“Yeah, I probably should have expected that,” she said. “Especially after what we just went through upstairs.”
“What did you just go through?” Laura asked.
“The customs people wouldn’t let us go,” she said. “We were the first ones to make it to the counter and the last ones to leave.”
“What was the problem?” Jake asked. “They didn’t think you were smuggling, did they? Who smuggles things into Venezuela?”
“Lots of people do, actually,” Celia said. “Cash mostly. Illicit income from the drug trade in US dollars. But that wasn’t what took so long. They didn’t even go through our bags. They just kept talking to us, asking us personal questions. They asked about the whole story with Suzie and me. They asked about my divorce from Greg. They asked about Mindy Snow. They even asked about you and Laura.”
“Why were they asking about that?” Laura asked.
“Simple curiosity would be my guess,” Celia said. “The same reason all the other random people ask us about it. Only they were trying to use their authority positions to get me to say something.”
“You didn’t tell them anything, did you?” asked Jake.
“Only what I tell everyone: that I deny everything.”
“And then they asked why I was traveling with her if none of it was true,” Suzie said.
“What did you say?” asked Laura.
“Just that we were good friends, I am now on a one-month hiatus from my assignments, and that Celia invited me to see her country and her hometown. I then told them how beautiful I found Venezuela so far.” She smiled. “That seemed to mollify them a little.”
“That was exactly the right thing to say,” Celia said. “We Venezuelans are culturally very proud of our country. Even more so than the other South American nations, I believe.”
“They looked at my panties,” Laura said.
Suzie and Celia looked at her. “Your panties?” Celia asked. “They made you take off your pants?”
“No, not the panties I’m wearing,” she explained. “The ones in my luggage. Even the ones in the laundry bag. They looked at those the longest.”
“Disgusting!” Suzie said.
Jake simply shrugged. “They were just being guys,” he said. “I’d have done the same thing in their situation.”
All three women gave him dirty looks at that piece of information.
“Anyway,” Jake said, deciding a change of subject was in order, “how about we go collect your luggage and blow this scene?”
Everyone thought that was a good idea.
They collected the luggage with only a few more fans harassing Celia. None of them seemed to notice that one of her traveling companions was Jake Kingsley, which Jake thought a little odd since Venezuela was second only to Brazil in Intemperance album sales among South American countries. Maybe we all look alike to them, he was finally forced to conclude.
Outside of the terminal was a white limousine that Celia had arranged for. A tall, handsome driver in a chauffer’s uniform and hat was standing next to it, holding up a sign with Celia’s name on it. He babbled excitedly to her in Spanish when they approached. Jake got enough of the jist of his words to understand that he considered it an honor to drive her and her companions around.
They got in the back and he closed the door for them. Jake asked warily, “Is it safe to ride in a limo in Caracas?”
“Of course it’s safe,” Celia scoffed. “Where do you think you are, Bogota?”
“Good point,” he allowed.
They had a wonderful time in Caracas, spending two days there. They traveled about by limousine and Celia showed them all the sights, the touristy ones and the out of the way places that only a native of the region would know. They saw four-hundred-year-old churches and cathedrals that dated back to the Spanish conquistador era. They rode the Teliferico tram to the top of Avila Mountain and took in the cityscape below (as well as a few drinks). They went into small bars and taverns in the downtown area and mingled with the locals (all of whom were astounded when Celia Valdez just came strolling in like an ordinary person). They visited the clubs where Celia and her brother used to play music before they were discovered and turned into La Diferencia by Aristocrat Records. They ate in five-star restaurants and at little madre and padre eateries in out of the way places. In general, Jake, Laura, and Suzie found Caracas to be a vibrant city, on par with New York or Boston, but with a distinct Latino twist.
Jake actually wanted to stay one more day even though he knew Celia was burning to get to Barquisimeto to finally see her family. His reason for wanting to delay their trip was not because he thought there was much more to see and do in Caracas—although he did think this. It was because a heavy cloud cover had drifted in while they were there, blanketing the entire region in uniform overcast with occasional thunderstorms. Jake did not want to fly in conditions like this.
“Why not?” Suzie asked him when he finally confessed his reason to her. “You’re IFR certified. A flight like this is no problem.”
“I am IFR certified,” he confirmed. “And I fly IFR all the time, usually when we’re going back and forth to Oregon, but ... well ... I only really fly it when I have to go above seventeen thousand and it’s required or if there are spotty clouds. I’ve never really done it when the clouds were so dense I couldn’t see the ground at all—except in training. If there is thick cloud cover or rain or anything like that, I usually just postpone my flight until the weather is better.”
“That’s no way to live your life,” she scoffed. “You have an all-weather aircraft now. Embrace it. Don’t be afraid of it.”
“I get what you’re saying,” he told her, “but I think it’s something I need to work my way up to.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “I’ll sit in the copilot chair and talk you through it. Let’s get Band Geek back to her people.”
“Why don’t you just take the controls for me?” he asked.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “While I’m sure I could fly that plane if I needed to, I’m not type-rated in it. You are. You have to fly it.”
“I really don’t know about this, Suzie,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll tell you ... there’s a little motivational speech I learned from Band Geek that she says she learned from you. It seems to fit the situation right here and now.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
She looked him dead in the eye, her expression one of challenge. “You don’t have a fuckin’ hair on your ass if you don’t make that flight tomorrow morning.”
Jake looked at her in astonishment. “That’s hitting below the belt,” he told her.
She smiled. “Sometimes you have to do that in the interests of teaching.”
And so, it came to pass that the four of them were dropped off at SBIA the next morning at 10:00 AM to get ready for the thirty-eight-minute flight to Jacinto Lara International Airport in Barquisimeto. Jake’s doubts took a significant upturn when he and Suzie went in to compose a flight plan and Jake reviewed the weather report for his destination.
“The ceiling is at thirty-four hundred at JLIA,” he told Suzie. “That’s only fourteen hundred feet AGL.”
“So?” she enquired. “You have ILS. That’s well above the safety limit.”
“I don’t actually use the approach autopilot,” he told her. “I never have since training. I use the nav to give me the glideslope and then hand-fly the landing once I have visual. I’ve never let the autopilot make my descent before.”
“Seems like a good day to start,” she said flippantly. “This is a perfect time to learn to trust your ILS.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.
“Do I need to bring up the hair on your ass—or lack thereof—again?” she asked.