WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (126 - 130)

126

The funeral home was filled with friends of the Gosnell family. She sat next to Krystal. Teddy was on the other side of her, at the end of the row of folding chairs. She saw a tear running down Krystal’s cheek, and a smug look of satisfaction on Teddy’s face. She squeezed Krystal’s hand. “It’s over now, honey. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

127

Jared Mulligan

As much as I was enjoying my newfound freedom, I still worried that my past would catch up with me. Every day, I checked the news from back home, but mostly, I worked on learning how to relax, and just being Jared Mulligan.

I now had a life story rehearsed and committed to memory: Born and raised in upstate New York. Joined the Marines right out of high school. Served in Desert Storm, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I had made some good money selling cars, made some good investments, and now here I was, enjoying life. Starting a new career as a writer. Best of all, I was now fifteen years younger! Jared Mulligan was only forty-six. I think I could pass for forty-six. Not that my age should be a topic of conversation all that often, anyway.

I made a point of bumping into Stan Nichols again and telling him my story. I stopped short of mentioning that I was now working on a novel—a thriller about a ferry pilot—not a fairy pilot, a ferry pilot—who delivered airplanes to buyers all around the world, solving mysteries, thwarting terrorists, rescuing and romancing harem girls. Think James Bond, Thomas Magnum and Sky King all rolled into one. Heck, while we’re at it, throw in Indiana Jones, too.

We were under way again, enroute to our next port of call, Suva, Fiji. That evening, at dinner, I was seated with a couple, Brent and Taylor Cooper from Pennsylvania—liked him, her, not so much—and a single lady about my age from Ireland named Ailene. Ailene was another of the writers in the group I had befriended. Brent and I listened with interest as she told us about the historical mystery novel she was writing, set in Dublin, Ireland during the Easter Rebellion of 1916.  Allison made no attempt to conceal her boredom. Ailene was so involved in talking about her novel that I don’t think she even noticed.

Halfway through the meal, I noticed Bonnie, glaring at me. She was seated with Stan Nichols, the guy I met who was one of the lecturers for the writers conference, and Alex. Alex made sure that I saw him pointing toward me as he leaned over to speak with Stan. I needn’t bother to guess what he was saying. Stan’s reaction was about what you would expect. Raised eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turned down in an exaggerated expression of surprise as he contemplated the information Alex had passed on to him.

When I had told Stan my newly-invented life story, it had not occurred to me that he and Alex would spend any time together, particularly after what Stan had told me when we first met about his feelings regarding aspiring authors. Nor did it cross my mind that at some point during our trans-Pacific voyage they might be seated at the same table. What were the chances? About one-hundred percent, apparently.

Oh, and I learned one other thing. Apparently, when you spend a day with a woman on a guided tour, talking about your works in progress and getting to know one another, and kiss her goodnight, she will be pissed to see you enjoying dinner with another woman later on.

1974

It was shortly before midnight, and I was exhausted. I had worked all day, instructing student pilots from pre-solo to multi-engine instrument. The phone rang just as I was about to leave for home.

A customer wanted us to fly from Appleton, Wisconsin to Bridgeport, Connecticut, pick up some auto parts, and bring them back. I called the FAA Flight Service Station for a weather briefing. Sounded good, so we launched. I didn’t bother getting weather updates enroute.

It was just before midnight, and we had been holding for half an hour, waiting for our turn to shoot the approach. “Baron Five-Eight-Echo, Descend to three-thousand. Turn right, heading zero-niner-zero. Intercept the localizer, cleared for the ILS runway 6 approach Bridgeport’s Sikorski Memorial Airport.”

I read back the clearance, asked for an update on the weather. “Information Whiskey, Special observation at 0335 Greenwich. Temperature Five-eight. Dew point Five-seven. Wind calm. Light rain, fog. Sky obscured, indefinite two-hundred, visibility one-half. Altimeter two-niner-eight-five.”

“Roger,” I acknowledged receipt of the information.  I had just enough visibility to start the approach, and after holding for so long, just enough fuel to shoot this approach, and try one more time. Poor planning on my part.

Passing the final approach fix, I lowered the landing gear, reduced power to follow the glide slope on its three degree descent to the runway, and switched over to tower frequency. “Sikorsky tower, Baron Five-Eight-Echo, outer marker inbound.”

“Baron Five-Eight-Echo, Cleared to land. Ceiling now indefinite one-hundred, visibility one-quarter mile. Light rain and fog. Wind calm.  Altimeter two-niner-eight-two.”

The barometer was falling. Visibility was now below minimums, and would only get worse. I could continue the approach, but I probably wasn’t going to find a runway.

What then? LaGuardia was down. If I even had enough fuel to get there, I couldn’t get in. Same for White Plains. I was screwed if I didn’t make this approach. I descended on the glide slope to minimums, two hundred feet, and saw nothing.

Violating regulations, safety procedures and common sense, I kept going. Lower. One hundred feet. Still nothing.

I was on localizer, on glide slope. Lined up and directly over the runway. If I had enough fuel for another approach—which I doubted—it wouldn’t look any better than this. It was now or never. Whatever happened, it was going to happen right here, on the airport, where there was crash, fire, and rescue personnel and equipment available. I wondered how Dianna would look, wearing black at my funeral. I continued the approach.

At fifty feet, more or less, I could see the high intensity runway centerline lights, and chopped the throttles. Seconds later, the chirping of tires on pavement welcomed me to Bridgeport, Connecticut. I got lost twice on the taxiways, trying to find my way through the fog to the FBO ramp.

Since that night, I never again fell victim to poor flight planning. I always kept track of my destination and alternate airport weather while enroute. I always had an out—somewhere I could go if everything turned to crap. And I never, ever landed again with less than an hour of fuel in the tanks. More than once, I bumped freight to put on extra fuel. Dispatchers and chief pilots get pissed when you do that, but screw them. They’re not the ones putting their necks on the chopping block.

I reminded myself once again that, if I wanted to stay out of prison . . . if I wanted to stay alive, I needed to begin thinking in terms of what could go wrong. That’s what one of the writers had told me to do with my characters. Think what could possibly go wrong, and then make it even worse. That’s what I had to do from now on. Just like when I was flying—imagine what could go wrong, plan for it, and always leave myself an out.

128

After dessert, Ailene invited me to join her for a stroll on the deck. I agreed, and thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. I declined, though, when she asked if I would care for a nightcap, in her cabin.

“I’m sorry, Ailene,” I said. “I recently went through a breakup, and I’m just not ready.” I hope I sounded sincere.

I’m no saint, and I’m not still clinging to some noble loyalty to Dianna. The truth is, Ailene was nice. While most men, upon finding themselves in my circumstances, would consider themselves free agents, and take advantage of every opportunity, I didn’t want to give Ailene the wrong idea. I didn’t want to take advantage of her, and I damned sure was not looking for another relationship. Ever. I mean, just look at the drama that was apparently flaring up with Bonnie, after only one kiss. Who needs that? I was emotionally unavailable. I had been married for more than thirty years, and like Nelson Mandela, I can’t take that shit no more.

After dropping Ailene off at her cabin, I decided to go to the bow, take a little time to star gaze, and let the sea breeze soothe my soul

129

Fiji

Jared Mulligan

Several people from the ship bought into snorkel tours on the outlying islands. I have to admit that the brochures were inviting, with photos of crystal clear waters, palm fringed sandy beaches and live coral reefs, and no sharks. 

Phobias always rule in the end, so I opted for a whale watching cruise which kept me above the waterline and included a champagne breakfast on board the sailing vessel plus an early evening beach barbeque on a private island. We even saw some whales.

When we returned to the ship, I noticed the photographer standing at the top of the gangplank, talking to a couple of men, who seemed to be watching me as I made my way up the gangplank.

I’ve never been one to impose on private conversations, but whenever someone stares at me, I sort of feel I should at least acknowledge them. “Hello,” I greeted them. “Did you enjoy Fiji?”

The shorter of the two men seemed startled. His head turned toward me, and he appeared to be sizing me up like a boxer would an opponent before a fight. I guessed him to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. He was built like a fireplug. The taller one nodded, made a bit of an effort to smile. “We were a bit under the weather today, mate. Stayed on board.”

“Too bad,” I said. “It’s a beautiful island. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.” I turned to the photographer. “Speaking of tomorrow, I still haven’t decided what to do. Any suggestions . . .” I’m bad with names, so I looked at his nametag, “. . . Daniel? Any suggestions, Daniel?”

“Where’d you go today, mate?” Daniel asked.

“You all three Aussies?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

The shorter of them puffed up. “Maybe we are. That a problem?” His taller friend gave him a light backhand on the chest.

I ignored the challenge, turned back to Daniel. “Today I did the whale watching tour.”

“Well, there’s ideal snorkeling here if you—”

I shook my head no. “I’ve seen too many shark movies.” Fireplug Man snorted, and his friend smacked him again, which seemed to piss him off.

“No worries,” Daniel said, oblivious to it all. “I’d suggest you take your camera and go to the Garden of the Sleeping Giant.”

“Never heard of that,” I said.

“Beautiful place, lots of orchids. Simply amazing, I’m told. I’ll be going there myself.”

“Hey, great,” I said. “I’ll plan on that. Where can I sign up?”

Daniel said, “I’ll put you down for it. Mr.—?”

“Mulligan,” I said. “Jared Mulligan. I offered him my hand and we shook. I turned to the other two men. “Jared Mulligan.”

The taller one shook my hand immediately. “Peter,” he said. “This is my friend, Archer.” With a slight flick of his head Peter indicated to Archer to shake my hand as well.

Not surprisingly, Archer didn’t go in thumb to thumb like a normal handshake. He grasped my fingers and squeezed. “I reckon we’ll be joining you on that flower tour,” Archer said. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on that, would we Peter?”

We stood there, eyes locked, smiling at one another, for several seconds. Him squeezing. Me showing him I could take it.

“Well that’s great, then,” Daniel said. I’ll book the three of you, and meet you at the pickup point in the morning.”

After a while, the pressure on my fingers was beginning to really hurt. With my left hand I took his thumb and bent it back. Not hard enough to break it or even cause injury. Just enough to get him to release his grip.

“Thank you, Daniel,” I said, then turned to the other two. “It was good meeting you gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”

After both Daniel Seton and Mulligan had departed, Archer spoke. “’Mulligan,’ he says, ‘Jared Mulligan. It was good meetin’ you, gentlemen.’ Ballsy bastard. I’ll give ‘im that. He’s screwin’ with us, Peter.”

“It’s like he wants us to know that he knows we’re here, watchin’ him,” Peter said.

“Darin’ us to do somethin’.”

“We have to, don’t we?” Peter said. “Even if he knows we’re comin’ for him. We have to do it.”

Archer nodded. “Sooner the better, mate. Sooner the better. How you want to handle it, Peter? You bein’ the brains of this operation.”

130

The following day I toured the Nadi Garden of the Sleeping Giant, which boasts a collection of more than two thousand varieties of magnificent Asian orchids and Cattleya hybrids.

I’d never heard of the place until the night before, when Daniel recommended it to me, so I was naturally unaware that it was once the private collection of actor Raymond Burr, the guy who played Perry Mason and Ironside on TV.

A member of the staff, a white-haired seventy-something Caucasian man with rigid posture and a formal British accent gave a brief description of the property and a little history of how the mountain valley was transformed into garden it is now.