Hell Is Other People

By Thomas Harrington

Author John Winston loves his wife and children. He never considered deceiving them...until he meets singer Alicia Ralph. She wants to escape a bad marriage. As they flee from Los Angeles to Montreal, they learn the extremes to which love or hate can drive both good and bad people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Harrington
• Release date: Nov 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301551026

Thomas Harrington

Prior to writing novels, the author enjoyed a multifaceted career: from decorated combat aviator to global communications director of a major consumer brand. He has traveled the world and met sports, film and television stars, political leaders, and royalty. He graduated from Middlebury College, is married, lives in Germany, and has two grown children.

Book preview

Hell Is Other People

By

Thomas Harrington

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Copyright© 2012 by Thomas S. Harrington

Discover other titles by Thomas Harrington at

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/harringtonbooks

All rights reserved. Without limiting the copyrights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

* * * * *

Hell Is Other People

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Sunlight streams into the luxury hotel room. An open suitcase, packed and ready to be closed, is on the bed. The television plays without sound, a Weather Channel map of the western United States filling screen. A man speaks on the telephone, a smile on his handsome face. His tall, trim figure would look good in a suit, but he prefers expensive slacks, a polo shirt, and boat shoes without socks.

Of course, I’ll call, he says. I’ve never missed a day, have I?

He listens and then shakes his head.

If I haven’t been tempted in Los Angeles, I won’t be tempted on an isolated ranch outside Aspen.

He smiles.

I love you more.

*

John Winston was happily married, but enjoyed being alone. Solitude permitted journeys in his mind, which he took for business and pleasure. His imagination let him avoid unwanted or unpleasant thoughts, like taking a detour to bypass construction or a road accident. Silence made the trip more pleasant, but he did not need a closed room to block out the world. His children had yet to learn his need to escape, and they were the only ones he forgave. He also wanted a hassle-free life, which his occupation, wealth, and temperament usually facilitated. Most decisions were self-centered, except where his family was concerned…sometimes.

Adjusting his focus to the world outside the town car carrying him to Santa Monica Airport, he imagined the day ahead. Sunday morning was the best time to leave any city. Not that he disliked Los Angeles: it was okay for a few days. On this trip, he had endured almost two weeks to complete work on the film adaptation of one of his novels. Unlike with London, he would never go so far as to admit a love/hate relationship with this city. He liked to visit—occasionally—but he could not live here, as he had in the British capital. Although he enjoyed observing life, which had evolved on the western edge of North America, he could never become a player. He had similar sentiments about fast cars, sleek boats, and eye-catching women: look, but shun deeper involvement.

Since leaving the hotel in Bel Air, he had spotted no people outside other cars. No Latino indentured servants lurked patiently at bus stops, and even the homeless seemed to be sleeping late. Trees hung limp in anticipation of another hot day. Palms, which always danced to the beat of the slightest breeze, remained listless. Winston felt like an intruder on a deserted movie set. Someone with imagination might mention a B-grade film scene, which foreshadowed the mysterious end to humanity. He let that idea spin through his mind, like a ball ricocheting around a pinball machine, but it failed to hold his attention. Science fiction and horror stories did not interest him and crime stories and mysteries did only occasionally. He preferred literary fiction.

A lone car approached on the opposite side of the street. Winston imagined someone fetching donuts for the family and remembered childhood joy at such infrequent Sunday treats. Life had changed: donut shops had proliferated, whereas their appeal had diminished. His childhood had been pleasant, but age, experience, and acquired wealth had revealed how low in the middle-class his parents had struggled.

Where were the remaining millions of people, he wondered, which had gravitated to this part of the world to find a better life? This street might be deserted, but traffic must clog the freeways—it always did—with the beach crowd already seeking refuge for the day. The closest he ever came to the ocean was Shutter’s bar or someone’s Malibu deck for one of many boring parties he had braved. He found the Pacific too cold, and all beaches were too sandy. He preferred pools with warm water and no people.

His mind switched gears to mountains and beyond. Later that day, he would be in Colorado. After a short visit, he would fly home to England. He looked forward to seeing his family, because he missed being with them in familiar surroundings. He felt a little guilty about stopping in Aspen and considered cancelling, but had promised his friends.

Memories of his children brought a smile to his face, as he recalled his daily call home soon after waking. Of course, they had been expecting his call and had lined up to speak with him. First, his wife had brought him up to date on what little had happened since the day before. He had listened patiently, before admitting that, as usual, he had nothing to report. Finally, the children had explained—breathlessly—whatever had been important at that second. Daily phone calls provided the one standard feature of his non-standard life. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what they were doing. Mid-afternoon on Sunday meant cricket on the village green. His wife would be enjoying a picnic and chatting with other women. His older daughter, suffering from the initial flush of puberty, would be driven by hormones, peer pressure, and celebrity magazines…so, he had no clue what she would be up to, other than ogling boys and pretending not to. His younger daughter—too old to be a kid and too young for teenage insecurities—would be playing with friends and pretending to be older. His five year-old son would be oblivious to sniggering or scorn caused by bringing a baseball glove to a cricket match.

Winston put thoughts of family, home, and Los Angeles aside. He decided to ignore anything that did not matter at the moment or anything about which he did not have to think. After the hectic pace of the past fortnight, he looked forward to Aspen. Days would warm, but not too hot, and he would be able to sleep without air-conditioning—a necessary evil in southern California. Cool air from the car’s system helped him imagine mountain air, which would stream through the open window of the room in which he would lie in a cozy cocoon of silence. Comfort, simplicity, and no hassles were all he wanted—and expected—from life.

Tired of imagining Colorado and bored with the streets of Santa Monica, he reached for the LA Times on the seat beside him. The main headline screamed indignantly about some politician, who had been caught having an extra-marital affair. It was bad enough that stories and misinformation about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky already marred news media each day. He shook his head: this was becoming a regular occurrence. Or had it always been and only character assassination was becoming more prevalent? Either way, the man’s vaguely familiar name would be famous for a few weeks and might even raise an eyebrow, a comment, or a sneer beyond California.

After extracting the comics and magazine for later reading, Winston considered the lead article of the front section. The photo showed a man peering over the usual forest of microphones and alphabet soup of station logos. The victim stood tall, well-protected by a solid lectern and phalanx of microphone stands. He appeared to be proud and confident, not like someone trying to defend a tarnished reputation or save a lucrative career. But, all politicians mastered the art of putting on a good face, even when lying…or, perhaps, especially when lying. At the man’s side, exposed and unprotected from hungry cameras, a slim and attractive woman smiled bravely and endured the media assault. Because her eyes told a different story, Winston decided that she must be the wife. Her presence revealed how men were able to add insult to injury by making cheated wives share in the glare of disapproval. Why had the guy cheated on such an attractive woman, he wondered? No one knew what did or did not go on behind closed doors, but he imagined that she must look good undressed. He felt sorry for her, but not for the cheating bastard. The other woman could not be better-looking, so must have offered youth or sexual favors, which the wife refused to perform.

More out of boredom than curiosity, Winston plunged into the article. He paused at the end of the first paragraph, now recalling a half-ignored news broadcast, which had gushed over the opposing political party’s delight. At the time, he had wondered about what had happened to media objectivity. Now, he tried to fathom what went through politicians’ minds. Too many must believe that, because they had fooled voters into electing them, they could continue fooling everyone. The thrust of the media offensive in the article seemed to be damage control, but Winston decided that the guy could kiss off the mid-term election in November. The writer had failed to mention whether the affair was merely casual sex or real affection, not that reporters would know the difference or that this would interest readers. All parties in this affair had already lost. The article offered little substance, beyond pushing accusations of guilt to the border of libel. Whatever the facts, a jury made up of women in the court of public opinion—which is never rational—would find the guy guilty. A jury of the politician’s true peers—guys that had had affairs—would show sympathy. Of course, jealousy would drive a jury of married men to hang the guy.

Winston chuckled to himself, trying to imagine various courtroom scenarios. Human life could be so entertaining, especially when social mores struggled to inhibit or control natural urges. He was certain that all married men must dream of casual sex with other women. A fertile imagination could spin countless variations of picking up a woman or being propositioned and then having a fling. He recalled his time in the military, when fellow officers had discussed such pleasures—real and imagined—each night at the officers’ club. Married men had always led the discussion, because all had hungered for strange stuff—real or imagined—and took vicarious pleasure in hearing tales of bachelor conquests. Since marrying, Winston had never had such thoughts—

Of course, he had…sometimes…but would never admit to having them. He had never had a problem to attract women, even before he had money. Marriage had put an end to roving hands, but not to roving eyes. He could find no reason to inhibit the normal male urge to look at females…besides jealousy. So, even pointing out attractive females was avoided for fear of arousing undue suspicion. He was happy with his wife and wanted no complications. In his profession, he had certainly had chances to sample. He liked to flirt and had even imagined breaking hearts after he had walked away. Enough women had signaled their willingness, subtly and not so subtly. Because of frequent travel, climbing on for a short ride would be easy. Not being a politician, he would have to deceive only his family.

One problem prevented him: he could never bring himself to start something…or let it happen. He could imagine fantastic experiences, and he had written about them often enough in his novels. But, he could never give in to temptation in real life. Some philosopher had written something about virtue being cowardice in disguise. He agreed: he was chicken. Besides, he knew that any affair would be awkward. What would they talk about afterwards? What could he say that would not sound contrived or stupid? The sex part would probably be easy: that came naturally. But, more importantly, what would he do with the guilt? That would not wash off in the shower, and his wife would notice. He was not a convincing liar. He told people that he had never told a lie…or so he liked to believe. Of course, being a writer of fiction required constant lying in order to spin stories. But, that was different. No one was hurt.

Winston lowered the newspaper and stared out the window. In his opinion, people should control their emotions. If they could not, then they should cover their tracks better and not hurt others. Would politicians ever learn? Now that character assassination had become the norm, public figures should be more careful. He was happy that society had rules, erected borders to manage behavior, and made life easier for cowards like him. Still, he was realist enough to know that rules would never prevent arrogant or stupid men from considering themselves to be exempt.

To escape reality, Winston picked up the comics section. As always, Non Sequitur brought a smile and an inward chuckle. Lines on his face indicated that he had smiled more in his life than he had frowned. After finishing Doonesbury, he looked up to find that the car passed the aviation museum at Santa Monica Airport. Through the front window he spotted two men at the entrance to the airfield apron and pointed them out to the driver.

When the car stopped, Winston opened the door and greeted two pilots. He never waited for the driver, because that bordered on pretension. He enjoyed the comfort of limousines, but not subservience.

Good morning, Mr. Winston, the pilots called in unison.

He deplored formality, but understood that he was the customer. Besides, the atmosphere was still relaxed. No standing at attention. No saluting. Sunday morning. Nice weather. No other people in sight. Winston smiled and enjoyed a bit of inner schadenfreude, imagining the hassles of commercial aviation and lines at LAX or Burbank or John Wayne. Private jet charter was the one true luxury, which he permitted himself. Nice hotels did not count, because the price difference was minor compared to flying costs. He lived in a modest, but comfortable house with expensive luxury hidden to the outside world. His two cars were expensive, but not ostentatious. Others in his village also drove Range Rover and Jaguar. Only his family, his agent, his accountant, and a few friends knew about his flying habits.

The pilots returned his smile, surely thinking it must be meant for them. Without waiting to be told, the co-pilot, Steve Lyman, walked to the trunk. He was ready to fetch the luggage, when the driver popped the trunk. Winston chatted with the pilot, Bill Smith, about the plan for the day. The familiar squeal of tires hitting the runway caused both men to turn. A small jet had landed and momentarily disturbed the tranquility.

Looks like a Citation, Winston said, because he had run out of things to say.

Good call, Bill confirmed.

Wonder where it’s coming from to be arriving this early.

Could be anywhere, Bill replied, flatly. San Francisco…Cabo San Lucas…maybe even Vegas.

Those folks had to get up real early after Saturday night.

Or not go to bed.

Maybe it’s a pick-up, Steve commented, dropping the bags.

Winston knew that this plane represented one of many comings and goings in his pilots’ lives. His concerns were usually limited to where he must fly, with whom, and under what conditions.

Who cares? The more important thing is how the weather’s gonna be. Looks like nice day.

Besides the plane’s condition, weather remained Winston’s biggest concern. He felt uncomfortable flying in bad weather, and turbulence frightened him. He knew the fear to be irrational, but could not change his reactions. Having been a pilot, admitting such fears was difficult.

It’ll be fine, Bill said, aware of his passenger’s concerns.

The pilot excused himself and hurried towards flight operations to finalize details. Steve escorted Winston to the plane and hauled his luggage. The Citation, taxiing to the ramp, offered the only diversion in a tranquil setting. It rolled towards a parking spot near his plane. Winston knew it was his, because no other Gulfstream stood on the apron.

The two men paused at the plane’s nose, held their ears, and waited for the Citation to ease to a stop two spaces away. The turbine whine subsided, but Winston continued to stare. When flying on a private jet, he wanted to check out the other guy—not unlike dogs sniffing. Although he was not a star-fucker, his family enjoyed hearing about celebrity encounters. He knew that many used this airfield.

The Citation door popped open, and a woman climbed out. Without hesitation, she charged away, head down and arms pumping, and did not look back. Surprised by such a dramatic entrance, Winston watched her approach and wondered if she might be famous. Even from a distance, she looked interesting. To reach the exit ramp, she must pass his plane, so he would get a better look. Celebrity or not, her demeanor disturbed the peaceful setting. In his opinion, people should not be in a hurry on such a pleasant Sunday morning. Then again, maybe she was late for something important…or needed to take a leak.

The woman had gone only a few paces, when a man stumbled out of the Citation and rushed after her, jamming a cowboy hat on his head. It topped off his outfit of jeans, fancy boots, and fringed leather jacket.

Hollywood, Winston thought. He was happy to be leaving.

The cowboy caught up and grabbed the woman’s arm. They yelled at each other, both waving their hands for punctuation. Their conversation looked like pantomime…or a silent movie. Winston could hear sounds, but not what was being said. The breeze spread their words like chaff, and he could not read lips. Body language spoke of nothing good. Like a kid in a schoolyard tussle, the woman spun her arm to shake off the man’s hold. Her move knocked off his hat, which tumbled back towards the Citation.

Once loose, she continued her charge towards the ramp exit. The guy chased his hat and then rushed after her, his mouth still yapping. From their expressions, Winston was certain that their conversation was not pleasant. The only word he recognized was leash. That made no sense, because he spotted no dog.

Winston knew that he stared at the woman, but feared no reprisal. He could handle scowls, if the woman bothered to notice him. The worst he might suffer could be a word or two of verbal abuse. He doubted that either would waste their time.

After stowing the luggage, Steve had come to stand beside him. Both watched the approaching storm.

Could be another example of show-business marital bliss, Winston mumbled.

Steve chuckled, but said nothing. Winston imagined using this scene in a story, but the woman’s face hijacked his mind. He realized her beauty was the kind that intimidated women and compelled men to stare. But, she offered neither the usual Good morning nor even a nod and insincere smile—the minimum one could expect at a chance encounter. Her glare revealed displeasure at being watched.

Winston nodded a greeting and smiled.

He enjoyed this unexpected entertainment and remained unfazed by her what-are-you-doing-on-my-planet glower. Even angry, this woman was very attractive…and somewhat familiar. He could not put a name to her face, but had surely seen it. He decided that she must be some small-time actress…trying to act big. Or, perhaps she was a television personality. That would explain why he could not identify her. Beyond news and weather programs, he rarely watched television in the United States.

Whoever or whatever she might be or wanted to be, Winston knew that she merited being called a babe—an angry one—but still a babe. He had studied countless women in his life, but this one…well, her beauty was magnetic. Most guys used the term drop-dead beautiful, a term he could not understand. Why would anyone want to drop dead upon seeing something beautiful? Although he made his living with novels and film scripts, he hated most cliché and euphemism…besides ones he created. If a female caused him to stare—openly and without shame—he tagged this lovely creature stare-at beautiful. He preferred staring to dying, regardless how stunning a woman might be. With some women—like this one—he could not stop staring. He had his own criteria for women, but also knew that truly good-looking ones were those that he—most likely—would want nothing to do with…if he could…which he could not, because he was happily married. Besides, he better not want anything to do with stare-at beauties, because most had air in their heads or fire in their bellies…or something more dangerous…like in that Glenn Close movie. And, cosmetic improvements were not unknown in these parts, which was one more reason to stick with looking.

Winston continued to stare, not fearing reprisal. Like a chance thunderstorm on a sunny day, this woman would pass by and disappear. He could handle her angry glare and even a few harsh words…if any should come his way. The show was too good to miss. And, her tight-fitting tee shirt and jeans helped to imagine her without either. He decided that she could grace a Playboy spread.

The cliché, you’re cute when you’re angry, popped into his mind. Although clouded by anger, he liked her face, seemingly unspoiled by the standard package of make-up favored in this town. He was lousy at guessing age, but would go out on a limb and peg hers at late twenties or early thirties. Dark hair escaped from her baseball cap, worn to hold it in place or conceal a bad-hair day. No logo provided an explanation of where she had been or about her character. Her plain white tee shirt also offered no information, but was tight enough to show off what she had—he could not tell if they were hers or store-bought. And, her jeans fit like she had been born wearing them, and they had grown with her. She gripped a denim jacket in her hand. As an after thought, he wondered if a stylist had chosen her get-up. Despite the baseball cap, the woman looked Country: real Country, like the kind that’s been around since before they dropped Western. She looked genuine, not designer. Perhaps, it was the shoes: those cowboy boots without the top. Whatever the name, hers looked new and shiny. He always looked at people’s shoes, because their style and condition—more than clothes—revealed a great deal about the person. But, someone in chopped off cowboy boots that could afford a private jet…

The man rushed past and interrupted his thoughts about shoes. Winston received a second unfriendly glare—more of the fuck you variety. Again, Winston smiled and nodded. He found no reason to be a jerk, just because everyone else seemed to be. The man seemed to have the look and manners of someone that has not realized no one likes him. The woman had been attractive, so he returned to watching her depart. He liked her butt—tight and blue. Hers was the kind favored for jeans advertising. Could that be where he had seen her face, he wondered?

Yup, all-in-all, we just saw an All-American babe, Winston quipped, without turning his head. Although a bit fiery.

With a fired-up husband or boyfriend trailing right behind, Steve added. Boy, he sure looked pissed.

Did she look angry or scared?

Real angry.

Know who she is? Winston asked. Or him?

Nope. She looks familiar, but he don’t.

Yeah, Winston said, glancing at the Citation. One of ‘em must be somebody…or daddy has money.

Not everyone who flies is famous, you know, Steve said, with a shrug. Most times, some company pays. That’s what time-shares and fractional ownership does.

Winston had been too busy with the babe to pay much attention to the guy. Now, he watched him hurry away. The jerk had tried to look Country, but had not pulled it off. The hat had been too new; the fringe had looked comical; and the snakeskin boots cost more than a real cowboy could muster. Winston recalled a phrase that summed up the look—all hat, no cattle. But, the guy’s semi-handsome face was the kind that would attract girls: another reason to dislike the jerk. Although short, he seemed to have a good build—athletic. Maybe he played ball…or had at one time. Winston tried to imagine a sport where one could be short. Baseball, maybe?

Whoever he or she might be, they appeared to be another unhappy couple. From their demeanor, Winston guessed that they were just over—or about to cross—the border of disharmony and dislike to bitter hatred of one another. He had never experienced these emotions, but had witnessed enough cases to recognize the symptoms. He stared at the corner of the hangar around which the two had disappeared.

Have a nice day, folks, he called, to no one in particular.

He turned to address Steve.

I hope Bill doesn’t get caught in that storm.

Good thing I’m not flying them, Steve said.

They probably deserve each other.

After seeing that show, it’d be hard to pick sides.

Not my problem.

Of course, I’d take the babe, Steve said, grinning.

Only in your dreams, Winston said, trying to be one of the boys. I saw her first.

Steve’s grin deflated.

Yeah, she’s the kind who’d go for the guy who’s paying.

Steve excused himself to walk around the plane and check whatever pilots checked. Winston sat on the steps and surveyed the empty airfield. He enjoyed the Sunday morning calm. Memories of long-forgotten airfields flitted through his mind, before he returned to the present. Although chartered, he liked to think of this plane as his. He always requested the same pilots. Both were good, so he felt safe—not a bad feature, given the safety record of small planes. He could never justify the expense: his one extravagance. He had to do something with the bloody money his books earned.

After a short time, the Citation pilots stopped to speak with Steve. They had closed their plane and were heading to operations. Winston nodded a greeting and listened to the conversation. He knew that pilots shared information, since forecasts only went so far.

Where’d y’all come in from? Steve asked.

Vegas, replied the older pilot.

That’s where we’re headed, Steve said. How was it?

Before he could enjoy Aspen, Winston must attend a meeting in Las Vegas.

Smooth as silk, the Citation pilot replied. But, we left before the sun started heating up. You’ll get some thermals on the way down, but it should be fairly gentle stuff today.

Good to hear, Steve said. Say, who’s the happy couple? I hope they didn’t just have quickie marriage last night.

Naw. They been married.

Winston noticed the pilot glance towards the exit ramp. The couple was gone, which made him wonder about the man’s concern.

That’s none other that Miss Alicia Ralph and her charming husband, Randy Tolliver.

Winston’s eyes widened. That name explained why he had recognized the woman’s face. Now, the word he had heard—leash—made sense.

He’s known behind his back as Mr. Ralph, the pilot said, grinning. "He’s her manager, or so he claims. I’ve heard that all he does is manage to spend her money."

The three pilots enjoyed a chuckle, and Winston could not resist a smile. He tried to recall what he knew about Alicia Ralph: it was not much. Still, he had just seen one of the biggest names in music—one of the few Country artists able to also top the pop charts. Once he had the name, he could recall her photo on a CD he owned. He liked few of her songs, but found her voice captivating. He vaguely remembered a haunting melody about a woman fighting with her husband. He had always assumed that Country singers sang such songs, because the theme was so real for their audience. He had just discovered that singers might not be so different. He had seen a celebrity and had a small peak at her real life. So what? Celebrities did not impress him. Never had; never would. He had no idea whether Alicia Ralph interested his kids, but he would report the encounter. Beyond that, charming smiles on CD covers could never fool him again.

After the Citation pilots departed and Steve climbed up to the cockpit, Winston glanced around. Sunday morning calm still blanketed the airport. One single-engine Cessna taxied towards the far end of the runway, not worth his attention. His mind drifted back to waking up in quiet luxury. The ambience and tranquility of Bel Air usually let him pretend that the evils of the real world—especially those of Los Angeles—did not exist. After what he had just witnessed, he decided that marital battles should be fought behind closed doors and not on airfield aprons or newspaper front pages.

Although only eight, air on the ramp already felt warm. Winston knew from the weather report that anyone stuck in Los Angeles could expect a hot and hazy Sunday: a good day for the beach, but miserable for anyone without A/C. His thoughts drifted once again to cool mountain air...until he remembered his first chore. He still must endure a few hours of desert heat and a meeting with his agent. Winston was not sure which would be most unpleasant—nature or business. His agent, who was in Las Vegas on vacation, had talked him into a lunch meeting. He had agreed to sacrifice a few hours for this boring chore to avoid a trip to New York, which he disliked even more. However unpleasant his brief stop in an unnatural world, he would recuperate in a secluded and picturesque valley in Colorado. His friends were natives, having lived there since long before the former mining town had become a place for the rich, the famous, and the wannabes. Despite the influx of money, he still liked the region’s natural beauty. Although he was famous enough to be mentioned in the local paper—if anyone spotted him—Winston planned to enjoy the seclusion of his friend’s ranch.

Chapter 2

Bill Smith entered operations and glanced around. He recognized the clerk—a kid named Willy—and then spotted the operations chief, an old hand he had known for years. Ole Stensrud, a second generation Norwegian, had been a gunship pilot in Vietnam. When describing him, friends used the phrase salt-of-the-earth. His solid build, Fu Man Chu beard, and fierce glare suggested meanness, but he was gentle as a lamb. He enjoyed playing the tough-guy role only if someone acted like a jerk.

Bill greeted Willy and waved to his friend, who worked as a flight instructor on his off-days. A young man, who sat opposite and seemed engrossed with a flight plan, was obviously a student pilot. Before Bill could make a request to the clerk, the door slammed open against the wall. All turned to stare at a man dressed like