Maria Satriano

68.

Heading northwest towards the long-term airport parking I review the tapes. This is a mental exercise I do once sufficient dust has settled, to consider what has just taken place because, nine times of ten, said action happens so fast it is impossible to see it from the cool and undetached perspective of a high-def security cam. First responders should be on the scene by now tending to the fire and one or more of the drugged staff might be crawling their way back to consciousness. Did we sell the hostage act convincingly enough? Will the warden try to save face and put a spin on the subsequent investigation? To what extent will they drop the net around the facility and immediate area? And perhaps most importantly, what motivation, if any, might Vi have to cut and run? 

The current plan, always a subject for improvisation, is to get Vi to San Diego asap. From there we’ll, hopefully, have the use to the Gulfstream to put some quick air miles between ourselves and the breakout carnage. I consider roadblocks and ABPs. Instinctively I press my foot onto the Expeditions accelerator. Risking rebuke I call TOM. 

“Nothing has come over the local police channels yet, fire and rescue is on site but nothing indicates any connection of dots...yet,” he announces in objective tone and volume. “The bird is in the air, touchdown in forty-seven minutes at L45 Bakersfield Muni. Cut her hair and dye it black. We have fresh documents ready. Maria Satriano. Report back when you are airborne.” 

I start to speak but TOM has already cut the call. I respect the precariousness of his position and, for what I think is a first, refrain from any ‘your welcome,’ sarcasm. I get to the parking area and check in, packing a kit that may be overkill, but better safe and armed than sorry. The cab I called while en-route is waiting and I provide the driver with the address of the motel on Colony Street, asking him if we can make elapsed time in transport a high priority. With a quick stop at the Walgreens along the route please. 

We get to the run-down motel where I overtip the cabbie for his efforts and expert knowledge of local traffic choice points. I ask the clerk to please dial the room of the girl who just checked in under the name I provide as the one on the credit card used in the transaction. He looks at me with a note of suspicion, and before he can use the ‘motel policy’ disclaimer, I simply say “She’s my daughter, the one in the Orioles cap.” 

Reluctantly he uses the house phone and hands the receiver to me. I am relieved to hear a cheerful, ‘Hello”.

Keeping in character I say, “Hi Princess, are you hungry? Let's go to the Denny’s next door for some greasy fries and a cheese burger.” I hang up the phone, thank the clerk and walk out the front door with a squeak. As I do I see Vi - Maria - opening a blue door on the second floor. She is looking in my direction as if she knows that the fries and burger were a ruse. She turns and goes back inside the room as I hustle up the exposed-aggregate concrete stairs. 

“You OK?” I ask, dumping the contents of the plastic bag on the tiny bathroom sink. 

“Yes, fine. You? Are we clear?” 

“So far, yes, but we have to hustle, we have a flight in,” I look at my watch, “less than half an hour. We need to cut and dye your hair so let’s get started.”

Without questioning my orders she moves into the bathroom. It is like stepping back into another generation as we address the yellowing formica counter and cheap unframed mirror. I grab a towel, drape it around her shoulders and pick up the scissors I purchased at the Walgreens. 

“How would we like it today? I ask with a touch of gay. 

“I was thinking, short with bangs, maybe like Uma Thurmond in Pulp Fiction,” she says playing along. 

She spies the coloring kit on the sink and finishes with, “And black, jet black.” 

“As you wish Ms Satriano.”

“Satriano?”

“Maria”