Australia.’
‘Really? You know that for sure?’ The Randy I knew was a good pilot, but not good enough to be in two places at once.
‘I guess . . . That’s what he told me he was doing.’
The makeup on her face was now transferred to a pile of dirty brown and black wipes on the bench in front of her. Alabama removed the hairnet and shook out her hair, running her long fingers through it. Thick and auburn, it fell down around her shoulders with a gentle wave. At least Randy was lucky in love – Alabama was a knockout punch, her eyes a soft blue-gray, cheekbones high, heart-shaped lips and smooth clear skin that glowed with all the rubbing.
‘Has he called since he left?’ I asked her.
‘From LA – that’s where he said he was. He told me he was about to depart for Hawaii. That was over a week ago. Hasn’t called since, which is unusual. He’s normally pretty good about that – staying in touch. I’ve left him a dozen messages . . .’ Those lines returned to her forehead and her eyes moistened.
‘What’s the name of the company he works for?’
Alabama reached into a bag hooked over the side of her chair and produced a purse from which she pulled a deck of business cards. ‘Nevada Aircraft Brokers,’ she said, shuffling through them. She took a card, eventually, and held it toward me between long index and middle fingers. ‘The guy to speak to is Ty Morrow. He’s the boss.’
I repeated the name to myself, to plant it in my memory, and took the card. ‘You still got the packaging the hand arrived in?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, I kept it in case it was important.’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
She bent down, glanced under the bench, then reached out with her foot and scooped back a FedEx-branded box. She handed it to me and I checked it over, moving it around with a makeup pencil. There was nothing to see with the naked eye, other than the consignment note taped to it. The sender was an illegible scribble with an address in Rio de Janeiro. I wrote down what I could make out. The FBI was firming as a certainty. ‘Vegas PD will want this packaging, too,’ I said.
‘Okay.’
‘You got something I can put it in?’
She opened a drawer under the bench and pulled out a large Bally’s branded paper bag and held it open while I placed the box inside it. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Here – at Bally’s.’
‘Can you give me a minute?’ she asked. ‘I’m just going to change.’
‘You want me to leave?’ I prepared to stand.
‘No, I’ll just go round the corner.’ She motioned at an island of shelving stuffed with feathers and sequined fabrics that ran down the center of the room and divided it in half.
I sat back down and took the opportunity to give Randy’s card the once-over. It was plain gloss white with the words NEVADA AIRCRAFT BROKERS in dark blue and, below them, a set of gold wings with the initials NAB in the center. Under that was Randy’s name and his title: Pilot. Also included were phone, cell and fax numbers as well as email, website and street addresses. The card was blank on the flipside. I scribbled Morrow’s name on it with the makeup pencil and pocketed it. To pass the time, I opened the Bally’s bag and had another look at the packaging, thinking about what had arrived in it. I wondered who it belonged to and whether the right hand knew what the left hand was doing – hanging out with a topless dancer in Vegas. I also wondered how it came to be wearing Randy’s academy ring (assuming it wasn’t a copy), when, according to Alabama, Randy was supposedly airborne on the other side of the world. And how did Rio de Janeiro figure in all of this?
‘Excuse me,’ said an unfamiliar voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I looked up at a milk-coffee-colored woman wearing a black G-string so skimpy it could’ve been a shoelace. She stood beside me, tall and slim and sweet smelling, her bare breasts full and firm and crowned with generous dark-chocolate
‘Really? You know that for sure?’ The Randy I knew was a good pilot, but not good enough to be in two places at once.
‘I guess . . . That’s what he told me he was doing.’
The makeup on her face was now transferred to a pile of dirty brown and black wipes on the bench in front of her. Alabama removed the hairnet and shook out her hair, running her long fingers through it. Thick and auburn, it fell down around her shoulders with a gentle wave. At least Randy was lucky in love – Alabama was a knockout punch, her eyes a soft blue-gray, cheekbones high, heart-shaped lips and smooth clear skin that glowed with all the rubbing.
‘Has he called since he left?’ I asked her.
‘From LA – that’s where he said he was. He told me he was about to depart for Hawaii. That was over a week ago. Hasn’t called since, which is unusual. He’s normally pretty good about that – staying in touch. I’ve left him a dozen messages . . .’ Those lines returned to her forehead and her eyes moistened.
‘What’s the name of the company he works for?’
Alabama reached into a bag hooked over the side of her chair and produced a purse from which she pulled a deck of business cards. ‘Nevada Aircraft Brokers,’ she said, shuffling through them. She took a card, eventually, and held it toward me between long index and middle fingers. ‘The guy to speak to is Ty Morrow. He’s the boss.’
I repeated the name to myself, to plant it in my memory, and took the card. ‘You still got the packaging the hand arrived in?’ I asked her.
‘Yes, I kept it in case it was important.’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
She bent down, glanced under the bench, then reached out with her foot and scooped back a FedEx-branded box. She handed it to me and I checked it over, moving it around with a makeup pencil. There was nothing to see with the naked eye, other than the consignment note taped to it. The sender was an illegible scribble with an address in Rio de Janeiro. I wrote down what I could make out. The FBI was firming as a certainty. ‘Vegas PD will want this packaging, too,’ I said.
‘Okay.’
‘You got something I can put it in?’
She opened a drawer under the bench and pulled out a large Bally’s branded paper bag and held it open while I placed the box inside it. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Here – at Bally’s.’
‘Can you give me a minute?’ she asked. ‘I’m just going to change.’
‘You want me to leave?’ I prepared to stand.
‘No, I’ll just go round the corner.’ She motioned at an island of shelving stuffed with feathers and sequined fabrics that ran down the center of the room and divided it in half.
I sat back down and took the opportunity to give Randy’s card the once-over. It was plain gloss white with the words NEVADA AIRCRAFT BROKERS in dark blue and, below them, a set of gold wings with the initials NAB in the center. Under that was Randy’s name and his title: Pilot. Also included were phone, cell and fax numbers as well as email, website and street addresses. The card was blank on the flipside. I scribbled Morrow’s name on it with the makeup pencil and pocketed it. To pass the time, I opened the Bally’s bag and had another look at the packaging, thinking about what had arrived in it. I wondered who it belonged to and whether the right hand knew what the left hand was doing – hanging out with a topless dancer in Vegas. I also wondered how it came to be wearing Randy’s academy ring (assuming it wasn’t a copy), when, according to Alabama, Randy was supposedly airborne on the other side of the world. And how did Rio de Janeiro figure in all of this?
‘Excuse me,’ said an unfamiliar voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I looked up at a milk-coffee-colored woman wearing a black G-string so skimpy it could’ve been a shoelace. She stood beside me, tall and slim and sweet smelling, her bare breasts full and firm and crowned with generous dark-chocolate
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