Driver

Driver Pt. 05 Being Good Gets You Stuff

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

In the pool at 0500, Mack put his head down to pound-out some laps. Dark clouds gathered overhead, in the form of last night's debacle, and he used the swim to centre himself before the inevitable shitstorm. Sure enough, over breakfast, his phone buzzed. 'Hi Trav' Sally messaged, 'call when able.'

The first thing he did was message Wendy. 'Skip. Trav. Sally just msgd, wants me to call. I might be up for the firing squad.'

His phone buzzed a moment later and Wendy replied. 'You go, l go. Let her know.'

'You don't have to do that Skip'

'I know. And yes l do'

'Ill let you know xx'

Pouring himself a glass of iced tea, Mack let himself out into the little tiled courtyard and took a deep breath. Sally picked up on the second or third ring. "Travis?"

"Hi, Sal. Is it good news or bad news?"

"Huh?"

"Have you got good news or bad news?"

"How about no news? Would that suit?"

"Yeah, no, sure, no news would be awesome, but I gather that's not why you asked me to call."

"Am I missing something?"

"What? I... no. Isn't this about last night?"

"What about it?"

Mack ran a hand across his scalp, wondering, was she fucking with him? "I didn't do what I was told."

"By whom?"

"The pax of course."

"Why? What did they want you to do?"

"Land at Corpus Christi."

"I thought the weather was bad."

"It was. It was shit."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Problem? Three pissed off billionaires."

"Pissed off? More like tanked-up and hammered. They will have already forgotten, believe me."

"Not according to the security guy."

"Why? What did he say?"

"Well, when they left he wished me good luck. In my new job. Cos', he said, they were gonna fire my ass."

"Oh," Sally scoffed, "don't listen to him. Some of those guys actually think they're special, just because the family calls them by name. What they don't realise it's like they're calling a cat or a dog. Cheap suits with little dicks and big guns, that's all they are."

"Then what about Veronica?"

"What about her?"

"Well... the way she was talking I was gonna be hung, drawn and quartered."

"That old witch? It's all for show, Travis, sucking up to the boys. Don't let it worry you."

"Really? I just hope Mister Carter sees it that way."

"Listen. Between you and me, Harri... Mister Carter... can't stand the sight of that old gorgon. It's Mrs. Carter who keeps her around, just to annoy him. And they're still in Las Vegas in any event. Trust me. By the time they sober up all will all be forgotten."

"I hope so." Mack said forlornly.

"I said trust me. Look, the reason I called. We've got a job for you. We need you to pop over to Houston and pick up a peacock."

"Peacock?"

"Really, Trav, you need to get a handle on the company jargon. Lions, owls, sheep and peacocks, remember? Oh, and the remoras. This one's a peacock. A leading New York artist. Madam Carter is having them for lunch."

Madam? Mack picked up the tiniest hint of scorn. "Them? Hang on. How many are there?"

"Peacocks? Just one. And their remora. They're an Artist, like I said. You know the type."

"And he... she... it... they call themselves 'they'?"

"All the rage these days, haven't you heard? Demanding others use the right pronoun. It makes zu feel important."

"Shit! What happens if I use the wrong one?"

"That's easy. Don't use any. Just nod and say something like, 'Greetings' and get on with it. These guys have their heads so far up their ass you won't even register. So, we cool?"

"ETD?"

"Wheels up in one hour."

"Does Wendy know?"

"I'll give her a call."

"Oh well. It's nice to know we still have a job."

"Don't be such a drama queen, Trav. You stuck to your guns and followed the rules. That's exactly what we want in our pilots."

"Pilot?" Mack muttered glumly. "Is that what I am? They kept calling me 'Driver'. That's a bit like the 'N' word you know. Only pilots can use it."

"No offence, Trav, but that's all you are to them. You're just a chauffeur, no different to the guys who drive the SUVs. It's nothing derogatory, cos' they couldn't give a shit who you are anyway. Or what."

"Listen. Sally. On the subject of guns."

"We were talking about guns?"

"Well, you did just say I stuck to my guns."

"What's up? You want one?"

"No! No. It's just, could somebody tell those goddam weekend warriors? Clear their weapons. BEFORE they get in my aircraft."

"The minders?"

"Yup."

"Clear them? With you?"

"Unload the frikken' things. Drop the mags and work the actions and show me. So they don't put a round through the aircraft or somebody in it."

"Clear the weapons?" Sally said. "Nobody's ever mentioned it before."

"Cos' they've never had a round go through the roof. Then through a rotor. The paperwork's a bitch, I'm tellin' ya."

"Gotcha!" Sally said and Mack heard her typing. "Make sure the weapons are safe. Don't worry, I'm on it."

***********************************************************************************

And it came to pass.

One of Carter's jets taxied in and the engines shut down. Moments later, the door opened up and a garishly-dressed figure descended the airstairs. "Greetings." Mack smiled as the artist minced past without so much as a second glance.

A second character emerged. A nervous young male- at least Mack presumed it was a male- possibly Hispanic, heavily made up with furtive, darting eyes, as if expecting the cops to turn up any minute, or immigration. The pair mounted up and while they- They and It- made themselves comfortable, Wendy climbed in to give them the safety brief. Talking over the top of her, They, whose written name was a symbol liberated from ancient Sumerian, complained loudly and bitterly about Their partner's sexual shortcomings, calling into question Its commitment, predilections, and the provenance of Its parents. Totally ignoring the seat-belt demonstration, the pair sat, one nagging, the other fuming, but made no move to secure themselves.

Climbing out, Wendy leant into Mack's open door and when she beckoned, Mack put his ear to her lips. "They won't do up their seatbelts."

"Did you give them the brief?" Mack asked, securing his five-point harness. Wendy nodded and Mack gave a shrug. "Then close the door, Skip, and let's get this circus on the road."

The flight was a short one, barely fifteen minutes. Airborne, with the checks done, making sure the cab was isolated, Wendy looked at Mack. "That... 'artist'..." she said, making air commas.

Mack shook his head, finger to his lips, then pointed at the Cockpit Voice Recorder.

"...is one of my absolute faves."

"No kidding?" Mack arched his eyebrows. "What's your favourite work?"

"Mine?" Wendy asked, then gave him the finger, mouthing obscenities. "Oh, you know. The one we saw in the gallery. You remember. You really liked it as well. Though I can't quite recall the name."

"Ohhh..." Mack nodded. "you mean the one with the..."

"Uh huh," Wendy confirmed, "that's the one. You know, it just does something to me."

"It speaks to you?"

"It's that haunting juxtaposition of starkness and vulnerability," Wendy sighed, "it just, it just, it touches my soul."

"Hang on, you're Aussie. Do you have even a soul?"

"Oh, come on, Trav, of course I do. In fact I have so much soul, some people say, 'Wendy, you ARE soul'."

Bouncing up and down in his seat, biting his knuckle, Mack struggled to regain his composure. Wiping his eyes, he gestured with his chin through the windscreen at the sprawling country estate, with its vast white citadel, in the distance. "Five to run, Skip. Let's have some pre-landers."

Carter's wife was waiting when the helicopter touched down. It was Mack's first glimpse of the woman who called herself the First Lady, while in fact she was wife number five. Sliding out of a big black SUV after the downwash had abated, she stood under the idling rotors, one hand gripping a martini, the other holding down her big, floppy hat, a grin of unbridled adoration all over her face. Security hurried over and the warning light came on as the artist known as ' ' and Their hapless boyfriend debarked. Bundled into the SUV by black-suited minders, the unholy trinity- the Creator, the Muse and the Patron- was whisked away to their- Their, It and her- invitation only high-society soiree.

"Daaa fuck?" Wendy breathed, joining Mack for the walk-around, safely beyond range of pesky microphones

"Remember, Skip, we're not in Kansas anymore."

"I wonder if it knows how stupid it looks?"

"Which one?"

"The artist. And its boy toy. And the missus for that matter. All of them."

"Would they even care?" Mack shrugged. "When you reach that level of self-importance. That level of self... self... self..."

"Absorption?"

Mack snapped his fingers. "Absorption! Exactly. Who knows how the world might look through their eyes. I mean, maybe he... They... It... maybe that dude really IS a genius and we're just too fuckin' dumb to see."

Wendy gave him the eye. "You really mean that?"

"Me? Absolutely."

Pulling back, Wendy looked him up and down, scowling. "Travis Mack! Liar, liar, pants on fire!"

"You know," Mack sighed, draping an arm over her shoulders, "If I only had the chance. I'd like to throw him... Them... They... whatever the fuck the idiot calls itself... I'd like to throw It in the middle of an ambush. Somewhere in the Ghan, with air support an hour away and ammo running low. And watch him... Them... It... suddenly turn human."

***********************************************************************************

Back in his apartment, Mack was just settling in for the night when Sally rang. "How was the peacock?" she asked.

"You really wanna know?"

"Just between you and me."

"They... It and Them... either of them... Well, for starters, no one would buckle their seatbelts."

"Did Wendy give them the brief?"

"Of course."

"And the seatbelt sign was on?"

"All the time."

"There you go." Sally said matter-of-factly. "As long as you did your job."

"What would have happened if we'd encountered some turbulence? Or, god forbid, had a crash?"

"Then they would'a worked out what the seatbelts were for. Don't sweat it, buddy. These people live in a world of their own."

'Buddy?' Mack thought as Sally carried on without him. "Listen, Trav. Can I ask you something?"

"Can't promise you'll like the answer, but shoot."

What's your favourite fantasy?"

Mack held the phone at arms-length, unsure if he'd just heard right.

"Travis?"

"Sally? Did you just say..."

"What's your favourite fantasy? Uh huh."

"That's what I thought you said. Why, may I ask?"

"Just out of interest."

"I see. And will the answer have any bearing on my continued employment?"

"No. Not unless it involves deliberately flying into the side of a mountain with me and the boss on board. Come on. If you were to indulge yourself with a little wishful thinking. Of the sexual variety. Like, if you were in the mood to... you know... give yourself relief."

"Give myself... Hell's teeth, Sally! Are you serious?"

"Travis," Sally said wearily, "why so coy? It's a scientific fact. Ninety percent of orgasms are hand-made. It's entirely natural."

"Hang on," Mack said. "let me sit down. Sally. Are you trying to give me a brain haemorrhage?"

"Just curious."

"Seriously? You wanna know my favourite fantasy?"

"Just as a friend."

"We're friends?"

"Aren't we?"

Mack looked around his apartment in frustration, thinking, there had to be more to it than this. "I'm a dude, Sally. Dudes don't discuss these sorts of things with... you know..."

"Chicks?"

"With anyone, really. But females? Definitely! It just ain't done."

"Look, Travis. I actually have a medical degree. And I'm also a qualified clinical psychologist, which is one of the reasons Mister Carter hired me. I promise, there's nothing you could say that would shock me."

Mack heaved a fortifying breath. "Okay, then. When... IF... I'm..."

"Masturbating?"

"Alright, alright... sheesh... why did they have to go and invent such an ugly word? Anyway... when... IF... if I was ever gonna do it, and I'm not saying I would... I'd probably imagine... I'd probably imagine... I'd probably imagine I was doing a billionaire's PA."

"Travis!" Sally exclaimed. "I'm shocked."

"Ahh HAH!"

"Just messin' with you, Trav. But look, anything else tickle your fancy? Apart from this mythical creature. A billionaire's PA... whoever heard of such a thing."

"Sally..." Mack pleaded.

"My favourite fantasy is being gang-banged by an ice hockey team. No. For reals. Stanley Cup. On a bearskin. On the ice. In front of the crowd." Mack heard her shudder. "Goalie last."

"Polar or grizzly?"

"Excuse me?"

"Bear."

"Hmm... good question. I never thought of that to be honest. That's a real tell, you know... it means you're really analytical. I'm gonna say polar. But he had to die of natural causes. I can't abide animals being murdered for their fur."

"And this is for real? This fantasy?"

"Real as I'm talking to you."

"The whole goddam team?"

"Bang, bang, bang, one after the other. And probably the coach."

"Have you asked your boss? He could probably arrange it."

"Well, I can't just ring him and say, 'Hey, Mister Carter, if you're not too busy'. But if the subject ever came up. So. There. I showed you mine. Now you show me yours."

"Sally." Mack sighed.

"Come on Travis, be a good boy."

"Look. If you really wanna know, and that psychology degree is about to come in handy. If I'm... when I'm... sometimes when it's really hard to sleep. AJapanesegirlandhermom."

Sally snorted in derision and Mack felt the colour rise in his face. "That old chestnut." she said. "You and every other red-blooded dude on planet Earth. In one version or the other. I don't know why you were being so evasive."

"A Japanese girl? And her mom? You don't think that's...?"

"Weird? Not at all. Teenage girl?"

"Well, nothing illegal. But yeah."

"And her mom? At the same time?"

"Well yes... no. If I... if they..."

"And in this scenario. Do you imagine them performing sex acts on each other? Or only on you?"

"Don't you think the weather's been strange? Last night for example. That low pressure and the cold front colliding. Very unusual."

"Are you embarrassed, Trav?" Sally chuckled. "I'm telling you, that is such a common trope. Very common. You'd be surprised."

"Ah! Right! So all this was just a bit of psychoanalysis?"

"It was just a chat, Trav. Just getting to know you. And anyway, I told you mine."

"A hockey team. Seriously?"

"Why not? We girls are entitled to our fantasies too. Like some of my friends. If you knew their wish lists it would curl your toes."

"The mind boggles. And this is why you called? To talk about my... our fantasies?"

"Well, no, not really. Madam Carter is making noises about going out to the yacht. What are the chances?"

Mack's heart sank. Not because he didn't want to fly. He, unlike many of his colleagues, was always happy to get off the ground. Just not with the likes of Carter's betrothed. "Where is it?"

"The yacht? About sixty south, on the way to Cancun."

"Pretty sure it should be okay." Mack muttered, scanning the weather forecast. "What time?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Sally yawned. "Just be ready to scramble. But before you go. Tuesday. You're on a day off, yeah?"

Mack nodded. "Uh huh."

"You hanging around? Or were you planning to head into town?"

"Me? No. I was just gonna kick back. Have a decent sleep-in then hit the pool. Why?"

"I thought we might catch up for coffee."

"That would be nice."

"And talk about-"

"The weather. No problem. I'll bring a tablet."

"Cool. Alright, then, when Madam's ready I'll send a cart."

"I'll be waiting."

"Oh well," Sally said then heaved a deep sigh, "no rest for the wicked. Thanks for the chat."

Not ten minutes later a message buzzed in. 'Cart on the way, please wait outside.'

Rising with a sigh, Mack straightened his uniform and pulled on a cap. Even as he was closing the door, lights rounded the corner and the golf cart whirred to a halt. Sitting in the back, Wendy patted the seat beside her. "All aboard the midnight express."

"Fancy meeting you here." Mack said, climbing on board. "Manage to get any shuteye?"

"Nahh..." Wendy replied as the cart took off, heading for the iron gates and the helipads beyond. "I sort of had a feeling this would happen. How about you?"

"Too excited." Mack yawned, thinking back to his conversation with Sally. An ice hockey team. In front of an audience.

The duty mechanics greeted Mack with the aircraft's technical log. His phone rang during the handover and an unknown voice announced, "Inbound in five. Rotors running." Completing his walk around, Mack climbed in and by the time the SUV arrived the aircraft rotors were spinning at idle. A minder bailed out and opened the passenger door, whereupon the artist known as ' ' all but fell out of the vehicle. Helped to his feet by black-clad lackeys, he was joined by Carter's 5th bride in a voluminous gold silk shift, plus sun hat and shades in spite of the dark. Champagne flute in one hand, $5,000 bottle of dom Perignon in the other, she raised the heavy bottle and took several heartfelt gulps, almost falling in the process and spilling a good glass-full down the front of her shift.

The passengers boarded, with some difficulty, and landed in a heap on the rear row of seats, the chances of any of them buckling a seatbelt in the region of zero. Last but not least the on-duty minder, in the standard issue black suit, still rocking the mandatory shades. Walking up to Mack's door, he pointedly dropped the magazine from his weapon, worked the action, then offered the breach up for the pilot's inspection. Once Mack had replied with a cursory thumbs-up, he climbed in the rear, slamming the magazine home and chambering a round before thumbing the safety to 'off'.

Aside from checks, barely a word passed between Mack and Wendy on the quick hop offshore where Carter's yacht, Lightwave Horizon, was awaiting their arrival before setting course to Cancun. Unlike the ultra-yacht Paladin, Carter's humble runabout featured a paltry, single helipad, rated to a mere fifteen tons. Barely enough for a fully laden Sikorsky S92. Circling the vessel, Mack set up on a long, lazy final, breezing down at minimum power. Seconds from touchdown, the 'Master Caution' light winked on and Wendy called, "Cabin door!"

Mack raised the nose, shedding the last few knots, and 13,000 pounds of screeching metal fatigue touched down as light as a feather. Opening his door, Mack leant out to see Madam Carter head and shoulders out of the aircraft, top of her shift around her waist, breasts swinging, vomiting copiously all over the deck. Pulling back, Mack locked his door and looked at Wendy, speechless, as uniformed stewards stormed the helipad, armed with gold-plated buckets of hot-soapy water. Climbing out, the madam weaved away, cool as a cucumber, augmented breasts swaying in the public domain, to be robed on the run in a stunning red and gold kimono. 'It' followed next, then 'They' dismounted, sitting in the door for a moment to gather Their wits, before shrugging off well-meaning flunkies and climbing unsteadily to Their feet. The radio came alive. "Regal two?" the yacht's skipper called, "Lightwave."

Mack jumped, then keyed his transmitter. "Lightwave, Regal, go ahead."

"I'll have to ask you to expedite. We're about to take up course and it's gonna put you downwind."

"Roger. We'll be off the deck in sixty seconds."

Opening his door, Mack beckoned a steward who trotted over and cocked an ear. "Can you get your guys out of the aircraft?" he yelled over the din. "We have to scram."