Whatever Became of Sin

Two

TwoIt's a record-setting hot and muggy July morning in San Francisco, and the windows of the downtown office building where Michael Warren houses his law practice are propped open to the mid-morning ocean air. Even with a ceiling fan spinning vigorously overhead, the people in the room fan away their discomfort with whatever they can find to move the sultry air about.

They are a group of what Michael once termed “organic types,” anachronisms of the 60's dressed in Birkenstock shoes, granny dresses and Indian weave shirts. Michael is an obvious contrast in a smartly-tailored summer suit, sans jacket, and stylish suede moccasins. But, the twenty-something students are passionate, and Michael is confident he will recruit some dedicated activists from this orientation. He goads them masterfully.

“I can't believe you people still dress this way. If you want the movers and shakers of America to support your causes, you've got to look like them, talk like them. You've got to infiltrate their territory, their boutiques and their banks, their country clubs and their Rotary Clubs. You've got to get at them from the inside. Then, they'll think the change in consciousness has sprung from their own brilliant minds.

“Slowly but surely, it will be politically, socially, and morally correct, and, lest we forget, financially advantageous for them to do the right thing. Believe it or not, these self-serving rich bastards would rather let the whole earth shrivel and die unless there was a payoff in it for them. And status, my friends, is the biggest payoff of all.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Warren, but I seem to recall you were one of those self-serving, rich bastards yourself.” This from a hostile, bearded young man with a cynical smirk. There is sparse, embarrassed laughter among the group.

Michael smiles with them, having heard this accusation more than once before, and with less political correctness. “Don't judge a man by the company he used to keep. My point is, you don't have to be like them, just let them think you are.”

“Why should we be phony like them, or vain and pretentious about our looks like they are?” the hostile one presses on. “We have a mission far more socially important.”

A young woman, tired from sitting and wet with perspiration, stretches her arms up and back to reveal an unshaved armpit.

Michael hammers back. “Believe it or not, you can be socially conscious and still take a bath. People today are turned off by the great unwashed. Nobody's asking you to dress like a Vogue model, but we have to change the image of the activist movement if we are to transcend class boundaries, close the generation gap and bring the majority over to our side. Déclassé and eco-terrorism are out. Finesse is in.”

He holds up a sheet of paper. “Sign up, if you're inclined to follow our lead; leave now, no questions asked, if you're not. We meet every week, same time for briefings. Hope to see you hop on board.”

A scattering of applause follows Michael as he exits the meeting room and hurries next door to his office. Hastily he stuffs a stack of reports in his briefcase and snaps it shut.

Michael's colleague, Al Jergens, glances nervously at his watch. “What time does your plane leave, Mike?”

“About five minutes ago.” Michael slips his jacket on, despite the muggy air.

“You're scheduled to testify at 9am tomorrow,” Jergens reminds him for the tenth time that day. “You can't miss this plane.”

“Stop worrying. I'll make it. I'm taking the Red Eye to D.C. from New Orleans.”

Jergens is right on Michael's tail as he rushes toward the elevator. “New Orleans! Why the hell are you stopping there? Get a direct flight to D.C. And get a good night's sleep for a change. I need you totally focused for that Senate hearing.”

“I'll be running on fire and brimstone, my favorite fuel.” Michael steps into the elevator.

“For God's sake, be on time,” Jergens admonishes him as the doors close. “Call me! Shit.” The phone rings insistently and Jergens hurries back to the office, his lithe athletic movements getting him there just before the last ring. He slams the door and a small crack in the glass snakes its way up a bit farther on the pane that displays the company logo:

Michael Warren & Associates

Attorneys At Law

Environmental Lobbyists.

* * *

Michael stands impatiently in the airport check-in line, behind a very obnoxious woman who interrogates the ever-patient ticket agent.

“I'd like to know what kind of cargo you're carrying. Any drugs, chemicals, or explosives?” she demands with tight, thin lips.

“I'm sorry, I can't give out that kind of information,” the ticket agent replies. Ever since 9/11 everybody's a CIA agent, she muses.

Now more indignant, the woman-from-Hell draws herself up to her full six feet. “Young lady, may I remind you of the Passenger Freedom of Information Act?”

The ticket agent rolls her almond-shaped eyes. “I never heard of it, but…”

“I'd like to know if you have any of the following on this flight: foreign or American diplomats, Arabs or Israeli's, Iranians…”

Unable to restrain himself, Michael whispers to her, “A member of the President's security team is seated in first class, with an emissary for the Saudi Royal family.”

In a huff, the woman grabs her ticket from the agent and strides off, no doubt to complain to the president of the airline. Michael moves up in line, and he and the ticket agent burst out laughing simultaneously.

In the locker area across from the boarding gate, Gerhardt Schmidt, a stocky, stern-looking man with a buzz haircut, opens his locker and removes an audiocassette tape. For a split second, Schmidt studies the title on the cassette: “Revelation No. 1,” then places it strategically in his carry-on bag and closes the locker door.

Michael's reservation is not, for some incomprehensible reason, in the computer. “I'm sorry, Mr. Warren,” the ticket agent says. “It looks like all seats are booked on this flight. In fact, it looks like we overbooked. There's another flight at 8pm.”

“That's too late. I've got to get on this flight.” Michael leans in to whisper something in the ticket agent's ear so the other passengers in line could not overhear.

Sympathetic, the young woman ponders a moment. “Oh, I see – well, let me try something.” She clicks on the microphone to the loud speaker. “May I have your attention please. All passengers on flight 1632 to New Orleans. We have an emergency request for a seat assignment. If anyone is willing to give up his or her seat, the airline will give you $500 in vouchers or first class accommodations on the 8pm flight. Thank you.”

“Let's wait and see what happens,” the agent encourages Michael.

Almost instantly, a woman dressed in what could best be described as Tijuana Technicolor meets flea market tacky, rushes up to the ticket counter.

“That's a deal!” she chimes, as though Monty Hall himself had made the offer. “I'll give you my seat.” She thrusts her ticket at the agent who is as dumbfounded at the speedy results as Michael, who stammers his appreciation.

Eyeing Michael's 40-ish good looks and fit physique, Technicolor Tacky Lady replies flirtatiously, “No problem, Honey. Hey, maybe we should both dump this flight and kill some time together.”

“Uh - well, another time, another place. Maybe.”

The ticket agent hands Michael his boarding pass. “You're all set, Mr. Warren. Your seat is 7F. Oh, what a coincidence. That's the same seat on your Red Eye to D.C. tonight.”

“Maybe it's an omen,” Michael suggests.

Michael's contentment lasts only for the moment, disturbed by an unexpected phone call received by the ticket agent.

“Yes, we're just about ready to roll. What delay? Okay, I'll handle it.” Unfazed, the agent clicks on the microphone again. “May I have your attention, please. All passengers on flight 1632 to New Orleans. There will be a slight delay while we finish servicing the plane. Seems someone forgot the dinner trays. Should only take about 20 minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Damn.”

Michael finds a seat and flops in it. He starts to light a cigarette, but when the man seated next to him begins coughing his lungs out Michael changes his mind and throws the cigarette away. Taking a second glance at the man's gray face and nicotine stained hands Michael tosses the entire pack away.

Standing by the locker area out of Michael's view, Technicolor Tacky Lady – who in actuality is Mercedes McCormick – purses her lips happily as Gerhard Schmidt hands her five one hundred-dollar bills. “Ooh! This sure is my lucky day. Who is this guy anyway?”

“Now you just forget all about this little transaction, hear?” Schmidt chides her in a silky drawl that belies his gruff appearance.

Mercedes' eyes twinkle mischievously. “What transaction, honey?” She stuffs the bills into her purse and sashays away, unaware that her prearranged meeting with Gerhard Schmidt is only a prelude to the intrigue that awaits her as a major player in Michael Warren's life.