The Rendition by Albert Ashforth Page A

while honking his horn at a driver in a blue Lexus who had managed to force her way into our lane. Once the Lexus driver had completed her little maneuver, she grinned, gave Shenlee an unfriendly salute, gunned her engine for emphasis while again changing lanes.
    â€œI oughta—”
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked for maybe the fifth time.
    â€œLike I said, Klear, you’re going to be talking to a very important individual. You’d better be on your best behavior.”
    When I said, “I always am,” Shenlee said, “Yeah, sure.”
    After a while traffic eased up, and we exited onto another highway, this one somewhat less crowded than the expressway. We seemed to be driving in the direction of New York City.
    â€œWe’re looking for exit eleven,” Shenlee said. “We wanna go south.”
    â€œWhere will that take us?”
    â€œWe’re headed to Floyd Bennett Field. You ever heard of it?”
    â€œVaguely.”
    Shenlee shook his head. “If you knew a little more history, Klear, you’d know Floyd Bennett was New York City’s first municipal airport. Famous people took off from there.”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œLike Amelia Earhart. You’ve heard of her, I’m sure. How about ‘Wrong-Way’ Corrigan?”
    â€œWhat did he do?”
    â€œFlew to Ireland. I think it was Ireland. Thought he was going to California.”
    â€œDid he forget his compass? Didn’t he ever look down? C’mon, Jerry. No one could be that dumb.”
    â€œMaybe he thought his oil-pressure gauge was his compass. How the hell should I know?” With one hand on the steering wheel, Shenlee gestured impatiently with the other. “Anyway, Floyd Bennett was a naval air station. But it’s been decommissioned. It sits right on the water, just west of Kennedy. But it still belongs to the government and—”
    â€œAnd it continues to have its uses.”
    â€œIt’s out of the way. That’s always a plus for people in our business.”
    I could have told Shenlee that I wasn’t in his business anymore, but then I wasn’t really sure whether I was or whether I wasn’t.
    I also could have told Shenlee that he was throwing a very large monkey wrench into my life, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good either.
    I was thinking of my girlfriend, Vanessa, an attractive and lively schoolteacher whom I’d met four months ago in the taproom of the Saranac Inn. With her engaging personality and off-the-wall comments, she’d quickly made me forget the TV baseball game to which I had my eyes glued while knocking down a hamburger and my third or fourth Sam Adams.
    When someone legged out a ground ball, causing the crew at thebar to let out a spontaneous cheer, Vanessa turned on her stool and innocently asked, “Did your team score a goal?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “The tight end just kicked a home run.”
    â€œHow did the end get tight?”
    â€œLet me buy you a drink and I’ll show you.”
    We were on a stretch of highway that had a garbage landfill on one side and fields full of cattails on the other.
    â€œAre you enjoying the scenery, Klear?”
    I assumed Jerry meant the remark ironically and didn’t reply.
    Vanessa was fun, but whenever I thought about settling down with her, I’d begin thinking again about Irmie. As we drove, I shoved all thoughts of Vanessa from my mind. I didn’t even want to think what her reaction might be to the news of a sudden departure on my part.
    Farther on, we passed a ball field and some ancient hangars, and Shenlee said that was the airport. On the other side of the road was a marina and dunes full of swamp grass. In the distance, I could see water and what looked like a bridge. Even though we weren’t that far from New York City, there didn’t seem to be much going on out here, certainly not on a cloudy January afternoon.
    Shenlee