It had been a chilly
fifteen degrees the morning Maggie bundled up and headed for Denver
International. When she reached Dallas that afternoon, the
temperature there was close to fifty. She mailed her coat back home
the following morning from the Mexico City airport, where the
temperature was almost eighty. The temperature here in Miraflores was
higher yet, with the humidity thickening every minute.
“Look,” she
sighed, rubbing her eyes. “It’s just that…just that it’s
already hot as hell out, and I’ve had about … about six hours
sleep in the last thirty-six. All I want…I just...”
Marc was giving her
a quizzical look, which she, in response, returned. She realized then
that he was looking over her shoulder, out the window. Turning her
gaze in the same direction, Maggie saw that a jeep had pulled up
alongside Marc’s plane, and a man in a striped shirt was climbing
out of the driver’s seat. Marc’s eyes were fixed on the striped
shirt as he spoke.
“Wait here,” he
ordered, before he strode out to the plane. Maggie immediately began
wracking her brain: how could she make Marc change his mind and fly
her to the research station? She saw the two men speaking for a
moment before Marc pointed her way. She heard them start to shout at
each other, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then her
head snapped toward the ominous thud of Hector locking up the hatch
on his own plane. Once he took off, Maggie knew she really would be
stranded out here.
Panicking, Maggie
burst out the door in Marc’s direction. “I can pay cash,” she
blurted out before she realized how desperate she sounded. Striped
shirt gave her an angry glare and so did Marc. He took her elbow
roughly and spun her back the way she’d come.
“I told you to
wait inside.” He flung open the door and nearly flung Maggie
through it. She hardly noticed.
“And I’m telling
you. I’ve got the money right here.” And then, right in front of
him, she bent over to rifle through her bag on the floor. Marc had to
look away to keep his mind on the business at hand. She straightened
up and turned to show him a sheaf of bills pulled from the bag.
A protective impulse
kicked in for Marc, an instinct he didn’t think he had. He folded
his hand over hers, over the bills, and was about to tell the stupid
chick to put away her money. When his palm came in contact with the
cash, though, the impulse passed. The words that came out of his
mouth then were, “Payment up front or no deal.”
Leaving Maggie with
strict instructions to stay inside the office, Marc went back to
exchange a few parting words with Mr. Striped Shirt. (For security
reasons, Marc’s associates made a point of not knowing one
another’s names.)
Just so that nothing
was lost in translation and just for emphasis, Marc planted both
hands possessively on the fuselage of the twin engine as he spoke.
“See, you don’t own this plane-“
“You
don’t own this plane,” Striped Shirt interjected, his face like a
stone.
“Okay, okay.
Technically, legally, I don’t,” Marc conceded. “But I was the
one who took the initiative to steal it from the technical, legal
owner. So I decide for myself if I have time to take on a passenger
before I make your deliveries, and I-”
“They’re your
deliveries.” The expression was even more granite than before. “I
done my part and I won’t take the heat for you after you fuck this
up.” Without another word, the striped shirt then turned to move
his jeep clear of the plane’s take-off path, another hint that Marc
had better get a move on.
Marc was determined
to get in the last word, but was left with nothing to say. “You
don’t own the plane,” he shouted after the driver. “And you
don’t own me!”
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