I Scare Myself

106.

“I don’t get it,” Drysdale comments as we follow Her Majesty and Big, “a limo to McCarran to fly commercial?”

“They may still be less than 100% sure that she is the real deal, in that case this is nothing but a way to stay in public places and away from any easy sight-lines.” I speculate without conviction. 

I have alerted TOM and Davis that the QoH is on the move and heading towards what appears to be the domestic departure terminal at the glitzy Vegas airport. TOM reports back that there are two upcoming flights to Tucson and three to Portland. He also reports that the Gulfstream is fueled and waiting. 

We pull into the cell-phone waiting area and track The Queen’s GPS. They are heading through security as any traveler would, and I trust that the guarantee I was given about the bug’s ability to pass through scanning undetected is accurate. I was told it is 99% safe. This being Vegas I wondered about the odds of hitting on the 1%. I decide to leave nothing to chance and tell Drysdale to stay and monitor their movements as I go in for backup. 

Like an old Hertz commercial I am running through the terminal, grabbing my ID en route to the gate, donning my shades and speed dialing Drysdale. 

“They are still in the TSA line, I cannot believe they are subjecting themselves to this embarrassing inconvenience when it is entirely avoidable,’ he updates. 

I make it to the area opposite the TSA labyrinth and hold my cell phone near my face as every other tourist does. If that 1% chance hits Big will surely understand its significance and make a counter move of who-knows-what degree of cover-blowing paranoia. They are maybe fifteen minutes from the security checkpoint scan. 

I look past the inefficient conveyor contraption quickly put into place by the newly created Transportation Security Administration post 911 and can see two gates advertising departures. On the right Gate 22 promotes Southwest’s flight 1302 to Tucson departing on-time in forty-five minutes and on the left an Alaska Air flight to PDX, also departing on-time in an hour. That is as far as I can see from my limited viewpoint. 

Interestingly as this is taking place I return to my taxonomic classification routine, trying to keep that crucial single step ahead of what is now appearing to be an elaborate game of chase the goose. 

I am surprised at what pops up when I employ the organic search engine. I take a peek at Big and The Queen as they, as patiently as possible, wait to move through the security line, and consider the results of the search:

Born in Tucson, Arizona: Linda Ronstandt and Dan Hicks. 

Born in Portland, Oregon: Matt Groeing and Dale Murphy. 

A smile comes to my face as I remember that summer in 1976 in Richland, VA where I had the pleasure to play minor-league baseball in the International League against a twenty-year old kid who would go on to hit a pair short of four hundred homers for the Braves. As for the underrated Mr Hicks, I hear that haunting violin solo from I Scare Myself. 

Jolted by an obnoxious PSA announcement I look up to see The Queen of Hearts and Big.

But they are gone.