deferred gratification was a joke, a threat, an affront. A physical if not moral impossibility. Further up the concourse, not quite lost in the ebb and flow of stranded humanity, the super model Saki was finishing up a fashion shoot. In cowboy boots, ripped jeans, and military jacket, she sat her signature vintage Ducati motorcycle the way Genghis Khan sat his warhorse. Tough, fearless, easy.
She was signing autographs and trading jokes with the lighting techs. As if sensing Jane’s gaze or presence, she stopped mid-laugh to look in Jane’s direction. It was quite a distance, with many people intervening, but no doubt Jane’s still, slim outline in black leggings, short black trenchcoat, and black boots did stand out against the multicolored swirl of ordinary trekkers and trippers. Only the very privileged and the very poor have that silhouette. Like a bird against the sun.
Jane nodded slightly and turned to the escalator. Her gate was in the satellite terminal, some distance away and reachable via an underground walkway. As she descended, she was not entirely surprised to hear the motorcycle revving up and closing the gap between them. When the motorcycle did not stop at the top of the escalator, but swerved to the UP side and came bumping merrily down the mechanical steps that rose to meet it, Jane was not among those who stood with mouths gaping. She did not alter her pace though she could hear the motorcycle purring gently in pursuit.
“Hey white girl.”
Jane kept walking. The motorcycle described lazy arabesques in her wake.
“Know where I can score some decent weed?”
Jane kept walking. Dodging a baby carriage and its attached parental units, Saki caught up with Jane and, staring straight ahead in deadpan imitation, asked: “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Jane kept walking. Saki dismounted and pushed the bike along at Jane’s side as she chattered. “I do. Because they told me you were dead. A spy and a traitor, blown to pieces with your husband in a terrorist attack. I didn’t believe any of it. Especially the husband.”
“And yet...” Jane held out her left hand, on which a wedding ring was visible.
“It’s horrible what life does to people,” Saki said bitterly. “I suppose I’m to blame.”
“You were the one who ran off with Madonna.”
“You’re the one who was always running off to Third World jungles. And now here we are,” Saki marveled.
“Not me,” Jane contradicted. “I am but a figment of your guilty imagination.”
“My imaginary childhood friend. I’m trying to imagine where you’re off to.”
“New York, by way of Switzerland.”
Saki leaned over her handlebars in disbelief. “No fucking way. Me too. So this is like one of those karmic, kismet moments. You cannot fight this. You have to come with me, there’s this private jet all fired up, just waiting for me to finish my shoot. Jane, it is your destiny.”
“People keep saying that,” Jane said. She stopped short beneath one of the airport’s ubiquitous flight boards. All the commercial departures were still tagged ‘CANCELLED.’
“People, shit,” Saki said. “I am your one true love. I’m making you an offer you cannot refuse. Unless of course you want to be stuck in this loser’s limbo for the next three days.”
“From the orphanage to your own private jet. By way of Madonna, but still. Not too shabby,” Jane had to admit.
“Oh, it’s not my jet. It’s my next gig. It’s kind of involved? But there’s this corporation that has this arrangement with this guy -“
“This guy?” Jane opened her eyes wide.
“This very important, very charming man,” Saki fluttered her eyelashes. “With a huge appetite and very eclectic tastes. Of which I happen to be one.”
“Do tell,” Jane was thinking hard. She didn’t have a day or two to spare and regular flights were indeed indefinitely backlogged. Getting to Detroit ASAP meant getting to John ASAP. And if she got a chance to do some field work among the rich and shameless, so much the better.
“So about whom exactly are we talking?” Jane asked.
“Oh you know. He’s head of one of those global money things.” Saki waved a careless hand. “The World Bank or the IMF or something. The main thing is - it’s class all the way.”
Jane felt a chill run up her spine. Kismet indeed. Flying with oligarchs. Swimming with sharks. She was thinking fast. “So I could be your - personal assistant, maybe?”
“Prude. He’ll still try to jump your bones, but we can play it that way if you want. Hell yeah. If it means you’ll come.” A star-struck teenager tentatively approached with a magazine and pen, and Saki had to balance the motorcycle against her hip while she took time out to sign the cover, then a water bottle, then someone’s upper arm.
“Hell yeah,” Jane echoed grimly. “I’ll come.”