IN-FLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT

'HEY, YOU! GET me another of these, will ya?' The guy with the short dark mohawk, both of his arms sleeved in tribal tattoos, leaned so far out of his seat that he almost tumbled into the aisle as he tried to grab the attention of the passing flight attendant. He reached out, and instead of grabbing her attention, he accidentally grabbed her blue-skirted bottom as she bent over to talk to an elderly passenger who couldn't get his headphones to work.

'Whoa, sorry,' sniggered the mohawk guy, hauling himself back into his seat and holding up his hands innocently as the stewardess glared at him. 'Didn't mean to do that. Truly. Nice ass, though.'

Having dealt with the elderly passenger, the stewardess turned back to the mohawk guy. 'Is there something you need, sir?' she asked flintily.

Immediately the guy's smirk faded, and his expression grew stony. 'There are many things I need, sweetheart,' he said, 'and one of them is for you to remember who the paying fucking customers are here.'

Smiling sweetly, the stewardess said, 'Oh, I do, sir. I remember that at all times.'

'Yeah? Well maybe you should remember to leave your shitty attitude at home too.'

Still smiling, the stewardess said, 'And maybe you should remember to keep your hands to yourself, sir. In this job, molestation is still a crime, regardless of who's paying.'

'Hey, it was an accident, right?' the mohawk guy said, loud enough to turn heads. 'I lost my balance.'

'In that case, I accept your apology,' said the stewardess.

The mohawk guy scowled. 'I ain't apologizing to you. I got nothing to apologize for.'

The passenger sitting next to him was a young, muscle-bound black man with a sculpted, neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed in baggy jeans, a skinny black T-shirt, and a red bandanna. Although he had given all the indications of being asleep, he now opened his eyes and removed the headphones from his ears.

'Why don't you stop giving the nice lady a hard time?' he rumbled.

The mohawk guy turned to look at him, sticking his jaw out pugnaciously. 'Who the hell asked you?'

'Nobody asked me,' said the black man. 'I'm jus' sayin'.'

'Yeah, well, butt out, brother. This has got nothing to do with you.'

The black man grinned, displaying a gold-plated upper canine among a mouthful of clearly expensive dental work. '"Brother"? Is that some kinda racial slur?' he inquired.

The mohawk guy rolled his eyes. 'What is this? Character assassination week? First she accuses me of being a sexual deviant, now you accuse me of being a damn racist.'

'I didn't accuse you of sexual deviancy, sir,' the stewardess said.

'Molestation, you said. Pretty much amounts to the same thing.'

'Well, you did grab the lady's butt,' said the black man.

'I was trying to attract her attention, is all,' the mohawk guy protested. 'All I wanted was a damn drink.'

'How about I get you a drink and we say no more about it?' suggested the stewardess. She eyed the array of miniature scotch bottles on the passenger's fold-down table, all of them empty. 'Same again, sir?'

The mohawk guy hesitated. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to prolong the argument. Then finally, he nodded. 'Yeah, sure. And take these empties away, will ya?'

'Certainly, sir,' said the stewardess politely.

When she had gone, the mohawk guy turned to the black man, who was eyeing him as if he was a weird and particularly repellent form of pond life. 'What?' he said.

The black man shook his head slowly and deliberately. 'Nothin'. Nothin' at all.'

He reached for his headphones again, but before he could put them on, the mohawk guy said, 'Hey, don't I know you?'

The black man winced slightly. 'Probably not.'

'Yeah, sure I do. You're that rapper. Sam something.'

'Sam B,' the black man conceded with a sigh.

'Sam B! That's right! You had that song, didn't you? Back in the nineties. What was it now? "Voodoo Hoodoo"?'

'"Who Do You Voodoo, Bitch,"' Sam corrected him.

The mohawk guy gave a gurgle of laughter. 'That's the one! Jeez, I loved that song when I was at school.' He paused, his eyes – the whites pink from the alcohol – narrowed shrewdly. 'So what happened to you, man?'

'Nothin' happened to me,' replied Sam. 'I'm right here.'

The mohawk guy laughed, as if he had made a joke. 'Sure you are. But how come you didn't do no more music after that one song?'

Sam closed his eyes briefly. He had answered this question so many times that he had grown to dread being asked it.

'I was young,' he said. 'Young and stupid. At nineteen I thought I knew it all. Took me a long time to realize I didn't know shit. That song was a blessing and a curse, y'know? It was a hit all over the world, made me an instant star, but it was too much fame too quickly.' He tapped the side of his skull with his forefinger. 'I was just a dumb kid from New Orleans, and success went straight to my head. I lost track of my roots, deserted the friends I'd grown up with to party with the rich and famous.'

'And you stopped writing music?' asked the mohawk guy.

Sam shrugged. 'I couldn't take the pressure. The more people told me I needed to come up with another hit, the more it paralyzed me. I started off playing big hotels in Vegas, then seedy lounges in Reno, then third-rate cruise ships.' He shook his head. 'But why the hell am I telling you this?'

'Because you recognize a kindred spirit?'

Sam snorted a laugh. 'Yeah, right.'

The stewardess returned with the mohawk guy's drink. 'Anything for you, sir?' she asked Sam.

Sam shook his head. 'I'm good, thanks.'

The stewardess smiled and walked away. The mohawk guy opened the miniature bottle and took a swig. Smacking his lips, he turned back to Sam. 'You don't recognize me, do you?'

'Should I?'

The mohawk guy paused and said, 'I'm Logan Carter.'

Sam looked at him blankly.

The other man, Logan, looked a little put out. 'The football star, Logan Carter? First round NFL draft pick?'

Sam shrugged. 'Sorry, man. I don't follow sports.'

Logan gaped at him. 'You don't follow sports? That's like saying you don't follow life.'

Sam shrugged again. 'Sorry.' He was silent for a

moment, and then, almost reluctantly, asked, 'So … you still play?'

Logan's face darkened. He drained the rest of the bottle in one gulp. 'No, I … er … had to retire.'

'Why don't you tell him why?' said a voice from the seat in front.

Logan blinked and jerked upright as though someone had slapped him. 'Excuse me?'

The passenger turned and knelt on her seat, her head rising above the seat back. She was startlingly beautiful, her skin the color of teak, her hair a silky black waterfall. She had a snub nose, plump, almost purple lips that Sam guessed could be wide and smiling but were currently pursed in something like disapproval, and wide, dark, penetrating eyes.

'I said why don't you tell him why you had to retire?' the girl repeated, her voice husky and warm.

'What the hell has it gotta do with you?' Logan asked.

The girl pointed at him. 'He didn't recognize you, but I do. I know what you did.'

'What I did? I didn't do anything.'

'You killed a girl.'

The accusation was so blunt that for a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Then Logan, his face reddening with anger, spluttered, 'I didn't kill nobody.'

'No?' said the girl, tilting her head to one side. 'So what would you call it?'

'I'd call it an accident. And that's what the judge called it too. So get out of my face, lady!'

For the first time, the girl turned her attention to Sam. He felt a stirring in his gut as her dark-eyed gaze swept over him, a sensation somewhere between desire and unease. The girl was incredibly beautiful, but in the way a panther was beautiful. Sam had a feeling she could be predatory, dangerous.

'You ever killed anyone, Sam?' she challenged.

Sam's first instinct was to ask her how she knew his name, but then he realized she must have been listening in on their conversation. He shook his head. 'Nope.'

'Glad to hear it. The guilt of it twists you up inside. Isn't that right, Mr. Carter?'

Logan glared at her. 'What part of "get out of my face" didn't you understand?'

Sam raised his hands. Peacemaker wasn't a role he was accustomed to, but then again, he wasn't often in the presence of people who seemed even more messed up than he was. 'Let's just cool it down a bit here, OK?' he said, turning to Logan. 'Listen … Logan. Why don't you tell me what happened?'

Logan gave a bad-tempered sigh, glancing balefully at the girl. She smiled.

'Yeah, Logan, why don't you do that?'

'I don't have to justify myself to you,' Logan said to the girl.

She shrugged as if she couldn't care one way or the other, a faintly amused expression on her face. Sam touched Logan's arm briefly.

'Hey. I'd like to know, man. I'm interested. And I got an open mind here. Hell, I'd never even heard of you till ten minutes ago. No offense.'

Logan almost smiled at that. Then he pushed himself upright in his seat and said, 'I need another drink.'

'Why don't we all have one?' proposed the girl. 'On me. Sam?'

Sam shrugged. 'I'll have a soda, I guess.'

'Nothing stronger?'

He nodded at the empty miniature scotch bottle on Logan's table. 'I had enough problems of my own with that stuff. I ain't going there again.'

The girl attracted the attention of a stewardess and ordered their drinks – same again for Logan, a soda for Sam.