Читать книгу Too Close To Call - Barbara Dunlop - Страница 9

“NATIONAL WEATHER says there’s a snowstorm building off the Gulf of Alaska,” Jordan Adamson called to his dispatcher in the reception area of True North Airlines as he tore the printout from his fax machine.

“Is it going to shut us down?” Wally Lane swiveled on his chair, eyebrows lifting. “Cyd’s heading out on the Arctic Luck run in about ten minutes.”

“We’ve got a few hours leeway, but radio Bob and make sure he keeps an eye on it.”

Flying in adverse weather conditions was part of being an Alaskan bush pilot. Though late October snowstorms could be fierce, Jordan didn’t want his pilots taking unnecessary chances. Go or no-go was a combination of meteorological reports, the view outside the cockpit window and gut instinct.

Jordan reached through the window opening from his small office and handed Wally a copy of the report. “Tell Bob to hold tight in Sitka if necessary.” After a second’s pause, he added, “And remind him to—”

“Keep the customer satisfied,” Wally echoed the rest of Jordan’s words with perfect rhythm and intonation.

Jordan rolled his eyes heavenward. The staff at his small airline in Alpine, Alaska had been teasing him for months about his evangelical customer satisfaction mission.

“Bob’s picking up his ex-wife,” said Wally. “He might prefer the storm to holing up with her in Sitka overnight.”

Jordan grinned. “Pilot’s discretion.” He took a step back.

“Roger,” said Wally, with a snappy salute.

The front door opened, and Wally swiveled back to the counter as a man stepped into the reception area. Jordan assumed it was Cyd’s four o’clock passenger.

In that European suit and shiny loafers, the man was overdressed for a plane ride to Arctic Luck. In fact, he was overdressed for anything north of the sixtieth parallel.

The man looked up, and Jordan did a double take. There was something startlingly familiar about him. Had they met before? The man’s eyes widened, and he drew back. For a moment, Jordan wondered if he’d somehow offended him.

While Wally talked to the customer, Jordan turned to the stacks of papers on his desk, making a quick search for a passenger list to check the name. Part of delivering good customer service was remembering your customers’ needs and treating them as though they were important to the business. It was all right there in the Alaska Tourism Association brochure guidelines.

Jordan’s airline currently held first place in this year’s Alaska Tourism customer satisfaction surveys. If he could hang on to the lead for the rest of the season, it would mean free advertising in all of the government brochures next summer. That kind of exposure was sure to increase his business—a necessity if he wanted to add a commuter jet to his fleet.

Which he did.

As soon as possible.

While he located the manifest for the Arctic Luck trip, he heard Cyd land the Cessna. Right on time, but she’d have to be quick with the turnaround if she wanted to beat the snow.

Jordan squinted at the passenger name, hoping it would trigger a memory.

Jeffrey Bradshaw.

The name didn’t mean anything to him. He glanced back through the window, racking his brain. He knew he’d seen the man before.

“JEFFREY BRADSHAW is due back in L.A. on Monday.” Rachel Bowen, a set designer at Argonaut Studios stopped beside the treadmill where Ashley Baines was jogging to the beat of vintage Springsteen.

“What?” Ashley pulled off the headphones, snapping them around her neck.

“Jeffrey. Here. Monday,” said Rachel.

Ashley hit the button on the treadmill control and rocked to an abrupt stop, turning to stare at her friend and co-worker. She drew a deep breath, winded from her workout. “So, that’s it, then.” She wiped a hand across her hair, down over her tight braid. “It’s him against me?”

Rachel nodded. “Sure looks that way.”

Ashley felt her stomach clench. Jeffrey showing up to challenge her for the promotion to vice president wasn’t exactly a surprise, but she had held out a slim hope he’d stay away and leave the field clear.

A fellow acquisitions director at Argonaut, Jeffrey was definitely her most serious competition. He was smart, experienced and connected. He was also crafty, with a ruthless edge that she wouldn’t want to test.

Perspiration tickled her forehead and her temples, and her damp spandex top stuck to the skin between her shoulder blades. She picked up a white towel that she’d hung over the handle of the treadmill and scrubbed it across her forehead, flipping her braid out of the way to dry her neck.

“Got any more scuttlebutt on him?” she asked.

Rachel was a close friend, and a gifted set designer at Argonaut. She was friendly and outgoing, and had an amazing ability to keep her finger on the pulse of office politics.

“Just that he’s checking out locations in Alaska,” said Rachel.

“Alaska?” Ashley blinked in confusion.

“You know. Snow, ice, you have to cut through Canada to get there.”

“His big, innovative idea is Alaska?”

The chairman of the board had let it be known that an innovative new hit series was number one on his wish list right now. Whoever came up with the right series had a huge leg up on the promotion.

Jeffrey had spent the last year on special assignment in New York. What could have given him a sudden interest in Alaska?

“He must be pitching a Northern Exposure thing,” said Rachel.

“A comedy?” Ashley tossed the towel into a nearby bin. Comedies were always risky, but when they hit, they hit big.

“Or an outdoor adventure,” said Rachel.

“Adventure’s on the decline. It’s medical, cop or comedy this year.”

An Alaskan cop? An Alaskan hospital? Neither of those rang true to Ashley. It had to be a comedy.

Shoot. The last thing she needed was for Jeffrey to deliver something more original than her edgy, California-based detective series.

“Think I should add a comedic element?” she asked Rachel, raising her thumb and capturing the nail between her teeth. Maybe straight drama wasn’t the way to go.

“Comedy is big right now,” said Rachel.

Of course it was. Comedies were getting all the attention this year, all the awards, all the ratings. How could she have been so foolish?

Ashley headed for the change rooms. “I should have thought of this earlier.”

“It’s pretty late in the game to switch,” said Rachel.

“I know. It’ll mean redoing the storyboard and the video clips.”

“And rewriting all the scripts.”

Ashley paused with her hand on the change-room door. “It’ll mean redoing the entire presentation. From scratch.” A near impossibility, since this was Saturday, and the pitch meeting with the chairman of the board was scheduled for Monday.

Rachel tucked her dark hair behind her ears. “I suppose you could take a chance to submit it as is.”

Ashley’s hardboiled detective drama suddenly seemed pale and flat, and somehow safe, even if it did have beaches, plenty of buff bods and guaranteed action sequences in every episode.

If Jeffrey was going for broke with a comedy/drama, set in Alaska of all places, she was going to have to make her California location feel fresher and more interesting.

“Think he’s going for broke?” asked Rachel, skipping to keep up with Ashley as she headed down the tiled hallway, past the racket courts.

“Alaska’s a pretty bold move for a setting,” said Ashley. The more she thought about it, the more she realized Jeffrey was taking a risk, pulling out all the stops.

And, why wouldn’t he? It was the promotion of the decade.

She’d made a mistake when she let his absence lull her into a false sense of security. He might not have been in L.A. all year long, but he was still a force to be reckoned with.

“Any way to put off the Board meeting?” Ashley asked. She definitely needed more time.

Rachel stopped in the middle of the hall and gave her an incredulous look.

“You know his secretary, right?” asked Ashley.

Rachel knew everybody.

“Not that well,” said Rachel.

“She got any weaknesses?”

“Chocolate and Chippendale Dancers,” said Rachel.

Ashley smiled. “What about Fire Dance tickets. I hear the male lead is burning up the headlines.”

“You’ve got tickets to Fire Dance?”

“Front row, center, balcony one.” Ashley’s grin widened. “Clive Johnston traded me for the Lakers last week.”

“Throw in dinner at La Salle, and I think I can get you a deal.”

“Done,” said Ashley. “Get her to switch the meeting to Friday.” She stopped at the door to the change room. “You going to be around tonight?”

“You want to grab dinner and sketch out some ideas?”

Ashley nodded. “That would be terrific.”

“Meet you on the deck at the Breakwater Café.”

“Give me half an hour to shower and change.” Ashley pushed open the door with the heel of her palm. Her workout was officially over. She now had more important things to worry about than her glutes.

JORDAN WASN’T GOING to worry about Cyd, even if she was overdue by half an hour. The storm had grown faster and more violent than anyone had predicted. The radios weren’t working, but if she’d gone down, they’d have an emergency beacon signal coming in. They didn’t.

She’d probably landed short of Arctic Luck.

“Everyone but Cyd’s accounted for,” said Wally, hanging up the office telephone and tossing his clipboard onto the counter. “Bob’s holed up in Sitka, and the rest never got off the ground.”

Just then an operator’s voice came over the radio phone.

Jordan was closer, so he grabbed the mike.

It was Cyd. And, thank goodness, she was fine.

But before Jordan could get more than a few particulars, an angry male voice took over. “I’m the passenger who paid to be flown to Arctic Luck,” Jeffrey Bradshaw thundered.

Terrific. Maybe Cyd wasn’t so fine.

“But I was flown to Kati—Kati—”

Jordan didn’t wait for Jeffrey to spit out the word Katimuk. He keyed the mike. “Sorry about that,” he interrupted, putting on a relaxed, professional voice. “Can’t fight the weather. But we’ll get you to Arctic Luck as soon as possible.”

“I need to get there immediately.” The command crackled through the static of the radio waves.

Wally raised his eyebrows.

“Afraid we can’t do that,” said Jordan. Weather delays were a necessary hazard of flying in the North, particularly in the fall. Jeffrey needed to buck up and wait it out.

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll contact my office. Have them call another airline.”

Jordan keyed the mike again. “You can call. But, nobody’s going to fly in this.”

“Why?” Jeffrey demanded.

Why? Didn’t they have windows up in Katimuk? There was a good foot of new snow on the ground in Alpine, and more was gusting from the sky.

“Weathered in is weathered in,” said Jordan, shooting Wally a look of amazement. What part of blizzard didn’t Jeffrey understand?

Wally grinned. He’d made a big deal yesterday about how this Jeffrey guy looked exactly like Jordan. And Jordan had to admit there was a bit of a resemblance. But he was beginning to hope that was all they had in common.

Jordan released the mike button. “Please tell me I’m his double in looks only.”

Wally just grinned wider.

The radio stayed silent.

Jordan keyed the mike again. “Nobody will risk an aircraft,” he elaborated, trying not to let the frustration come through in his voice. “And I’m sure you don’t want to risk your life. Stick with Cyd. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll get you out as soon as possible.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Jeffrey. “Your pilot could have landed me in Arctic Luck, but she flew me to Katimuk instead?”

Wally rolled his eyes and started to chuckle at the absurdity of the questions.

“She landed where she felt the plane and passengers would be safe,” said Jordan. Be thankful you’re alive, he almost added. Be it Katimuk or Timbuktu, safe on the ground was safe on the ground.

“Bull,” Jeffrey barked.

“Charming,” said Wally.

“And nothing like me,” said Jordan.

“THERE WAS NOTHING even remotely funny about that, was there?” Ashley let her head fall back in defeat on the couch in her small Westwood apartment.

Rachel clicked a button on the remote control, turning off the last video clip for the detective series, and the television screen went blank.

“Not particularly,” she admitted.

They were going to have to reshoot every clip.

“What if Detective Moonie is older, more worldly-wise, jaded…” Ashley searched her brain for possibilities. Their original idea was definitely not going to fly as comedic.

“If he’s older, we’ll lose the buff bod,” said Rachel. “Pecs sell. You know that.” She stood up and stretched her arms above her head, moving immediately into a graceful toe touch.

“So do tight butts,” Ashley pointed out. “Could we have an older, worldly-wise detective with a great butt?”

Rachel straightened, pulled down her cropped T-shirt and laughed. “I can see it all now, Detective Moonie, health club maniac, near retirement and just in from the mean streets of New York, decides to take a part-time gig as a lifeguard, faces danger, thrills and jokes while chasing bikini-clad women along Malibu Beach.”

“Okay, the butt would be tough to do on an old guy. What if we make him younger? But a geeky, unattractive man who’s fawned over by gorgeous women. Then we’re sure to nail the eighteen to thirty-five-year-old male demographic.”

“The basic premise behind all of your finer adult films.” Rachel crossed to the small kitchen. “Got any wine in here?”

“In the fridge door,” said Ashley. “Maybe we make him gay.”

“Oh, yeah, now that’ll nail a broad demographic.”

“I think women like gay men.”

“As friends, sure. But not as a buff butt fantasy on their television screens.” Rachel popped the cork on the wine bottle.

“Our demographic is men, anyway,” said Ashley. “Hey. What if Detective Moonie is an aging, hardboiled, uptight eastern kind of guy, and his new protégé is a gay, laid-back, California beach boy.”

Rachel stopped, midpour. Her eyes narrowed. “That could be funny.”

Ashley quirked an eyebrow. “Couldn’t it, though? Fish out of water? The women in the episodes would all be attracted to the gay guy, but end up lusting after the older guy with experience.”

“Think we could get Sean Connery for the older man?” asked Rachel.

“You and I are definitely on the same wavelength.” Ashley curled her legs under her on the couch, her synapses starting to hum.

“YJ17546, TRUE NORTH AIRLINES answering,” Wally said into the mike of the radio phone.

Jordan glanced through the office window as Wally hung a suit jacket on the coat hook in the reception area. The coat sure didn’t look like Wally’s style.

One of Jordan’s other pilots was also out in reception, busy explaining the afternoon flight delay to six Japanese tourists. Jordan had arranged a free night’s stay for them in a local hotel, and the interpreter was passing along the news.

Meanwhile, four cameras clicked away, the occasional flash reflecting off the posters on the walls.

“I don’t think you understand just how serious this situation has become,” came an all too familiar voice over the radio.

Jordan caught Wally’s gaze through the open window, then he shook his head and pretended to bang it three times against the office wall.

“Say again?” said Wally into the mike.

“I need, need to be in L.A. by the end of the day. Do you understand that?” Jeffrey’s voice rose. “There’s almost two feet of snow up here, you have all my credit cards and I have to get to L.A.”

“I’m afraid the snow has grounded all of our flights again today,” said Wally. “What credit cards?”

“In my coat. The pilot put me in some kind of giant parka but then left my coat behind. What kind of an outfit is this?”

“The parka’s a necessity in the Cessna. And, I can assure you, your credit cards are perfectly safe,” said Wally evenly, taking down the suit jacket and putting it in his lap.

Oh, boy. Jordan made a mental note to lock Jeffrey’s coat and credit cards up in his office. He also figured he’d better write a memo regarding passenger’s personal effects. Not that anyone had left their clothing behind before. Well, except for the bra in the Cessna that one time.

“And, I understand your frustration,” Wally continued smoothly. “I truly wish I had an easy solution.”

Jordan was going to make Wally employee of the month.

“And, I truly wish you understood the problem!” Jeffrey snapped back.

Wally held the mike toward Jordan, an invitation to take over clearly written on his face.

The tourists watched the exchange with interest, cameras poised in case something interesting happened.

Jordan signaled that Wally should keep talking. He was doing a terrific job.

Wally shrugged philosophically, then mouthed “watch this” to Jordan.

“So, why don’t you explain it to me?” Wally said to Jeffrey. He held up the brochure from the Department of Tourism, pointing to bullet point number five: Let the customer vent when necessary. Ensure you show empathy before giving him any negative message.

Jordan gave Wally a thumbs-up.

“I have an important meeting in L.A. at eleven o’clock Monday morning,” Jeffrey articulated in a staccato rhythm. “If I’m not at that meeting, I will lose my promotion, and most certainly lose the Alaska television series.”

“There’s going to be a television series in Alaska?” asked Wally, his voice betraying a sudden interest.

“Not if I stay stuck in Katimuk, there’s not.”

“What kind of a television series?”

The camera clicking stopped, and the Japanese tourists all bowed to the pilot before filing back out to the bus. A couple took final shots of Wally talking on the radio.

“It would have been called Sixty Below, a comedy about the lives and loves of the people in Arctic Luck,” said Jeffrey.

“Would. Note the word would,” he continued. “I never did get to Arctic Luck, strike one. I can’t take pictures of anything in the blizzard, strike two. And I can’t get to the pitch meeting tomorrow, strike three.”

“Can’t you pitch it by phone?” asked Wally as the door swung shut behind the interpreter. The pilot headed for the hangar.

“Pitch what?” asked Jeffrey. “I’ve never even seen the town. And, no, it’s not something you do by phone. I need pictures, drawings, storyboards.”

“Of Arctic Luck.”

“No. Of San Diego. Of course of Arctic Luck.”

Wally glanced at the wall of the office.

Jordan followed his gaze to the collage on the bulletin board. Sure enough, there were pictures of Arctic Luck, along with every other community in interior Alaska.

“If…uh…somebody else went to the meeting, with pictures and diagrams, could you tell them what to say?”

Wally was offering to go to L.A.? Was he crazy?

“Won’t work,” said Jeffrey.

“Why not?”

“They won’t take the pitch from anybody but me.”

Jordan strolled into the reception area and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to figure out what Wally was thinking. Sure, he could take a four-wheel drive into Anchorage. The jumbo jets were still taking off near the coast. But, what the heck did Wally think he could do in L.A.?

“What if it was you?” asked Wally.

Jordan waved his hands and shook his head frantically. Making promises you couldn’t keep was definitely against the Department of Tourism’s wallet-card advice.

“You’re sending a plane?” came Jeffrey’s hopeful voice.

“No. I’m sending Jordan.”

“Jordan?”

Jordan?

“My boss. The guy who looks just like you.”

“Jordan’s flying up here?”

Jordan’s not flying anywhere.

“Nope. We send Jordan to L.A.”

“What?” Jordan’s sharp exclamation matched Jeffrey’s.

“Holy cow,” said Wally. “Even your voices sound the same.”

“I’m not going to L.A.,” said Jordan, moving toward the radio.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Jeffrey.

“He looks just like you,” said Wally into the microphone. He pointed to the graph on the wall showing the customer satisfaction ratings.

The static crackled on the radio. “It’s not—”

“He does,” came Cyd’s voice in the background.

Jordan’s eyes narrowed.

“Put your money where your mouth is,” Wally said to Jordan. “If you hurry, you’ll be back in time for your birthday.”

Jordan started to protest, but he quickly realized he didn’t need to say a thing. Jeffrey would put a stop to this. Jordan could just stand here and pretend to go along for the sake of customer satisfaction. He’d be putting his money where his mouth was, without actually having to pay up. Perfect.

“Sure,” said Jordan easily, enjoying the role of customer service white knight. “Anything for customer satisfaction.”

“We give him a haircut,” said Wally into the mike, with a thumbs-up to Jordan. “You tell him exactly what to say. He goes to the meeting, then flies back home.”

“Never in a million years,” said Jeffrey.

“You got a better idea?” asked Wally.

“Fly up here and get me,” said Jeffrey.

“No can do. Tell me, what’s the worst that would happen if Jordan tried and failed?”

“The series is dumped, and my career is ruined.”

“What will happen if you don’t make the meeting?”

“The series gets dumped, and my career is ruined.”

“What are the odds of success?”

“Ten percent.”

“That’s ten percent better than we’ve got going for us now.” Wally pointed to another bullet point on the department’s brochure: Take the customer’s problem on as your own.

Now Wally decided to become Mr. Customer Service Guru. Jordan waited for Jeffrey’s vehement dismissal of the whole idea. Jordan in L.A. trying to pretend he was some hot damn television executive? As if.

“We have pictures of Arctic Luck,” said Wally into the silent radio.

“Good ones?” asked Jeffrey.

“Great ones,” said Wally.

There was a long silence. Jordan blinked in confusion. Where was the supercilious, unreasonable man from yesterday? He should be coming back with an angry retort about fixing the weather, telling Wally what a ridiculous, unworkable—

“First thing he needs to know is the org chart,” said Jeffrey.

Jordan stumbled a step back, his eyes widening.

“There’s a copy of last year’s annual report in the right-hand, top drawer of the desk in my condo. Keys to the condo are in my coat pocket.”