Runner-up 4

Palmieri twirled the star sapphire ring on his right pinky and stared out the window as his flight touched down at LAX. Heat surged through his temples as his veins pulsed. He was not a happy man.

First came the call from Bonner. He wouldn’t be making it to Cabo. Then he got some garbled message from Hans, who botched a pretty simple assignment. And Ernesto? His gut told him right from the start that Ernesto couldn’t be trusted. Gut: 1; Palmieri: 0. For now. The game wasn’t over yet.

Now, of all things, he was flying coach. If he’d known he’d have to fly to L.A. instead of Bonner flying to him, he wouldn’t have given his pilot the night off. Unreachable -- and probably strapped in by some chiquita’s long legs -- he’d be fired as soon as his phone was back on.

“Never turn your phone off” were his explicit instructions to the new guy. Palmieri tightened his jaw ‘til it almost popped. “No second chances. For anyone,” he said to himself.

Palmieri always got what he wanted. From the early days -- “delivering packages” for the lords of Flatbush -- to now -- wheeling and dealing with the power brokers of Hollywood and Washington -- Palmieri knew how to size up people and situations. He did it with finesse. Or he did it with muscle. Whatever it took.

And he was never wrong. But something was seriously wrong this time. And, for that, he thought, someone -- everyone -- would pay.

He impatiently waited as the plane taxied to the gate. Flight attendants droned on about remaining in your seat with your belt buckled. It drove him nuts. He grabbed the bag he’d stowed under the seat in front of him. With an abrupt tone that startled those around him, Palmieri said out loud, “Let’s get a move on here.”

Palmieri flipped his phone open with a jerk and hit send twice to redial the last number. “We’ve landed,” was all he said as he just as quickly flipped the phone shut. Palmieri stepped into the aisle and filed out, each step measured as his revised plan unfolded.

He moved briskly past the crowd plodding like cattle toward baggage claim. They all turned right -- to collect their bags. He went straight out the automated, double doors to the jet-black Lincoln pulling up to the curb. His driver stepped out and opened the back door for Palmieri. The two men exchanged knowing looks. No words were needed.

He settled into the Town Car’s soft, leather seats and threw his bag next to him. They headed out of the airport to complete the mission that everyone else was evidently failing at.

Oddly, an old nursery rhyme came to Palmieri’s mind. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,” he found himself saying. “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

But this was no nursery rhyme. This was Bonner. This was Falco. This was Hans, Carmen and now Ernesto. And this was the Birds of Paradise. With Palmieri now in L.A., it would be up to him to put the pieces back together again.

As Palmieri gazed through the black, tinted windows, he calmly and collectedly said to the driver, “We have one little detour before going to Falco’s. Malibu,” was all Palmieri said.

Elizabeth Atwell Hart says her commitment to exercising her mind keeps her cranking out “another chapter of ‘The Birds of Paradise.’ ”