And when we reached Casa de Jackson, he’d dismount the mighty Clydesdale like a prize jockey in the Kentucky Derby. A path of rose petals leading to his front door would be laid out before me, with every step unleashing the aroma of Mediterranean roses flown in from the Congo that morning. When we reached the grand entrance he would sweep me into his arms like a lover stealing away with one of Pharaoh’s most prized concubines. There we’d enter into the holiest of holies, his love’s lair, where he would baptize me in a pool of blazing hot passion.

“Good evening, welcome aboard. Welcome aboard. Good evening.”

“Girl, where the hell is Sam? He’s fifteen minutes late. I swear, this time, I’m gonna report his ass.”

It was Gail Best, my best girlfriend and fellow flight attendant, who came storming from the rear of the plane. She had little tolerance for whatever or whoever got in the way of her pre-flight flirt time. Time that she could use to scope out potential millionaires, hundred thousand-aires, or anyone in the air willing to finance a good time for the duration of her layover.

Perennially thirty-nine, Gail was blessed with a body like Jessica Rabbit, but cursed with a face like old Br’er Rabbit. Luckily, gravity had served her well. Like a naval cadet, her breasts saluted all who dared to look, and anyone who dared gaze on them long enough became frozen, like Lot’s wife, then powerless to her will. By the time the flight began its final descent Gail had options. Many options. So many that she hardly ever ended up at the airport hotel with the other flight attendants. She was my friend. A friend in need and an ear indeed. A loyal confidante who knew almost as much about my business as I did. Too much, if I really stop to think about it. Momentarily shifting focus from Sam’s lateness, she moved on to her true passion—men.

“Girl, look at 27B.” She never used names, only seat numbers. That kept it impersonal. “Girl, 27B is fine, ain’t he? And he’s paid! See, they think sitting in coach is gonna throw me off the scent, but I can sniff a man with money a mile away. And besides, the P.I.L. never lies. Girl, he might be tonight’s layover.”

The P.I.L. was the passenger information list that was supposed to be confidential and for ticketing agents’ use only. But, in exchange for an occasional buddy pass (or an occasional piece of Gail’s buddy ass), she got access to every passenger’s name, address, and more important, their frequent flyer information. Once she loaded those details into her homemade formula, she could pinpoint who was paid and most likely to get laid.