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restaurants, and swanky condos.
    Marina Del Rey is a lively place. In these condos, among sun-tanned boaters, reside pilots and flight attendants from the many airlines that serve LAX. Most are young and single and on the prowl, the married ones having moved to inland suburbs to raise their families. Niki lived in such a condo called
La Casa Nova.
Though flight attendants frequently share their apartments, Niki had told me she lived alone, preferring privacy and quiet to catch up on sleep after long night flights.
    La Casa Nova
I’d never seen, but she had described it to me in such detail that I easily found the rambling stucco buildings across from the bay-front “Chowder House” restaurant with a dozen slips filled with yachts. I parked my car and approached the condominium on foot. Its wrought iron security gate, as I expected, was locked. Since I wanted to surprise Niki, I didn’t use the intercom. I waited for a resident to come along with a gate key.
    Within minutes two arm-in-arm lovers, both in airline uniforms, strolled up as if walking on air. The bleach blonde woman and her glazed-eyed pilot were oblivious to me. The gate opened and I followed them in. They never looked back, beating a hot path to their apartment.
    The lushly landscaped
La Casa Nova
consisted of a several stuccoed wings built around a pink, heart-shaped swimming pool. Nice touch. The effect reminded me of a Japanese “love hotel.” From Niki’s letters, I recalled that her apartment was“309-F.” I wandered the grounds until I found the “F” wing, huffed up outdoor stairs to the third floor, then hurried past the first few doors. My pulse was racing when I reached “309-F.” To drive Adrienne Ridgely and her case far from my mind, I chanted a love mantra:
Niki–Niki–Niki.
When Niki’s door eventually opened, I was sure my face would reveal nothing but Pure Stoke at seeing my
‘ono wahine.
    Imagining the totally
out of control
scene that would soon take place in Niki’s condo
–Ho!–
I knocked on “309-F” and listened with anticipation to oddly heavy footsteps approaching the door. A smile tightened on my face.
“Niki–Niki–Niki.”
I uttered the mantra under my breath. The dead bolt cranked and the door swung open. My smile fell.
    Standing before me was not my lovely Niki, but a pink-eyed, stubble-cheeked airline pilot in his mid-forties who looked as if he had just crashed-landed on an overnight flight. His pilot’s uniform was wrinkled, his ruddy face was shadowed by those mostly gray whiskers, and his eyes on closer inspection appeared not just pink, but bloodshot.
    “Who are you?” I asked, more than a little curious.
    “Captain Jacoby,” he said in a gravelly, brusque voice. “Who the hell are
you?”
    I glanced inside the dark and disordered apartment. “Where’s Niki?”
    “Flying to Denver.” The bedraggled pilot looked me up and down. “Why do you want to know?”
    “Niki is . . . .” I hesitated. “She’s an old friend.”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” he smirked.
    The more this rumpled pilot talked, the less I liked him.
    My fists involuntarily clenched.
Like beef?
    “Niki doesn’t pick up guys on airplanes anymore,” the pilot glowered. “She’s mine.”
    “What makes you think she picked me up?” I shot back.
    “Look, you’re not the first lovesick puppy to come sniffing after her.” His stance spread. His arms hung loose, ready to fight.
    “Lovesick puppy!”
I puffed up my chest. About to swing on him, suddenly I saw myself being played like a chess pawn. The image looked comical.
What a stupid gremmie I’ve been!
I began to feel more sorry for this red-eyed pilot than for myself. After all, my worries about Niki were over. His worries, well, had maybe just begun.
    “How long have you two been a couple?” I asked in a more conciliatory tone, expecting to hear:
“Only a month . . . .”
Or a few days, more or less.
    “A year this November.” The pilot’s fists