streamed down his face and dripped off his chin onto the collar of his Talking Heads T-shirt.
His mother had died. He cried for her again.
"Eastern Airlines Flight 377, for Raleigh-Durham and Atlanta, will now begin boarding passengers holding passes for rows one through fifteen," the ceiling said to him. He wiped away tears and blew his nose on his fingers and joined the big flow. He was going where he was wanted, and was content.
Spector stood in the jet's cramped restroom and splashed some water from the sink over his face. His stomach was churning and his skin was cold. He'd gone into the bathroom hoping to throw up, but no luck. He was so nervous he couldn't even manage to take a leak.
There was an impatient knock at the door.
"I'll be out in a minute," Spector said, drying the water from his face with his coat sleeve.
Another knock. Harder this time. Spector sighed and opened the door.
A hunchbacked joker in a Talking Heads T-shirt was standing outside. He pushed past Spector and closed the door. The little creep's eyes were like something dead, even worse than Spector's.
"Fuck you, too, shrimp." Spector clutched his way back to his seat without waiting for a reply.
It was the first time he'd ever flown. The plane was much smaller than he'd expected and was getting bounced around by what the captain called "some minor turbulence." He'd already put away two little bottles of whiskey and asked the stewardess to bring a couple more. She hadn't gotten back to him, though. He was sitting between a guy who had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and some reporter. The reporter was playing around with a lap-top computer, but the ex-pilot hadn't stopped chattering since they boarded.
"You see that redhead over there?" Spector followed the line of his finger to a woman a few rows away who was looking over at them. Her lipstick and tight knit dress were bright crimson. Her eyes were green and heavily made up. She was licking her lips in an exaggerated manner. "She wants me. I can tell. Wants me bad. Ever make it in a plane before?"
"Nope." Spector was clacking the two empty bottles together in his sweaty palm.
The ex-pilot leaned back, brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, and sucked in his gut. "Gonna play it cool, though." He looked out the window and nudged Spector. "You see those black dots out on the wing. That's where the rivets have been working back and forth. God, I hate flying in these death traps. I saw one miss the runway at National in Washington once. Nobody walked away from that one. If the impact doesn't get you, the fire and poison gas will. I was safer back in 'Nam."
Spector slipped the bottles into his suit pocket and turned to look for his stewardess. She was nowhere in sight. Probably in first class sucking off some rich shithead. He'd been an idiot to fly coach, but was a prisoner of his middle-class upbringing. "Time to make the big move," the ex-pilot said. He made eye-contact with the redhead and walked slowly to the rear of the plane. She smiled back at him and nodded, then started giggling when he disappeared into the restroom.
"Don't let him fool you," said the reporter, without looking up. He was in his early thirties, about Spector's size, and already balding. "These babies are safe as they can be."
"Really," Spector said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
"Yeah. He could tell you're a white-knuckler. Just having some fun with you, I expect." The reporter folded up his computer and looked over at the redhead. Hope he has fun jerking himself off.
The stewardess, a blonde with cropped hair, who seemed slightly too large for her uniform, handed Spector a plastic cup of ice and two more miniature Jack Blacks. "Thanks," he said, fishing in his wallet for a small bill. He had one bottle opened and poured before she could make change.
"You going to Atlanta for the convention?" The reporter asked.
"Uh, no." Spector took a long, cool swallow. "Not really into politics myself. Got other business."
"Not into politics?" The reporter shook his head. "This could be the most exciting convention since New York in '76. It'll be a real dogfight. Me, I'm betting on Hartmann." The reporter sounded like someone who'd gotten a tip at the racetrack.
"Funny things can happen. Especially in politics." Spector drained the glass and opened the other bottle. A warm, empty