And engineer.”“Of course he is,” Mister Lackman said. “And that’s the plane you usually fly.”“Oh, it’s not that bad. I learned in that...one. I fly a Cessna 402 quite a bit.”“Closer,” he said.We pulled up close to our plane. I bounded out and clamped around Dan.“What’d you do, little one?” He asked.“All sorts of things, baby.” I looked, saw Mister Lackman approaching. “Dan, Mister Dennis Lackman. Mister Lackman, my husband Dan Richards.”I must be getting old. Mister Lackman didn’t blink at the. And he would never speak with her, never touch her or kiss her.For what seemed like hours he stared at her photograph. His sips turned into frantic gulps just staring at her, regardless of her radical opinions or her hatred of Muslims, no matter the emblem of fist and Star of David tattooed on her breast, but oh her breathtaking beauty.He gulped his scotch until he tongued bitter, melting ice. He was on the verge of destroying that newspaper as it represented madness; forty dead here and fifty. More

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