’t be able to see much and will definitely need a wetsuit.”

“I brought mine along. Thanks for the info.”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

.     .     .

After taking the briefcase containing the cash and some gear from the trunk, Juni went to the room with plastic veneer furniture camouflaged to resemble real wood. It was clean and contained an air conditioner large enough to freeze over the entire Boston Bay, along with a chained-down color television set with remote control. There was also a well-stocked bar charging five bucks for a lousy ounce-and-a-half bottle of booze. He figured there was a water saver on the showerhead and a quick glance confirmed that.

Juni hopped into bed and was asleep within minutes. Funny thing was despite a myriad of problems, he never had trouble sleeping. He awoke just before ten the next morning feeling refreshed from the drive and following a quick breakfast, re-locked the money in the trunk and took the subway, known in Boston as the T, an abbreviation for the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, to Fenway Park. Just before the game began he went to a pay phone, put in some quarters and dialed the Shuttle Air operations office. When the clerk answered, he identified himself as the dispatcher and requested to speak with Captain Shepard.

Christina picked up. “Captain Shepard here.”

He said, “Sciotta, S-C-I-O-T-T-A,” and hung up. He left the game in the sixth inning to be in the room in time for Christina’s test call at four-thirty. The phone rang and he picked up. With trepidation in her voice she asked, “Mr. Sciotta?”

“Yes. How’s everything on your end?”

“So far so good, but Montgomery’s not with us today.”

“Oh, why not?”

“According to crew scheduling his father had a heart attack and is in the hospital, so he was given the day off.”

“How long will he be out?”

“He only requested a single day. Nothing to worry about though ‘cause the guy who replaced him is new and has his hands full flying.”

“That’s very reassuring. Next time I’ll fly Delta.”

“I’ll call you each day after our three and seven o’clock flights and give you the tail number of the plane we’re flying. I’d hate to see you chasing after the wrong one.”

“If I’m not at the hotel, do not leave the plane number with anyone even if the weather’s on our side. Something might have come up or I’m not ready, meaning everything’s off for that day.”

“Gotcha. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck.”

“Luck? Would you rely on luck to safely complete your flights?” Juni hung up without waiting for a reply. He’d burn in hell before he relied on luck for anything. There would be no visible fault lines. This was just like a chess or card game where you always had to think four or five moves ahead of the opposition.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A perspiring Woody Montgomery ambled down the quiet, dimly-lit corridor of the Intensive Care Unit at St. Francis, the famed Long Island cardiac hospital. He hated all hospitals with their antiseptic odors and medical devices, which were synonymous with death. From the phone call early that morning, he knew his old man’s case was classified as a life-and-death situation, and closer to the latter. After identifying himself to the rotund nurse in charge who had more rolls on her stomach than a French bakery had behind the counter, he was ushered into his father’s room. The eerie silence was only punctuated by the hissing sounds of the ventilator used to keep the old man alive. The room smelled of disinfectant, with an underlying scent of something else Woody classified as disease. Glancing at the chart affixed to the end of his father’s bed, Woody saw lots of things were wrong with him. Once the nurse softly closed the door, it was just father and son. Although listless, Errol Montgomery was conscious but couldn’t speak due to the life-support system. Woody’s first task was to devise a means of communicating. While holding his father’s ashen hand he whispered that one squeeze meant yes, two no, three good and four meant bad. Asked if he understood, his father responded with a single squeeze.

“How are you?”

Four feeble squeezes.

“They’re doing all they can for you.”

One squeeze.

Father and son had never been close, especially after Woody’s mother, Evelyn passed away several years earlier and Woody subsequently learned the old man had kept a young mistress in a Manhattan apartment for years, while forcing his wife and son to endure with the barest of necessities. Woody had confided in his wife, Ingrid that his father was a selfish codger who had only one use for women and as a result she also despised him. But they put up with him for a single reason—money. During the little time they’d spent together, he usually drank too much and mentioned cash he had stashed away, somewhere. When sober, however, he was more wary and wouldn’t utter a word about his finances. As a result, neither Woody nor Ingrid was certain about his true financial status. Over the years he and Ingrid had been careful not to let on how they really felt, but as soon as word arrived of his grave heart attack she’d dispatched Woody in case the alcohol-induced accounts were true. Maybe now