Turbulence Read online

  Settling on the sofa, I could hear water running and sensed she was not showering, but bathing. I took a long swig of vodka with a tonic splash and savored the taste. Life is good.

  I pulled out my itinerary to see what time I would arrive at SFO, and while looking at the full memo from Al’s secretary, Maria, I heard that pleasant voice again, saying, “Well, are you comfortable?”

  Looking up, I see this vision in a red robe tied at the waist with hair piled up above her head and pink high-heeled slippers on. Searching wildly for a rejoinder, I lamely came up with, “Well, you certainly are,” and I hoped she wouldn’t notice how hard I was breathing.

  “In the interest of time,” she said, “it doesn’t make sense to spend what little there is traveling back and forth to a cocktail lounge when there’s all the cocktails you want right here.”

  I wanted to respond, but the tug in my groin was my only nonverbal response and I said weakly, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower.”

  She pulled her robe belt tighter, accentuating her incredibly small waist tapering down from her incredibly firm breasts, and whether it was purposeful or not, it certainly was effective and I needed a robe to hide my desire as I moved quickly to the guest room.

  Her bedroom décor was as womanly and sensuous as she was, and the music coming from her bedroom console was all soft and fluid instrumentals. She was sitting on the side of the bed with a drink and her robe had fallen open. I walked in with pajama bottoms on, leaned over, kissed her lightly on the lips, and took the drink from her hands. What happened next and for the next hour and a half was all carnal desire, with wildly indiscriminate kissing in places and crevices touched with lips and tongues that were normally rarely touched and or even reached.

  With wild movements and sounds from each other that reflected unbelievable pleasure at its deepest and purest level, with every sensitive area set afire with a want for deeper or higher sensation until one or both of us could not hold our gratification back another millisecond, we let go with all wild abandon, and twice simultaneously by my count. According to Allison, she could not count. Rather, to her it was a continuous orgasm, differentiated only by intensity.

  Finally, we lay there spent, wasted, not wanting to move, but to drink in the feeling in the gut as long as one can. I finally broke the spell only because I needed to finish the job with my bloody bag. I gave her a long passionate kiss and said, “It was wonderful, you’re wonderful, but I have to go,” and left for the shower as she continued to luxuriate.

  Two

  I put my bag on the bed and zipped it open. It was a handsome, sizable, two-suitor that was configured to fully hang two suit coats over once-folded trousers, ensuring very little wrinkling that could easily be taken care of with the steam from a hotel bathroom shower. There was my gray shiny mohair suit with ties on top, but as I lifted it out, I gasped and involuntarily exclaimed, “WHAT THE F---?”

  There, under my suit and ties, were a considerable number of small packages, some paper wrapped, some plastic, and no other clothes. No underwear, socks, or shirts, not even shoes---just a whole bunch of packages where my clothes used to be. Confused and frightened, I flipped the bag over to see if it was really mine, and also to check both my brass plate ID and the baggage tag affixed in Acapulco. Yes, it was my bag, sporting my initials, and the baggage tag read the proper destination, SFO.

  My mind raced to the last time I had my bag in my possession, at the counter at ACA. The attendant was gracious, as always in Mexico, and I had asked to look at the affixed tag and compared it to my stapled tag on my ticket, and that was it. No conversation, no time problem, no delays, and off it went on the belt. Shaking, I pulled out a bag of each, paper and plastic, and thought, idiotically, of the iconic supermarket choice, paper or plastic, sir? I picked up the two different bags and easily held each in one hand and mentally weighed them. There were no markings, just the cover held together with scotch tape, and the contents by feel indicated powder in each one. The clear plastic one held an off-white substance with a faint peach tint.

  Instantly, I knew I held about a pound of cocaine in my hand, and as a matter of fact, even recognized the peach tint. Months ago, as a friend and I were leaving a New York restaurant, she found a rich-looking gold pouch on the cab backseat. When she opened it, it held four large wafer-size pills and a couple of white rocks, peach tinted. We thought it could be drugs, but neither of us was interested in that sort of thing, and I put the purse in my pocket and then left it on my living room shelf for a couple of months. One evening, another couple visited my then girlfriend and me in our apartment prior to dinner.

  Somehow the conversation had touched on drug use and I thought of the purse and brought it to my friend to ask what it was. “Hey dummy,” he said, “you’ve got four Quaaludes and raw, uncut cocaine.” With my approval, but not involvement, the three of them, with mirror and razor on the coffee table, snorted the cocaine and then we all went off to dinner, the three of them giddy and teasing me about being a prude. Whatever. I had heard too many tragic stories to have the least bit interest.

  “Well, it’s drugs, no question, and hard drugs, at that,” I thought, and maybe said it out loud, but if I did, it was quietly, because I knew, at this point, I couldn’t share this with anybody. The paper package was the same weight, and it had a powder feel, not plant buds or even shake. My guess is that the well-wrapped paper packages held heroin. I went to the door and turned the lock. I fully opened the suitcase and counted both paper and plastic. There were a dozen bags of each, twenty-four pounds of hard drugs, not enough to cause any undue weight concern pulling a wheeled bag.

  “SHIT,” I said. I’m a New Yorker and exposed to the drug culture more than most people because it’s in the local papers daily, especially the Post, where they list drug busts regularly, reporting on the “street value” estimated by the police. I have a friend, Len, who is on the NYPD and maybe I could ask him the street value, or maybe not. I’m not sure to whom I could confide, but I am sure those twenty-four bags are worth a lot of money, maybe five hundred thousand, seven hundred and fifty maybe, even more. But I caught myself abruptly and thought, “That’s not the problem. What am I gonna do with this stuff right now?”

  The answer came with the pleasant voice, intimate now it seemed to me, that said, “Are you about ready, need some help?”

  She seemed to purr and if it wasn’t for my state of shock, I might have swept her into my arms for a last private goodbye. But instead, I closed the suitcase, opened the door, and said, “Almost done. We have about an hour, right? Let me ask you, is there a Greyhound bus station near here?”

  “Yes, there is. Why, you taking a bus to the Coast?” I softened immediately and tipped her chin up and kissed her lightly.

  “No, silly, I need to transfer a bunch of stuff out of my bag to make room for some purchases in San Francisco and I thought a locker in a bus station would be perfect.”

  “Well, you could leave it here. I have plenty of room.”

  “No,” I said. “If we could find a box of some kind, I can put it into a locker. I don’t want to use your home as a storage unit, and I’m not going to retrieve my stuff without being aware that you live very close by.”

  “Okay,” she said. “You’d need to give me advance notice anyway because of my job. But speaking of my job, I’m a flight attendant and I have extra bags. I’ll get you one.” While she fetched the bag, there was one item in my bag outside of the drugs that I was unsure of. It was a small black metal box with no markings. I guessed that it might be some sort of signal device and if so, I didn’t want it with the drugs. And I sure as hell didn’t want it at customs in South Korea. I stuck it on the corner of the shelf in an otherwise fairly empty guest closet.

  Having deposited the bag into a Greyhound locker just outside Fort Worth, which was much closer to DFW than Dallas, Allison drove me back to the airport. I hadn’t asked her age, but I thought in the middle of all my difficulties h
ow much easier it is with someone like her, probably close to thirty, who is independent, not clingy, with no drama, and somebody that I wanted to see again, and I told her so as we approached DFW.

  She appreciated it and told me she would also like to see me again, preferably on my way back and asked when that was. I explained that the trip was sudden and unplanned, and that I didn’t know how long it would be, but she had my business card and I had her address and number and promised to call. She was in her civilian clothes, as she referred to them, so I had no hesitation in giving her a long and deep kiss goodbye just before boarding, just as any husband or boyfriend would do. She returned my affection and I entered the boarding ramp with the taste of her tongue in my mouth and on my mind.

  The trip was just a bit longer than the previous one to Dallas from ACA, about three and a half hours, getting me into SFO about nine-thirty and into the hotel a little past ten. I asked the room clerk when the department stores opened the next day and he said, “I think ten.” My flight was before noon.

  “Damn it, I need some clothes for a long trip and that’s too late.”

  He helpfully countered, “We have a men’s store in the lower lobby and I think it opens very early, before nine, maybe eight-thirty.”

  “Great, perfect. Give me a wake-up call at seven. Goodnight.”

  Again, from San Francisco, I was at a window seat, but unfortunately in coach. I wasn’t upset that the service would be so much less. I just didn’t want to face the ordeal of a twelve-hour flight in coach with my long legs, because that caused travel fatigue. More importantly, it is a cause of serious blood clots called DVT, or deep vein thrombosis, which can dislodge and go to the lungs with deadly consequences. Being aware of that, whenever I flew to the South Korean project, I always asked Rainbow executives to request a first class upgrade for me, but in this case, the compressed time did not allow it.

  Upgrades are a common courtesy among airline executives, much in the same way as complimentary rooms are to hotel executives. Wherever or whenever I traveled on personal business, I was always granted a complimentary room or even a suite, and some of those suites were sumptuous. That didn’t apply equally to business travel, however, because a complimentary accommodation during high business occupancy can cause severe loss of that night’s revenue, and even turnaways on sold out days. It is therefore expected that your company will pay for the room.

  But the courtesies extended for upgrades and complimentary rooms for personal travel, and business only if there is adequate availability, is a well-respected, inexpensive means of PR between travel executives, due to many rooms and airline seats going unsold on a regular basis because you are offering time-related products. It’s not like a pair of shoes that go unsold, because you can always sell the same pair the next day even at a discount. Not so in our business, because if it isn’t sold that day, the inventory is gone forever. When I give speeches to hotel or airline students, I always point that out by saying, “In many ways, we are in the same time-sensitive business, except one is lying down and the other sitting up.”

  However, the important thing is that I’m finally on my way to my destination with a well-stocked suitcase, with only the one suit, but I know how to handle that problem in South Korea. And I’m flying on my favorite international carrier, JAL, where the service in any class is as close to impeccable as anyone could hope for. I’ve handled the long flight hours before and I will again, even if it means bothering that guy in the aisle seat numerous times for not only toilet breaks, but the anti-DVT strolls along the aisles. And, I will try to commandeer that empty middle seat for sleeping.

  Having put current distractions aside, my mind automatically returned to the potentially explosive problem sitting in a locker in Fort Worth, threatening to shatter my career, and indeed, my entire life as I know it. Last night, I had a fitful sleep, full of recriminations about what I did or didn’t do, what I should have done and didn’t, and the possible consequences.

  Foremost, because it can’t be undone, if I was an innocent victim of some nefarious plot to damage me, why didn’t I call the police or the airline, or some other responsible authority? That’s the first question those authorities will ask. But interrogating myself, my private answers would be different. First off, I didn’t have time to make an informed decision, and I knew instinctively that telling authorities would completely cancel my trip and the consequences of that were enormous because I’m immediately setting off a double whammy for Rainbow. Their airline would be investigated regarding their Mexican personnel, and if the South Korean problem is not resolved as a result, it would damage their chances for a permit to the Pacific rim. I just couldn’t let that happen.

  In addition, clearly the smuggling was not done to hurt me personally. Nobody would risk that kind of wealth. It had to be part of a larger plan. Whatever the plan was, it was interrupted and exposed because I had unexpectedly interfered with my baggage destination by having the bag intercepted by ramp personnel before it went to the baggage sorting area. But there was nothing I could do now to undo my decisions, and I concentrated on the immediate task ahead and to take care of this other business upon my return.

  “Drinks sir?” the flight attendant inquired.

  “No thanks, it’s a little early for me, but you will be back with the cart later?”

  “Yes,” she said, “we will be offering drinks for sale most of the day, unless we encounter turbulence.” She was dressed in a standard flight attendant uniform, except unlike domestic airline staff, she wore a little hat, and it reminded me of the uniforms of Trans World Airlines that you saw in old newsreels. With her tiny Asian features, it suited her well, and added sophistication.

  I released the lever, leaned back in my seat, and immediately drifted off into the sleep that was robbed from me last night by my worry and the most unusual insecurities brought on by recent events.

  Normally I can sleep anywhere and do so immediately if I am tired, with one exception and that’s on a plane. While I can go right to sleep, some part of my immune system is attuned to the long hours in flight. The sounds, or absence of them, either lull me or alarm me, which I consider a good environmental adaptation because the sound of airline engines comfort me, whereas the lack of that sound could readily awaken me.

  Slowly, but groggily, I am lifted out of deep sleep by chatter and the click and hissing sounds of popped soda cans. I glance down at my watch and realize I have slept the early afternoon hours away. There is still plenty of light because we’re heading directly west into the sun toward and past the international date line, where tomorrow there is today here a bit disorienting to the first time passenger, but only a reminder to set watch for date as well as time, so that when we arrive, it will be on Tokyo time.

  Three

  “Good evening, Mr. Logan,” said the Japanese flight attendant. “I hope you are rested. If you will, please retrieve your overhead bag and any personal items in the seat pocket, and if you will follow me, you are being upgraded to first class.”

  “Wow, that’s a great way to wake up, thank you.” She waited until I gathered my bag from the overhead compartment and other personal items and followed her. She brought me forward through the curtain to mid-cabin and pointed to the window seat on the right side of the plane.

  “If you’re ready, I’d be glad to take your drink order.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’d love a scotch, rocks, water on the side.” I was delighted that I had been upgraded, though belatedly, but it was perfect timing as I would be served dinner in first class.

  “And your preference, sir?”

  “Oh, of course, Dewar’s, please.” I’ve got to readjust to first class.

  The flight attendant explained that there was a request by Rainbow for the upgrade, but it came so late, other duties relative to takeoff took priority over any seating arrangements. To the ordinary passenger, all takeoffs are the same, but not when you have more than six thousand miles to cover over the large
st body of water on earth. The check-listing of all exigencies is a bit more extensive on this flight than a domestic flight, where during an emergency a domestic plane can be rerouted to any of hundreds of alternate airports across the country.

  She returned with a small cart that not only brought the drink, but my dinner setting as well. Lovely starched linen was draped over the seatback tray, and real silverware placed on it. The thick upholstery on the seats was markedly different than in coach also. The drink, of course, was served in a rocks glass, with a small carafe of water and no plastic anywhere. I sipped my scotch with just the right amount of water added by me, and I instantly felt recharged and invigorated. Now I could plan for what lay ahead rather than ponder the messiness behind. I will not talk to anyone while in Tokyo, except our general manager of the hotel, whom I will call to reconfirm our ETA into Seoul the next morning.

  He had been sent a copy of the itinerary by fax when Maria sent the original to Russ, but it was a courtesy I needed to extend because I knew he would be personally meeting me at the Seoul airport. He was a dedicated professional from Switzerland, one of many Europeans that had chosen to run luxury hotels in Asia rather than in their homeland or greater Europe, which I couldn’t really fathom, but I was told by several people that the system of apprenticeship is so ingrained in Europe that their choice of Asia provided them with a chance to be a GM much sooner.

  Seeing the several flight attendants moving efficiently about in preparation for dinner service, I couldn’t help but remember our last meeting in Seoul with Helmut, our GM, with the construction completed and the arduous task of receiving, storing, and installing the FF&E, known to the layman as furniture, fixtures, and equipment. That process, and the hiring, training, and matching of staff to our various service components, is the hardest part of hotel development, including even the construction of a five hundred room hotel, not only there, but anywhere, including the United States.