explained to me. The pilot, whom I recognized from the photographs, took a long gulp and surveyed the glittering night. A far orange curve marked the dawn of the horizon. “You'll be starting work soon,” she said. I coughed. “You're not married, are you?” “Not this week.” “That helps.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then it occurred to me suddenly that she might not have been a she. Her lower neck awkwardly bulged, and her shoulders were way too pronounced. “My son will be waiting at home. But before we arrive, maybe you'd like to have fun.” She winked at the pilot, then me. “I don't know what you mean.”
She was a man all right. Fortunately, I didn't have to partake. She and the pilot started up at 40,000 feet, judging by the lines on the dial. When she was finished, she offered me tea. “No smoking in the cockpit,” she sighed. My hands were still bound to the chair, and the dawn had broadened to gold. Suddenly, Rico stormed into the cockpit, slapped the tranny in the face, and said, “We don't have time for this shit.” Then he turned to the pilot. “What's our ETA?” “Couple hours.” “Keep your joystick in gear till we land. As for you, Mr. Writer.” He undid my bind, and I noticed a holster slinking out of his tux. “I understand you're not too bad at writing sentences.” “I can hold my own.” “Well, your reputation precedes you. You got the Schwarzenegger kid in, a couple of Kennedies, Puff Daddy's son, and the Bush girls.” “The last was a personal favor.”
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