A Nasty Looking Forty-Five Hog-Leg

69.

I am two deep cuts into her hair when my phone sounds. It is the ‘unknown — but secure line’ caller id tone. I hand the scissors to Maria - that is she now — asking for her to pinch hit while thinking that it might have been easier to style after Beatrix Kiddo rather than Mia Wallace. 

“Sir this is Donaldson, second mate on Gulfstream Four, we have a rather urgent change of plans.” 

Not taking any chances I ask him from whom the changes were ordered. “TOM,” he says without a hesitation. 

“Whaddya we got?” 

“Seems an APB is in effect and airport security, even the munis and secondaries, have added another layer of security. TSA is using facial recognition at Meadows Field. The place is hotter than hell, sir.”

“What’s the plan?” I ask, shaking my head.

“We landed early and I am about five minutes from your present location, I was briefed on the quick-change and have new IDs for each  of you. I assume that change-over part has been completed?” He asks. 

“Almost.” I confirm making my way to the bathroom to access progress. 

“I made a point to engage with the security guard at the VIP entry, and told him I am going to pick up a pair of ambassadors for a fast departure. I have a change of clothes for both of you and will provide an additional briefing on the drive back to the strip. The skipper is keeping the engines running. GPS has your location at the motel, what room are you in?” 

“Sixteen, second floor, facing the pool.” I report.

“I’ll be there in two minutes, be ready to change and then scramble. The faster we get you outta here the better the odds of limited hostile engagement.” He advises solemnly. 

“We’re out of time,” I tell Maria as she applies the last bit of ebon to her new coif. 

Quickly I update her on the new plan and whistle as she turns to display her new movie-star make-over. I grab one of the remaining towels and tell her to strip and cover with the towel, explaining the urgency of our change of clothes and departure. I leave the bathroom and rip the gaudy bedspread flinging off the top sheet like a matador, laying it open on the floor.

“Everything goes here,” I say, as Donaldson gently raps our door. 

But it isn’t Donaldson, it’s the motel front-desk clerk shakily pointing a nasty looking forty-five hog-leg at me. 

“TV said a hundred-thousand dollar reward for you two.”