Smoke and Mirrors

39

Albert White arrived outside the Tunica County Airport and parked as close as he could get to the main doors. He climbed out and went around to the passenger’s door. Seconds later, a man with short blond hair, an overcoat, and sunglasses strolled out of the terminal carrying a suitcase and a hanging suit bag. The man moved like a professional athlete.

“I thought Tug Murphy was meeting me,” he said, smiling like a salesman offering up his private stash of brilliant white teeth.

“I’m Albert White, director of casino security. Tug was out of pocket, so I came. He should be waiting for us when we get back.”

“I was messing with you, Albert. Part of my job is to know what everybody at the casino looks like. Nice to meet you.”

He slipped off his sunglasses and shook White’s hand firmly.

“Welcome, Mr. Finch,” Albert said.

Finch looked directly into White’s eyes as if he was reading a sign hanging on the inside back wall of his skull.

White opened the rear door to allow the man to put his baggage inside the compartment. Usually RRI employees arrived in chartered aircraft, landing and pulling into a hangar to keep nosy people from seeing who was arriving or departing. This man was at the main terminal, and no commuter or commercial flights had landed within the last hour. A man who worked security at the airport took money from the Roundtable to steer arriving passengers their way. White had spoken to him and after giving the man Finch’s description, he’d told White that Finch had walked into the terminal from the parking lot to wait near the doors as though he’d just flown in. Very odd. White figured he’d been around scouting before he officially appeared. Supposedly he was good, and Kurt Klein could afford the best of everything.

“I hope your flight was okay, Mr. Finch,” White said.

“My flight was fine, Albert. Call me Steffan,” the man said, nodding. His accent sounded British, but White knew from his research that Finch was South African, and he’d spent years living and working in England with the SAS.

“Let’s be off,” Finch said, checking his watch, a matte black chronometer.

“So Tug is a recent hire, I understand.”

“That wasn’t in your files?”

Finch smiled. “Tug isn’t his real name, is it?”

White shook his head. “A nickname he had legally changed to his Christian name.”

“The nickname Tug,” Finch said. “What does that signify?”

“He told me that when he was a kid, he used to pull on his old man’s pant leg to get his attention. His dad called him Tug.”

“Oh,” Finch said. “I hoped it would be more interesting.”

Albert White put the SUV in gear and rolled off into the bright Delta day.

Finch turned on the radio, which Tug must have set to NPR, and tuned in a classic country music station. While White concentrated on his driving, George Jones told the SUV’s occupants about a relationship he had a few regrets about.