“Now!”
The two men drove forward and hit the door together. It flew open, a chunk of it hanging for a moment from the lock and then dropping to the floor.
And there sat Mr. 3A, with his pants around his knees and the tails of his faded paisley shirt concealing—barely—his jackhandle. Well, it sure does look like we caught him in the act, Captain McDonald thought wearily. Only trouble is, the act we caught him in wasn’t against the law, last I heard. Suddenly he could feel the throb in his shoulder where he had hit the door—what? three times? four?
Out loud he barked, “What in hell’s name are you doing in there, mister?”
“Well, I was taking a crap,” 3A said, “but if all you guys got a bad problem, I guess I could wipe myself in the terminal—”
“And I suppose you didn’t hear us, smart guy?”
“Couldn’t reach the door.” 3A put out his hand to demonstrate, and although the door was now hanging askew against the wall to his left, McDonald could see his point. “I suppose I could have gotten up, but I, like, had a desperate situation on my hands. Except it wasn’t exactly on my hands, if you get my drift. Nor did I want it on my hands, if you catch my further drift.” 3A smiled a winning, slightly daffy smile which looked to Captain McDonald approximately as real as a nine-dollar bill. Listening to him, you’d think no one had ever taught him the simple trick of leaning forward.
“Get up,” McDonald said.
“Be happy to. If you could just move the ladies back a little?” 3A smiled charmingly. “I know it’s outdated in this day and age, but I can’t help it. I’m modest. Fact is, I’ve got a lot to be modest about.” He held up his left hand, thumb and forefinger roughly half an inch apart, and winked at Jane Dorning, who blushed bright red and immediately disappeared up the jetway, closely followed by Susy.
You don’t look modest, Captain McDonald thought. You look like a cat that just got the cream, that’s what you look like.
When the stews were out of sight, 3A stood and pulled up his shorts and jeans. He then reached for the flush button and Captain McDonald promptly knocked his hand away, grabbed his shoulders, and pivoted him toward the aisle. Deere hooked a restraining hand into the back of his pants.
“Don’t get personal,” Eddie said. His voice was light and just right—he thought so, anyway—but inside everything was in free fall. He could feel that other, feel him clearly. He was inside his mind, watching him closely, standing steady, meaning to move in if Eddie fucked up. God, it all had to be a dream, didn’t it? Didn’t it?
“Stand still,” Deere said.
Captain McDonald peered into the toilet.
“No shit,” he said, and when the navigator let out a bray of involuntary laughter, McDonald glared at him.
“Well, you know how it is,” Eddie said. “Sometimes you get lucky and it’s just a false alarm. I let off a couple of real rippers, though. I mean, we’re talking swamp gas. If you’d lit a match in here three minutes ago, you could have roasted a Thanksgiving turkey, you know? It must have been something I ate before I got on the plane, I g—”
“Get rid of him,” McDonald said, and Deere, still holding Eddie by the back of the pants, propelled him out of the plane and into the jetway, where each Customs officer took one arm.
“Hey!” Eddie cried. “I want my bag! And I want my jacket!”
“Oh, we want you to have all your stuff,” one of the officers said. His breath, heavy with the smell of Maalox and stomach acid, puffed against Eddie’s face. “We’re very interested in your stuff. Now let’s go, little buddy.”
Eddie kept telling them to take it easy, mellow out, he could walk just fine, but he thought later the tips of his shoes only touched the floor of the jetway three or four times between the 727’s hatch and the exit to the terminal, where three more Customs officers and half a dozen airport security cops stood, the Customs guys waiting for Eddie, the cops holding back a small crowd that stared at him with uneasy, avid interest as he was led away.