Falling Star by Philip Chen Page A

of customers looking for morning coffee and pastries.  The dingy shop was busy.
    An unlikely couple.  The older of the two had a professorial air.  Busy tamping tobacco into his burlwood pipe, he would stop every so often to sip steaming hot, black coffee from his porcelain mug.
    The younger man had a large round face upon which sat a curiously small pair of round, rimless glasses.  He looked very uncomfortable; his small beady eyes constantly surveyed the patrons and other goings-on of the busy shop.  His coffee was heavily laden with cream and sugar.  He bolted down his Cherry Danish.
    Occasionally, the younger man would look up at this companion as if he were looking for a sign of recognition, familiarity.  None came.
    "When did you come up?"
    "L-Late last night."
    "When are you going back?"
    "Immediately."  The younger man fidgeted nervously.
    "Why did you call - you know that you aren't supposed to ever call me," said the older man impatiently.
    "Yes, I know, but…"
    "We shouldn't be meeting in person.  Why the rush?"
    "Y-you need to see these," stammered the younger man as he took out a manila envelope and surreptitiously handed it to his booth mate.  "Something big is happening."
    The older man took the envelope and put it into his soft leather attaché, without as much as a glance.
    The younger man ventured, "How are things?"
    He received no response.  The older person did not meet his gaze and busied himself with his burlwood pipe.
    With that, the younger man got out of the booth and with a sweep of his eyes, shuffled out of the coffee house, and disappeared into the bustling crowd of people heading to work.  With luck he could catch the 11:20 AM flight at Logan for his trip south.
    The older man quietly watched his companion depart, and, after waiting a few more minutes, causally gathered his belongings, walked up to the cash register and paid the bill.  Exiting the coffee shop, the older man calmly glanced up and down Cambridge Street and walked to his parked car.

     
     
    1993: Mildred

    1000 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Gate 26 Red Concourse, Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport

    "May I help you?"
    "Yes, ma'am.  I'm on Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport.  Can I get an aisle seat?" said the tall blond boy dressed in Levi jeans, a white sweat shirt with the St. Olaf College crest in royal blue on the front, and Puma running shoes.  "Do we get lunch on this flight?"
    "You bet.  How about Seat 16C?  We'll be boarding in about ten minutes."
    Behind Eric Johanson, a line of people was waiting patiently for their turn to get seats on Flight 504.  About three people back from Eric stood a thin woman dressed in a navy blue business suit with a white silk blouse and red bow tie.
    The black-haired woman was attractive, looked as if she were in her early thirties, and seemed bored by the routine of boarding the Northwest Airlines flight.  She had the most beautiful blue eyes, something that Eric had noted earlier while waiting for the gate agents to open up shop.  He also remembered the scent of lavender when she walked past.  It was the same scent that his favorite aunt used.
    Boy, he thought, if the older women in New York look that good, I wonder how girls my age will look?
    A loud metallic voice rumbled through the din at the gate.  "Attention, Northwest Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport will be ready for general boarding in a few minutes.  We would like to ….  As usual, we invite our first-class passengers and our Gold and Preferred Card Worldperks members to board at their leisure."
    "Flight 504 is now available for general boarding."
    Handing his boarding pass to the gate agent, Eric started down the metal passageway to the Boeing 727-200 jetliner and was met at the doorway by a pert blond flight attendant who looked at his boarding card and waved him toward the rear of the aircraft with a smile.
    Waiting for the crowd before him to find their seats, Eric soaked