Breaking Point - Chapter 30 - Plane Speaking
In which our hero joins his mother for a jaunt to Miami
If I had any doubts that Mother was a world-class money launderer, rocking up to her Gulfstream G280 removed them.
Bathed in the dawn’s early light, Mother’s transatlantic transportation said two things loud and clear: big money and epic speed.
“Welcome aboard Lieutenant Canali.”
The dark-haired forty-something flight attendant at the top of the stairs blessed me with a smile that seemed carefully crafted to let me know I wasn’t going to die in a mass of twisted steel melting in a thousand degree jet fuel fire.
“My name is Jean. Mrs. Canali will be joining us shortly.”
“Can’t wait,” I said semi-sarcastically, checking to see if Jean shared my opinion of Mother.
If she did, she hid it well.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Coffee please. Cream no sugar.”
Settling into a double-wide white leather chair, gazing at the snow blowing down the tarmac, I could appreciate – if not approve of – Mother’s ability to bend the world to her will, legal niceties be damned.
The coffee Jean presented in a white Wedgwood cup may not have been the best in the world, but it was damn close.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome Lieutenant.”
“John.”
“You’re welcome John.”
“I’m not a great flyer,” I felt compelled to mention.
“Don’t worry John,” she said gently, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “The pilot always finds clean air.”
“You’re in my seat!” an all-too-familiar voice boomed in an all-too-familiar tone.
Jean removed her hand as if she’d been shocked. Mother stood by the doorway, dressed in a light navy Chanel suit carrying what was surely the latest Chanel handbag.
I gestured at the empty cabin’s six identical chairs and the three-person sofa opposite a widescreen TV.
Mother’s glare had me up and moving. I switched to the chair facing her. She removed one of her Elsa Peretti earrings and put her phone to her ear.
“Beth?” she said, accepting a gin and tonic from the stewardess without looking at her. “Are we set? Good. I’m so glad. X is the next big thing.”
The engines spooled-up. Jean retreated to the front of the cabin.
“Oh, I may also have a thing or two of his you could beg me to sell.… Of course I’ll think of you first… Stay in touch. Ciao!”
The Gulfstream eased onto the runway, then blasted into the skies like a tased sprinter. Mother saw me gripping my seat, shook her head sadly and went back to her phone.
By the time we leveled off, Mother was well into her second G&T and third schmoozefest.
“Did you talk to X?” Mother demanded, punching out of her call.
“Not yet. I thought I’d give him a little time to recover.”
“He wants to discuss his next work,” Mother said, as if a sitting U.S. Senator hadn’t threatened to put a bullet in her brain.
“He’s a no-talent hack,” I said pointedly.
“And?”
“You’ve bought everything he’s done. Everything he’s going to do.”
“And?” Mother repeated, inviting me to reveal my knowledge of her business dealings.
“You’ll put a piece into a big name auction and get a respected dealer to pay big money for it. Your money. Drive up the prices, sell the rest at a huge profit.”
“You’ve been doing your homework. For once.”
“Supply and demand,” I declared, ignoring the not-entirely-baseless dig.
“I own the supply. I supply the demand.”
Mother caught sight of the baby Glock strapped to my ankle. I uncrossed my leg and pulled down my pant leg.
“What’s that for?” she said, as if I was carrying a kitchen utensil.
“Protection.”
“You couldn’t protect anyone,” she said flatly.
Mother’s diss cut me to the quick. I should have sucked it up, kept quiet and continued to play the beta boy learning the business. The words came out of my mouth unbidden.
“And you’re a cold hearted bitch.”
In all my years, I hadn’t said anything even remotely similar to Mother. I held my breath, my body tense, expecting an Elizabeth Canali shitstorm.
My insult had no discernible impact on Mother’s demeanor. Because she was a cold hearted bitch. A slightly inebriated one at that.
I felt a little better for standing up to her. But not much. The vision of Mother playing with Cristina was still fresh in my mind. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. But there it was, somewhere in the back of my mind.
Mother drained her drink, donned a TempurPedic face mask, reclined her chair and went to sleep.
I moved to the couch, adjusted Hermes pillows and browsed the Hypnotic Handbook, a compendium of scripts to cure every bad habit and mental issue known to man, woman or child.
My research didn’t last long. I fell into a dreamless sleep.
When I awoke, the cabin was quiet, the lights dim. Mother was drinking a cup of herbal tea. I returned to the chair facing her, steeling myself for a confrontation I should’ve left for another day.
“I know about my father,” I announced.
“What about him?”
“My biological father.”
“So Franco told you,” Mother said, nonplussed. “I knew that asshole couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
So there it was, Mother’s little secret – discovered in a drug-induced hallucination, no less. A if-not-the reason she was the way she was. Why she’d made me the man I was.
“Tell me about my father,” I pressed.
“He was a no good lying cheating son of a bitch,” Mother said, turning to stare out the window. “Just like you.”
“That’s it? What’s his name? Where is he? Is he dead or alive?”
“That’s it,” Mother said, turning to stare at me, eyes ablaze. “End of conversation.”
The G280’s engines throttled back, its nose tilted down. Mother rose from her seat and accepted a Florida-friendly outfit on a hanger from Jean.
She disappeared into bathroom, preparing for a grand day out with an an art-loving Mexican drug lord. I took my seat, buckled up and tried to admire the view.
Thanks to Mother’s vow of omertà, Franco Canali was my only lead for finding my bio-dad. Yet another conversation I was not looking forward to.
I was deeply frustrated – and nervous. Mother’s jet was bound to bounce as we pierced the cloud layer. The real turbulence lay ahead.
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