CHAPTER 1
San Francisco,
California
Tuesday, 16th October
2001
air-whore n. Colloquialism for a mercenary-pilot who'll fly for anyone - anywhere - anytime.
It always starts out the same way...with
that damned squeaking sound. I hate that
sound; because it signals what’s coming next...and I dread it with all my
heart.
* *
* * *
The next thing I know, I’m standing on the
left side of a Hughes 300 helicopter, directly behind the engine, where a
section of the tail rotor driveshaft is exposed, as it comes out of the main
transmission, before it disappears down the tail boom housing. The driveshaft is a smooth, fat, hollow
aluminum-alloy tube that’s painted a glossy off-white. My hands encase this tube - taking a baseball
bat grip six inches apart – in an attempt to slow the rotating driveshaft with
friction, and ultimately stop the main rotor and tail rotor blades from
turning. In other words I’m using my
hands as the rotor blades’ brake. As my
hands heat up from the friction, I relax my grip...let my hands cool...then
tighten my grip again, which produces the dull, squeaking sound I hate so
much.
The year is
1970 and it’s a cool, beautifully-clear May morning in Houston, Texas. I’ve never seen a sky more blue and the sun
feels good on my back. What could
possibly go wrong on a perfect day like this?
Stick around, dear
reader.
I’ve just landed in a parking lot next
to a major retail liquor outlet, and have previously cooled, then shutdown my
engine. My partner, a police sergeant,
has already left our tough, little two-man chopper - which resembles a flying
eyeball - and ran ahead to the crime scene.
I’ve remained behind to get the rotor blades stopped, before some kid
walks into our tail rotor and gets himself shredded.
Exactly the type of bad PR the local press
would dearly love to get its hands on, dear reader. That’s what sells newspapers. It would also immediately kill this
experimental helicopter law enforcement program I’m attempting to launch.
After an eternity, I get the rotor
blades stopped. I need to hook up with
my partner and find out what the hell’s going on! I’m supposed to transport a wounded officer
to the nearest hospital, that’s why we landed.
Now I’m sprinting across the parking lot. But as I reach the liquor store’s front
entrance, I slam head-on into the true horror of law
enforcement.
A Black suspect lies halfway outside on
the pavement and halfway inside the liquor store; the spring-loaded glass doors
are held open by his body. He’s on his back - has to be at least six-foot-five if he’s an inch -
and wears a loud Hawaiian shirt with blue jeans. A Browning 9 mm semiautomatic lies near his
right hand.
I’m positive he’s dead.
His hair is neatly close-cropped; head
tilted slightly to his left...and above his left eyebrow is a neat hole made by
a .38-caliber slug. That in its self
would convince me of this man’s recent, violent death...only there’s more
proof. A bright red-raspberry substance
is being forced out of this man’s bullet hole...and collecting in a perfect,
upside-down cone on the dirty concrete.
At first I’m mystified.
His brain is being pumped out the bullet
hole onto the sidewalk by his heart! The
bullet must have done a 360 inside his skull!
Scrambling his brain to jam!
But that’s impossible, dear
reader. He must be dead! His heart can’t still be beating! Can it?
Without warning he takes a big gulp of
air. His eyes snap open and he stares
directly at me...except through me.
Afterward he exhales and now comes the infamous “death rattle” so
prevalent in pulp fiction.
So that’s what it sounds like, dear
reader.
His chest then convulses each time he
exhales along with the death rattle – breath after laborious breath.
Finally he speaks to me, saying, “I be
alive, motherfucker...ya’ll didn’t kilt me, vanilla cocksucker!” Then he raises his 9 mm and shoots me point
blank in the face!
* *
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