were the only first-class passengers
yet to board. In 3B was a Mrs. Howard, who would be seventy-eight on Sunday and was going down to Scottsdale to spend her
birthday with her son. She was a little talkative but sweet. The other five, spread out in the remaining seats were all probably
frequent-flyer businessmen using upgrades from coach. They all showed the fatigue of broken routine, as if they’d finished
too late to get out the night before—so they’d probably try to work a little and then sleep through most of the trip.
Ponti got a notepad out of her apron pocket and stepped into the cabin to take predeparture drink orders. A couple of the
businessmen wanted Bloody Marys, the rest coffee. Mrs. Howard asked for orange juice, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Ponti chatted with her for a minute, asking about her son, a chiropractor, she learned. She told Mrs. Howard she’d heard Scottsdale
was a good place for chiropractors, and then she turned and found herself face to face with John Sanford, who was just coming
to his seat.
“Good morning,” she said quickly, catching her breath.
He smiled down at her. “Good morning.”
He was big, broad-shouldered, and as handsome as a movie star, his silvered hair billowing around his head. Definitely senatorial,
she decided, even though he’d already removed his gray suit jacket and loosened his tie. His aide, a balding, middle-aged
man wearing glasses, stood behind him, holding an overloaded briefcase.
“Can I get you something before we take off?” she asked.
He ordered black coffee. His aide asked for V-8.
She took their coats and hung them in the forward closet. As she might have guessed, less then ten seconds after she’d stepped
into the galley, Christy Jacobson, one of the other attendants, appeared.
“I just had to sneak a peek before we blocked out,” she whispered. “Wow, what a hunk!”
“How’s it look in coach, Christy?” Ponti tore the foil seal from the V-8 can.
“Packed.” Christy was still single. Always looking. Ponti smiled. Now Christy stood in the aisle to steal glances at the senator.
“Packed and ordinary. You still want to get Mexican for lunch in Phoenix?”
“Sure. I think the whole crew’s in on it.” Ponti glanced at her watch. “You’d better go on back and do your checks. We’ve
only got about four minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll come back up later.”
Shaking her head at Christy’s retreating back, Ponti finished preparing the rest of the drinks. She served the senator and
his aide first, then the business men, then Mrs. Howard, who asked for a blanket.
In the cockpit, Emil Pate adjusted his headset, repositioning its boom microphone closer to his mouth. They had just been
cleared to push back. For a moment he stared at the control yoke, the grips, where the black paint had been worn off, polished
away by countless palms. The ship was probably about eight or ten years old. The paint was worn from the edge of the glareshield,
too. He liked planes that showed use. He could connect himself to such a plane more easily, become part of its mechanism.
Below, a dark puff of diesel smoke shot from the stack of the heavy tug connected to their nose-gear, and with a subtle jolt
the plane began to move slowly back from the gate. The agent standing in the jetway waved goodbye as they cleared the structure.
Behind them, Pate heard Mariella slide the cockpit door closed, heard the locking mechanism engage.
By the time the tug had positioned them for taxi and the ground crew was disconnecting the tow bar, they had both engines
started. Pate radioed for taxi instructions.
“New World Five-fifty-five,” the controller answered, “taxi juliet–kilo–lima to Runway five-right.”
It was a standard clearance. Pate repeated the instructions. Boyd brought the throttles forward. As they came around the end
of New World’s concourse, a line of aircraft, moving slowly along the
yet to board. In 3B was a Mrs. Howard, who would be seventy-eight on Sunday and was going down to Scottsdale to spend her
birthday with her son. She was a little talkative but sweet. The other five, spread out in the remaining seats were all probably
frequent-flyer businessmen using upgrades from coach. They all showed the fatigue of broken routine, as if they’d finished
too late to get out the night before—so they’d probably try to work a little and then sleep through most of the trip.
Ponti got a notepad out of her apron pocket and stepped into the cabin to take predeparture drink orders. A couple of the
businessmen wanted Bloody Marys, the rest coffee. Mrs. Howard asked for orange juice, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Ponti chatted with her for a minute, asking about her son, a chiropractor, she learned. She told Mrs. Howard she’d heard Scottsdale
was a good place for chiropractors, and then she turned and found herself face to face with John Sanford, who was just coming
to his seat.
“Good morning,” she said quickly, catching her breath.
He smiled down at her. “Good morning.”
He was big, broad-shouldered, and as handsome as a movie star, his silvered hair billowing around his head. Definitely senatorial,
she decided, even though he’d already removed his gray suit jacket and loosened his tie. His aide, a balding, middle-aged
man wearing glasses, stood behind him, holding an overloaded briefcase.
“Can I get you something before we take off?” she asked.
He ordered black coffee. His aide asked for V-8.
She took their coats and hung them in the forward closet. As she might have guessed, less then ten seconds after she’d stepped
into the galley, Christy Jacobson, one of the other attendants, appeared.
“I just had to sneak a peek before we blocked out,” she whispered. “Wow, what a hunk!”
“How’s it look in coach, Christy?” Ponti tore the foil seal from the V-8 can.
“Packed.” Christy was still single. Always looking. Ponti smiled. Now Christy stood in the aisle to steal glances at the senator.
“Packed and ordinary. You still want to get Mexican for lunch in Phoenix?”
“Sure. I think the whole crew’s in on it.” Ponti glanced at her watch. “You’d better go on back and do your checks. We’ve
only got about four minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll come back up later.”
Shaking her head at Christy’s retreating back, Ponti finished preparing the rest of the drinks. She served the senator and
his aide first, then the business men, then Mrs. Howard, who asked for a blanket.
In the cockpit, Emil Pate adjusted his headset, repositioning its boom microphone closer to his mouth. They had just been
cleared to push back. For a moment he stared at the control yoke, the grips, where the black paint had been worn off, polished
away by countless palms. The ship was probably about eight or ten years old. The paint was worn from the edge of the glareshield,
too. He liked planes that showed use. He could connect himself to such a plane more easily, become part of its mechanism.
Below, a dark puff of diesel smoke shot from the stack of the heavy tug connected to their nose-gear, and with a subtle jolt
the plane began to move slowly back from the gate. The agent standing in the jetway waved goodbye as they cleared the structure.
Behind them, Pate heard Mariella slide the cockpit door closed, heard the locking mechanism engage.
By the time the tug had positioned them for taxi and the ground crew was disconnecting the tow bar, they had both engines
started. Pate radioed for taxi instructions.
“New World Five-fifty-five,” the controller answered, “taxi juliet–kilo–lima to Runway five-right.”
It was a standard clearance. Pate repeated the instructions. Boyd brought the throttles forward. As they came around the end
of New World’s concourse, a line of aircraft, moving slowly along the
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