“I don’t actuallyknowBilly, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I do know of John Mellencamp and heard about that Jack and Diane concert.” Kenny laughed, feeling relieved that Hailey likely didn’t hear or process any of the other ridiculousness that she just spewed. She also chuckled thinking back to all the hilarious songs, memes, and SNL skits that went viral linking Jack Smith and Diane Long to John Cougar’s 1982 love ballad.
“One question, though: Why are you working for Low Country Hospitality when you live in West Virginia?” Kenny asked, finally reeling herself back in and thinking the journalist in her should ask a question or two to verify she wasn’t being swindled by a scam artist.
“Random right? I’m a tourism and hospitality major at WVU and did an internship with Low Country Hospitality this summer at their Hilton Head properties. Best summer of my life. The boss said if I was able to keep up with reservation inquiries, he’d keep me on during the semester.”
“Good for you! I’ve stayed at the Waterfront Hotel. Right there, on the Monongahela River. It’s run by WVU students, right? It was always a great stay. I feel like I’ll be in good hands if that’s where you’ve been learning the ropes, Hailey.”
“Thanks, Kenny. Reach out anytime you have questions. It’s been nice chatting, but I gotta run. It’s Rush Week. Eek! Have a great day.”
Eleven
“Bella. Good morning, sunshine. What are we driving today, Miss Kenny? All your usual poisons have full tanks of gas and are ready to go,” the friendly Hispanic man dressed in perfectly pressed khaki pants and a green and white striped polo shirt enthusiastically greeted.
Damien, the manager at the National Car Rental on West Fifty-SixthStreet, had been the second most constant and reliable man in Kenny’s life, next to Colby. Until the recent Border Book betrayal, anyway. With all the trips back and forth to Connecticut over the last nine months covering the Clinton White case, Kenny spent more days than not picking up or dropping off cars. Damien would open the garage early or close it late depending on Kenny’s schedule. He always made sure one of Kenny’s three favorite vehicles to drive was available in the fleet. On the days the city was experiencing severe weather temperatures, Damien surprised Kenny with hot chocolate or popsicles.
“Good morning, friend! Let’s do the Nautilus today. But there’s one caveat. It’ll be a one-way drop off,” she said with a hesitant grin.
Kenny learned the hard way that rental car companiesdo notlike when their vehicles are returned to a different garage than they were driven away from.
When the world began shutting down because of COVID, Kenny was on an assignment in Ottawa, Canada, where a blizzard dumped feet of snow and grounded all air traffic. At risk of being stuck on the wrong side of the border, Kenny decided to hop behind the wheel of her midsized SUV and made the seven and a half hour trek down Interstate 81 back to NYC. Driving through a Canadian blizzard was stressful enough, let alone wondering if patrol agents on either side of the border had been given the directive to restrict anyone from coming or going by the time she reached customs. To her relief, the agents at the Buffalo-Niagara Falls crossing allowed her to pass through and the snow had let up a bit.
It wasn’t until about thirty miles into the U.S. and Kenny was on the phone with Colby, explaining that she got pulled over for driving too slowly and realized the speedometer on the rental was in kilometers. Then it struck her that she had no idea where she was going to drop off the four-wheel drive she picked up at the Toronto airport five days prior. Colby jumped into action while his panicked friend continued her odyssey back to civilization and called every National Car garage in all five boroughs begging them to accept the vehicle. The only agent who would even entertain the thought of taking a car that had been driven one-way, across international borders and didn’t gauge speed in miles, was a guy at a creepy parking lot surrounded by a chain-linked fence somewhere in Jamaica, Queens that allegedly serviced JFK.
“Take your bags, leave the keys under the seat, and get out of here before my manager sees you or that car,” said the guy who was wearing a black sweat suit, black skull cap, and N95 mask.
To her knowledge, Kenny never observed a drug deal but imagined she could’ve been mistaken for a trafficker peddling illegal foreign goods down the street from a world renown airport at one in the morning.
“Anything for you Miss Kenny,” Damien said with a wink. “I’ll call downstairs and have them bring up the Nautilus. Where are we headed, who should I tell to expect the drop off? Need an EZ Pass?”
“I’m taking some time off work—and heading to Hilton Head, South Carolina, for a few weeks. It’s been an exceptionally rough few days, and I need to hit a reset button. Or something . . .” Her voice trailed. “I’ll probably make a stop or two along the way to catch a few hours of sleep and plan to pull onto the island sometime Monday morning. Let’s throw in the EZ Pass to be safe. You know, Damien, that’s the first time I’ve said any of that out loud. And it sounds just as crazy as it seems,” she nervously giggled.
“Good for you, mami. You know I worry about you and all those crazy hours you work. I almost called WBS myself when I saw you had a reservation for first thing on a Saturday morning.”
“You’re always looking out for me, Damien,” she said with a forced smile.
“I heard that Dr. Love guy you always talk about is going to be on TV. Is that because of you?” Damien asked as he furiously pounded away at the computer keyboard. “He was all the talk at my cigar club last night. My buddies’ wives think the guy is a real dreamboat.”
Kenny always wondered what the agents had to record before releasing a rental car to a driver. The process seemed to take longer than going through security at an airport. And with that innocent inquiry about Clinton White, the drawn-out wait made it seem like it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson.
“Ugh, yea. I heard that, too. Unfortunately, NBC landed the interview. WBS lost that one,” Kenny lamented.
She stopped short of admitting that the sexy, charismatic, wealthy wife-killer was the flame that started the wildfire that eventually engulfed the landscape of her life in less than twelve hours and ultimately led her to Damien’s underground garage too early this Saturday morning.
The relentless promotion of said interview is what prevented Kenny from purchasing a plane ticket in the first place. With her abundance of Delta SkyMiles, she could have had a first-class seat and jetted down to Hilton Head in two hours and change. Aside from rarely flying in or out of JFK, LGA, or Newark without bumping into a colleague or competitor, Kenny knew that reminders of the Clinton White interview would be everywhere.
Although the main event, the two-hour Wednesday Primetime Special, was still five days away, NBC’s publicity team would do a brilliant job of rolling it out. Every day, they would drop a sound bite or two from the interview to keep Dr. Love in the news cycle and build up anticipation leading to the broadcast. The racks at the countless Hudson News stores and stands that occupied more real estate in airports than some airline carriers would be abundant with papers and salacious tabloids boasting clever, attention-grabbing headlines that, in Kenny’s opinion, were nothing more than free publicity for NBC. Whatever the Peacock network decided to leak that day would be looped into the banners that scrolled across the bottom of CNN, FOX, and News Nation. Kenny knew that there wasn’t a waiting area, restaurant, lounge, or bar at any airport that didn’t have at least one TV in a traveler’s view at all times.
Kenny deemed any airport to be unsafe for her sanity. Driving twelve hours down Interstate 95, acting as her own pilot and copilot, in a rental car seemed to be the more viable option.
“Guess it’s like any other business. You win some and lose some. Hertz has really given us a run for our money lately,” Damien said as his typing slowed down, and he took one last forceful click of the mouse. Kenny knew this last click meant that copious amounts of paper would begin flying out of the printer. “But today you’re back in the winner’s circle. Between your Executive Status and the free rentals that you’ve accumulated, the Nautilus won’t cost you a penny! You can drop it off on Beach City Road at the Hilton Head Airport.”
Damien came out from behind the counter, dropped the keys and EZ Pass into Kenny’s hand, and gave her a hug.
“Drive safe and call me if you run into any vehicle problems. Oh, and take this. Start your vacation early,” the car attendant said and handed her a coconut beach scented Yankee Candle air freshener he pulled from his pocket.
Kenny hopped in the car, adjusted her seat, and smiled and waved to Damien in the rearview mirror as she pulled away.
Who just happens to have an extra Yankee Candle air freshener in their pants pocket?She laughed to herself.I bet Damien’s counterpart at Hertz doesn’t.
