Chapter 3 ~ pg. 2

“Will do. I’ll tell you how the case landed in our lap. Interpol has their hands tied with about fifteen hundred terrorist threats and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about a brother who hacked up his sister and a couple other girls. They think they’re pawning this off on us, but we need the publicity.”

The big picture was starting to come into focus and it wasn’t a Picasso. “And you’re calling me to get my tailor’s number?”

“Right. Listen, we want to hire you to augment the investigation. Glease told me a little about you and it seems to fit with what I’ve heard; you’re a prick, but you’re a smart fucking prick.”

Cunning fucking prick. Say it with me.

I asked Chuck, “Is that who I’ll be working with?”

“Yep. You’ll be working directly under him.”

I didn’t like working under anyone, but if I had to, there were worse people to work under than Wade Gleason. “Who else is on the team?”

New image, my ass. I cut to the chase, literally. “When does my flight leave?”

It was raining and my doorman, an old black gent named Hale, and I huddled under the apartment building’s long balustrade. Ten minutes later, Hale had successfully hailed me a cab. I can just picture Hale’s reaction to the results of his job aptitude test when they told him his occupational dreams were limited to doorman or weatherman. Nevertheless, Hale threw my bag in the trunk and wished me a safe trip.

The cabby delivered me to Philadelphia International in less than ten minutes and I rewarded him with a crisp fifty. He seemed quite appreciative and I was wished a safe trip, yet again. The woman at the American Airline’s desk asked to see my driver’s license, handed me a ticket, and I was wished a safe trip for a third time. I checked my back for a sign that read, Going on Unsafe Trip, but it must have fallen off.

I walked to the terminal and handed my ticket to a computer with light brown hair and a large mainframe. The computer directed me through black curtains to a nicely cushioned window seat. Holy fucking handbaskets, the Federal boys shelled out for first-class. If it wasn’t an off day in my rotation, I would have shit my pants.

I’d flown first-class on one other occasion and I remember noticing they kept the best looking flight attendants up here and the gargoyles and gays back in coach. A twenty-something knockout, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, appeared from thin air and asked if I would enjoy a preflight cocktail.