"This is my first time jumping from a Douglas DC-7B," she said.

"Me too," I confessed.

"This is a fabulous addition to our jumper's logbook."

"Fabulous."

"This is the last flying DC-7B in the world."

"I'm not surprised." I looked at the huge, old four-engine propeller aircraft taking up most of the blacktop ramp. It had apparently never been painted, except for an orange lightning bolt running along the fuselage, nose to tail. The bare aluminum had taken on a blue-gray hue, sort of like an old coffee pot. To add to the coffee pot image, all the windows of this former luxury airliner had been covered with aluminum-except, of course, the cockpit windshield, which I guess could be thought of as the little glass percolator thing… well, anyway, the plane looked like a piece of crap. I asked my wife, "How old is that thing?"

"I think it's older than you." She added, "It's a piece of history. Like you."

Kate is fifteen years younger than me, and when you marry a woman that much younger, the age difference comes up now and then, like now when she continued, "I'm sure you remember these planes."

In fact, I had a vague memory of seeing this kind of aircraft when I went to Idlewild-now JFK-with my parents to see people off. They used to have these observation decks, pre-terrorism, and you'd stand there and wave. Huge thrill. I reminisced aloud and said, "Eisenhower was president."

"Who?"

When I met Kate three and a half years ago, she showed no tendency toward sarcasm, and she had once indicated to me that this was one of several bad habits that she'd picked up from me. Right, go ahead and blame the husband. Also, when I met her, she didn't swear or drink much, but all that has changed for the better under my tutelage. Actually, she'd made me promise to cut down on the drinking and swearing, which I have. Unfortunately, this has left me dim-witted and nearly speechless.

Kate was born Katherine Mayfield in some frozen flyover state in the Midwest, and her father was an FBI agent. Mrs. Corey still uses her maiden name for business, or when she wants to pretend she doesn't know me. Kate's business, as I said, is the same as mine-Anti-Terrorist Task Force-and we are actually partners on the job as we are in life. One of our professional differences is that she's an FBI agent, like her father, and a lawyer, like her mother, and I'm a cop. Or as I said, a former cop, out of the job on three-quarter disability, which is not actually disabling, but good enough for a steady check every month. This disability, for the record, is a result of me taking three badly aimed bullets up on West 102nd Street almost four years ago. Actually, I feel fine, except when I drink too much and Scotch spurts out of my holes.

Kate interrupted my thoughts and said, "The ATTF should give us jump pay, like the military does."

"Write a memo."

"This is an important skill."

"For what?"

She ignored my question and turned her attention to the sixty or so skydivers who were milling around aimlessly in silly colored jumpsuits, giving each other dopey high fives or checking one another's pack and harness. No one, and I mean no one, touches my rig, not even my wife. I have literally trusted her with my life, and she's trusted me with hers, but you never know when the ladies are having a bad day.

Kate belatedly replied, "My theory is that mastering difficult skills like skydiving or mountain climbing gives you confidence on the job even if the skill is not directly related to your work."

My theory was that the FBI should first master some basic police skills, such as how to use the subway system or how to follow a suspect without getting hit by a taxi. But I didn't verbalize that.

The concept of this joint task force is to create synergy by joining Federal agents-who all seem to be from Iowa, like Lisa Sims, and who think mass transit means driving to church-and NYPD, who know the city intimately and do a lot of the street work. The concept, in practice, actually works in some weird way. There is, however, some tension and a few small misunderstandings among the men and women of these two very different cultures, and that, I suppose, is reflected in my marriage. And maybe in my attitude.

Anyway, while Kate was checking out our fellow skydivers, I looked at the pilot standing under the wing of the DC-7B. He was peering up at one of the engines. I don't like it when they do that. I observed, "The pilot looks older than the plane. And what the hell is he looking at?"

She glanced toward the aircraft, then asked me, "John, are you getting a little…?"

"Please don't question my manhood." In fact, that's how she got me to agree to skydiving lessons. I said to her, "Be right back."

I walked over to the pilot, who had a close-cropped beard the color of his aluminum plane. He looked even older up close. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap that probably covered a bald head, and he had on jeans and a T-shirt that said "Beam Me Up, Scotty." Funny.

He turned his attention away from the possibly problematic right outboard engine and asked, "Help ya?"

"Yeah. How's your heart?"

"Say what?"

"Do you need a part?"

"Huh? Oh… no, just checking something." He introduced himself as Ralph and asked me, "You jumpin' today?"

What was your first clue, Ralph? The black-and-blue jumpsuit? Maybe the parachute rig on my back, or possibly the helmet in my hand? I replied, "You tell me."

He got my drift and smiled. "Hey, don't let the looks of this old bird fool you."

I wasn't sure if he was referring to the aircraft or himself. I pointed out, "There's oil dripping out of the engines." I drew his attention to the puddles of oil on the tarmac.

Ralph agreed, "Yep. Oil." He informed me, "These old prop planes just swim in oil." He assured me, "When it's time to add more, we just pump it up from fifty-five-gallon drums. Problem is when you don't see oil."

"Are you making that up?"

"Hey, you people have parachutes. I don't. All you got to worry about is getting up there. I got to land this damn thing."

"Good point."

"This was once an American Airlines luxury liner," Ralph confided.

"Hard to believe."

"I bought it for peanuts and converted it to haul cargo."

"Smart move."

"This is my first time hauling skydivers."

"Well, good luck."

"You weigh less, but cargo don't ask questions."

"And cargo doesn't unload itself at fourteen thousand feet."

He laughed.

An even older guy ambled over, and Ralph and he spoke for a minute about things I couldn't understand, but which didn't sound good. The older gent shuffled off, and Ralph said to me, "That's Cliff. He's my flight engineer."

I thought he was Ralph's grandfather.

Ralph further informed me, "No computers on this aircraft, so it takes three cockpit crew to fly this old bird." He joked, "One to fly and two to flap the wings."

I smiled politely.

He continued, "Cliff works the engine throttles, the mixture controls, and all that stuff. He's a dying breed."

I hoped he didn't die after takeoff.

Before I could ask him if he and Cliff had new batteries in their pacemakers, a girl wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, who looked about twelve years old, came up to us and said to the pilot, "Ralph, Cliff and I did the walk-around. Looks okay."

Ralph replied, "Good. I'm gonna let you do the takeoff."

What?

Ralph remembered his manners and said to me, "This is Cindy. She's my copilot today."

I must have heard him wrong, so I ignored that and walked back to Kate, who was in a conversation with one of the guys in our so-called club, a putz named Craig who desperately wanted to fuck my wife.

His stupid smile faded as he saw me approach, and Kate said to me, "Craig and I were discussing the scheduling for our jumps in the next few weeks."