CHAPTER TWO
Terror at 8.5344 Kilometers
My flight to Montego Bay on Slipstream Green was unremarkable except, of course, for everything that went wrong.
A harbinger of the difficult passage ahead arrived when, attempting to embark with my fellow first-class passengers, my boarding pass stated I was assigned to seat 50F. My protestations, as civil as they were, that 50F was diametrically opposite my on-line check-in seat of 1A drew only scornful catcalls from the impatient throng gathered behind me. I was escorted from the gate by a humorless Homeland Security gent who advised it was either seat 50F or a minimum forty-eight hour stay in the Mulligatawny Memorial airport lockup. For the briefest of moments I failed to discern a difference between the two and was about to relay my opinion as such when I saw her.
She was a tall, thin almond-skinned beauty. Her braided hair, with its colorful cloth interweaves, dripped over her slim shoulders and down to her nimble waist. The expression she wore portrayed her, if not quite a cool operator, then perhaps a lukewarm one. I was immediately beholden to her for many insights, foremost my impulsive utterance of cooperation.
"Fifty F it is then, my good fellow," I beamed with a smile. "Sorry for the confusion. A bit of premature jetlag on my part, one supposes, yes?"
The stoic guard straightened his tie and escorted me to the end of the line with firm instructions I would be the final passenger to board. By this time, I lost sight of the striking looker but remained content in the knowledge she was somewhere ahead in the funnel that would ultimately lead us both to the warmth of the Caribbean. After several agonizing moments of the outbound line stepping forward then side-to-side, like band members playing a somber dirge at a New Orleans jazz funeral, I finally ducked my head and entered the tubular fuselage. There she was, seated in 1C.
And seat One A is still vacant!
"Ma'am," I politely inquired of the attendant who was effectively blocking the lavatory door, "may I --"
"You're fifty F, aren't you?"
"Well, yes, but I was originally one A." I looked down at my potential flight mate and flashed a winning smile. "If you would look at the --"
"This way," she responded, taking my left arm and twisting it behind my back, "move along now, chop, chop! We've got a schedule to keep."
"But I --"
"Chop, chop! Chop, chop!"
And so I ran the gauntlet formed by fellow travelers, some still housing bitter resentment from my initial stance at the gate. Subjected to having my ribs jabbed with pointy fingers and rolled up magazines, many colorful invectives -- delivered in the delightful melody of the native Jamaican patois -- were hurled at my very being. The top of my dome collided violently with the ancient metal ceiling several times and the attendant, pound-for-pound a most powerful woman given her petite stature, drove me on as though her résumé included years of experience as a lead cow puncher on a Texas cattle ranch.
"Alright, fair maiden, I've got fifty F in my sightline!"
"Not speedy enough, mister," she insisted, throttling me faster through the masses and into what appeared to be a field trip organized by a well-populated daycare. "You're to sit in fifty F and not to move. Not once!"
I stepped gingerly past the rows of little people, all seemingly content in their seats, buckled and ready for wheels up. The immediacy of my plight was such that I was unable to estimate the number of Tolkienish hobbits surrounding me or rather, as time bore out, hemming me in.
"Now, get in there," the attendant ordered, giving me a final shove as I fell across two tiny travelers and rammed my beaten head into the drawn window shade. "One word out of you, fancy pants, and I'll personally throw you into the Gulf of Mexico from twenty eight thousand feet." Emphasizing her point she drilled a sharp fingernail into my chest, spurring my compliance to be seated. "Alright," she said above the din, "out of my way! Preparing for a kickass crosscheck!"
It took a moment to gain my bearings, adjusting myself in the cramped corner of the last row. The color scheme of the plane's interior -- a bright orange contrasted against neon green -- did nothing to alleviate my disorientation and simmering temper. Threatened with incarceration and being tossed five-plus miles into the warm waters of the briny did not equate to sensible customer service in my book, not at all. Mia Kolpaux would certainly be hearing about this upon my return, up to and including the possibility of her employment at Tumultuous Manor being terminated directly.
"Would you like to see my peanuts?"
The inquiry snapped me from roaming the barnyard of morose and I stared at the tiny features of the face -- visible only from the nostrils up -- peering over the seat in front of me.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Would you like to see my peanuts?" The sound of snickering came from beyond.
"Heavens, no!"
What type of mad greenhouse have I been planted in?
Looking around, I realized this was no ordinary daycare. Indeed, it was not a daycare at all, but instead a large group of midgets. And no ordinary large group of midgets, as it turned out, but the Carnaval Du Diminutif -- the Carnival of the Diminutive, a peripatetic caravan of performance artists who contorted and wove themselves into various convolutions, while strains of classical music and flashes of color strobe lights served to sedate and blind the paying audience. The group's calling card was its practical joking, e.g., putting lit cigars out on their heads, re-enacting violent carjackings using Shriner mini-cars, and playing Taser-tag while running amok through general admission seating. "Are you --"
"A two week engagement," the seatmate next to me piped up before I could finish asking. "Montego Bay, Ocho Rios, a bat mitzvah, a housewarming, then closing out at the Kingston Smokefest."
"Dear Lord."
"Would you like to see my peanuts?" The voice of the half-face in front of me asked again.
I rummaged through my valise for the folder containing the Bridgework dossier, numbed by the situation in which fate had placed me. Marshalling every ounce of mental discipline, I willed myself to survive the flight and ingest all of the data Sondheim supplied. The plane lurched and began its reversal out onto the tarmac.
"Really nice peanuts, in a red-striped bag."
"Turn around, sit down and buckle up!" the attendant shrieked before leveling the unsuspecting little fellow with a judo chop to the back of his neck. I peered upward and saw a small body slump between the cracks of the seat, followed by the sound of a metallic click. In a moment of error I made eye contact with the attendant as she stood victorious over her foe. "Pretty good for an old bag, yeah?"
Not knowing if I should agree with her, I returned to the sheaf of papers and immersed myself into Sondheim's new assignment.
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 4
