WATER WORKS: 25) THE ULTIMATE APHRODISIAC

Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

34.

Morton's gleaming Gulfstream V is gassed up and ready to launch when I arrive at Teterboro Airport.

I make myself comfortable in one of its buttery leather armchairs. The jet’s interior, peach and turquoise, is reminiscent of Santa Fe.

At 7:29 precisely, a stretch limo slides onto the tarmac beneath my window. Morton Levi alights and boards his Gulfstream.

"Good morning, Morton." This is the pilot sporting aviator shades.

Morton takes a swivel armchair across the aisle from mine.

"So," he says, "where are we going?"

"Antigua. En route to Scrogg Island."

Morton lurches up and sprints to the toilet. He is still closeted when we reach the runway. The pilot brakes and waits. Morton finally returns. He snaps his seatbelt shut and grumbles to himself as we hurtle down the runway and spring into the sky. Once New Jersey disappears beneath us, a lone female flight attendant unhooks herself from a back seat and begins preparing breakfast.

"I've started working on the Aral Sea problem," I say.

"The Aral Sea?"

"You said you want to do the impossible and save the Aral Sea, remember? I have the answer: We've got to pipe water from Siberia. And we've got to get the Uzbeks to stop growing cotton."

"The Uzbeks?"

"Yeah. The Aral Sea is in Uzbekistan—remember?"

Morton shakes his head violently. "I'm not having anything to do with the Uzbeks."

"Why not?"

"I dined at an Uzbek restaurant yesterday. I was up all night. To hell with the Aral Sea. I always go with my gut. And my gut is seriously irritated.”

I recline my seat, hoping the food on Scrogg Island will not cause Morton another gut upset.

The flight attendant appears with two dishes of smoked salmon, sliced paper thin and sprinkled heavily with caviar—Beluga, from the look of its luster.

Morton frowns and thrusts his hands upward to fend off food. "No, take it away."

The flight attendant takes mine too.

"So." Morton turns to face me. "Why are we flying to... wherever we're going?"

"The Scrogg twins want to see you about water."

"Fine." Morton reclines his seat, then faces me again. "What about water?"

"We're talking to them about buying a chunk of their company, Dulci Acqua."

"What does that mean—Dulci Acqua?" asks Morton.

"It's Latin for clean water."

Morton nods. "I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Is it profitable?"

"That’s what we're flying down to find out. They're supposed to open their books to us."

"I don't read financial statements," Morton scoffs. "My business people do that."

"Good. Tell him we need to take their balance sheets back to New York."

Morton snaps his fingers at our flight attendant. "Papers!" he calls.

The stewardess immediately delivers all the New York dailies.

Morton glances at The New York Times, tosses it aside, rises, paces, and returns to his seat.

The Gulfstream bounces.

Morton's face pales even whiter than before. His stomach isn’t up to being heaved and dropped after dealing with Uzbek food poisoning. He unbelts, gets to his feet, and runs for the toilet, where he spends the next 30 minutes.

In his absence, I retrieve and gobble up a plate of smoked salmon and caviar.

"Uzbeks," Morton mutters as he returns to his seat. "Let them save their own goddam sea." He reclines and nods off, a moist washcloth covering his forehead.

I get up to scrounge dessert or champagne or something, and to banter with the stewardess.

"Do you have playing cards?" I asked.

She opens a drawer, produces a deck.

"Excellent. Strip poker?"

She smiles, and motions at the lavatory. "Why waste time?"

I peer inside. This isn’t your normal airplane toilet with urine puddled on the floor and walls falling in on you. This is a plush number, with a shower stall and room to spread out.

The stewardess gives my butt a gentle shove and follows me inside. Within a minute, she is wearing her birthday suit, and helping fit me into mine, then helping fit mine into hers.

I’d put it down to my maturing good looks—but such naiveté soon passes. The truth of the matter is that I’ve stumbled upon the ultimate aphrodisiac: traveling with a billionaire on a Gulfstream V.

Morton is still snoring when I return to my seat.

Behind me, the flight attendant prepares warm scones, Devonshire clotted cream and French strawberry preserve.

I’m already looking forward to the return flight.