THREE MINUTES

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Chapter 10

06:22, 11 September 2001

Newark International Airport

Newark, New Jersey

Mornings at Newark's Concourse A were typically rather quiet.

This somewhat belied the notion that the airport was indeed one of the busiest in the nation; as the northeast hub for Federal Express, there were hundreds of red, white, and blue cargo DC-10's zipping in and out at any given moment. But the top level of Concourse A, where departures for most domestic flights took place, was relatively calm -- apart from the continual drone of the intercom system.

The ubiquitous white courtesy phone.

At 6 feet 3 inches, Kevin Young was not the tallest skycap in the airport by any reckoning; but his girth had proven more remarkable among the staff, and by his second year working there everyone pretty much called him "Heavy Kevvie". He had that Midwestern blonde farm hand look, as if perhaps at one time he may have played varsity high school football. It had proven difficult to find a uniform for him that fit properly, and in the end it had to be specially ordered.

Walking through the concourse, Kevin glanced in a reflective column and straightened his hat, looking around at the light morning crowd. Most travelers at this time of day were doing so on business, he realized. Kevin didn't have to work too hard to seek out people who needed his help; if they needed something, they would usually find him first. The majority of these passengers flew weekly, if not daily, and were experienced travelers; they knew how to negotiate the parking system, they knew how late they could sleep in and still make their flights. They knew how to dress to stay comfortable on both coasts and in the airplane itself, they knew how much they needed to pack, how big their bags could be if they wanted to avoid the perceived risk of checking their luggage. They knew how to move quickly through ticketing and security. And they knew the answers to the questions they would be asked that morning without even having to consider them.

"Has anyone unknown to you asked you to carry an item on this flight?"

"No."

Kevin had spent the better part of an hour with the second largest skycap in the airport, moving an incredibly heavy wooden crate from receiving onto the line, finally handing it over to the airline baggage guys right by the gate. It had been like moving a small refrigerator, Kevin had thought, if someone left all the beer in it.

The baggage guys had nearly had heart attacks when they weighed the thing. Fortunately it wasn't shaping up to be a full flight, and the weight-and-balance program could work it out.

Not that it would have mattered. Kevin had made sure it was understood this crate was a priority. If they had needed to, the airline guys would have unloaded passenger bags and put them on a later flight. Kevin knew how to grease the wheels, and that particular morning he had been given plenty of grease to spread around.

Kevin walked over to his current client. "Excuse me, captain?"

The dark and handsome man put down the newspaper he had been reading. His uniform identified him as a pilot for American Airlines. "Yes?"

"Sir, I've got the stub for your oversized crate." Kevin handed him a blue slip of paper.

"Thank you. The extra weight was no problem?"

"Not at all, sir." The skycap extended his hand. "We always go the extra mile for our colleagues in other airlines."

"Have any of the items you are traveling with been out of your immediate control since the time you packed them?"

"No."

Standing, the pilot reached out to shake the skycap's hand, slipping him a large denomination bill. "I appreciate the help."

"No problem," said Kevin, glancing down to check his own hand. He was delighted to discover it now held $100. The excessive over-tipping he had witnessed in the last half hour was the kind of stuff movie stars were famous for, or Texas oil barons. Clearly he had latched on to a pilot with some serious seniority, to be dropping cash as quickly and as generously as he had been. Or maybe he just had his own money; he had the look of some kind of Indian, or maybe an Arab. Kevin had a personal theory that all Arabs were somehow tied to the oil fortunes of the Middle East, like one big family.

Perhaps, he thought, some additional sucking-up was in order. "If you don't mind me saying, sir," he offered, "that's a nice gift for your brother."

The pilot smiled. "Well, he's got a new place in California, and I'm worried about his taste in music."

Now they were in waters Kevin felt comfortable with. "What did you load that old boy with?"

"Good old-fashioned, wholesome, American rock and roll," said the man. "Not that current stuff, the classics. Chuck Berry. Donovan." He smiled broadly. "Ritchie Valens."

"Nice," said the skycap. "I'm old enough to have put dimes in juke boxes just like that old Wurlitzer." He remembered himself; it appeared the tipping was done for the day. "Well, enjoy your flight. Ticketing says you're all set for the jumpseat, and we've got that big sucker ready to go to San Francisco."

"I appreciate it," said the man.

"And remember if you ever come back this way," added Kevin, "You just ask for Heavy Kevvie, we'll take care of you."

"I will. Thanks again." The pilot stood up and walked towards the security checkpoint, smiling and nodding his way through. As he was going through the metal detector, he handed his small black flight case around to the agent, who handed it right back to him after he was through, not opening it.

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