"For you to jump Lynette here and me to watch."
"You just want to watch?"
"It's better than riding my vibrator to Minneapolis," the redhead said with resigned sincerity.
"There's nothing in the first-class galley I want," said Remo, folding his lean arms stubbornly.
"Well, I guess you'll just have to do him here," said the redhead to the blonde with an air of determination. "Scare me up a blanket, Lyn."
"Nothing doing," said Remo as the blonde hurried back to an aft storage bin.
"Sir, it's our duty as flight attendants to cater to your every need. You said blonde. So you're getting a blonde. And that's it," the redhead fumed, dropping into the empty seat beside Remo and reaching for his zipper.
"Let me make you comfortable." That's when her tapered fingers encountered the tiny luggage padlock and her glossy red mouth made a tasty O.
"What's this?"
"A simple precaution," said Remo.
"Where's the key?"
"In my luggage."
"Oh, my God. It's way down in the cargo hold by now."
"You could go get it," Remo suggested.
"I might miss the flight."
"If you don't get that key, you'll definitely miss the show."
"Don't let the plane take off without me."
"Never happen," said Remo, who watched the redhead scurry up the aisle, not at all hindered by the broken shoe heel lost when taking the turn to the main exit door at 2 G's.
When the ash blonde returned with a fluffy blue blanket, Remo put on an innocent face.
"Your friend just quit."
"Oh! Does that mean it's off?"
"Catch me on the return flight."
"I'll be there."
"But I won't," Remo murmured as the 727 backed out of the gate and taxied to the runway with the redhaired stewardess running in her nylons after them, waving her pumps.
When Remo gave her a little finger wave, she threw her shoes at the aircraft's tail assembly one at a time.
Later the blonde stewardess brought Remo a silver tray from the galley.
"I found you some liver pate."
"Don't eat the stuff."
"Gentlemen who prefer blondes usually like liver pate."
"I only said I like blondes to discourage the redhead. Actually I'm into brunettes this week."
"I'll be right back," the blonde said, rushing back to coach.
When she came back, with a zaftig brunette in tow, Remo had locked himself in the first-class rest room, and no amount of pounding, threats or promises would bring him out until the jet's turbines were spooling down at the Minneapolis gate.
Other than that, it wasn't a bad flight, and it did give Remo the idea for making liver pate.
So when he wheeled the sterling service cart up to room 28-A of the Radisson South Hotel in his starched whites, a Chef Boyardee cap cocked on his head, Remo had his line of attack already planned out.
The door opened, and an overfed hair-bag in a sharkskin suit grunted, "You the guy with the steaks?"
"No, I'm the liver pate chef."
"I don't want your liver," he snarled.
"But I want yours," said Remo, running the cart in despite the best attempts of the hair-bag to block his way. The hairbag filled most of the doorway, so he was the most befuddled man in Minneapolis when Remo was suddenly behind him bringing the cart to a squeaky stop.
The hair-bag turned with all the lightning reflexes of a wooden totem pole. It took him six careful steps to get all the way around.
"I said we don't want your liver, jerk-ass!" he bellowed.
"And I said I want yours," returned Remo in an unperturbed tone.
By that time, the men in bad, tight-fitting suits with bunching unibrows over snarling eyes were getting out of their seats looking belligerent.
"What the fuck is this?" asked a black man who wore a gold chain that linked his earlobes, nostrils and nipples and possibly other portions of his anatomy beneath his white silk shirt and tight-fitting white vinyl pants.
"Liver-pate chef," said Remo, taking the silver domes off six serving dishes.
The bodyguard stumped up, looked down, blinked three times real slow and announced the supremely obvious. "I see only fucking lettuce."
"Haven't pated the livers yet," said Remo.
"We don't want none," the bodyguard growled. "Tell him, Mr. D."
Mr. D. looked all of thirty and as bright as a twenty-five-watt bulb. Remo pegged him for the D'Ambrosia honcho on the scene. That made the guy with all the chains the local supplier.
"Look, we ordered the steak and lobster. You got the wrong room," Mr. D. insisted.