Vegas Moon

35.

A couple of baggage guys ask about my security clearance. Not questioning it, just impressed. One woman is extremely suspicious. After giving me more attitude than Hop Sing gave the Cartwrights on Bonanza, she makes me stand by her desk while calling me in to the folks upstairs. When she hangs up her attitude is different. Now she wants to feel my bicep.

I head back to retrieve my silencer, and see that the boy who’d been jumping up and down on the chair has found it, and is blowing into it like a flute. Now he’s chasing his sister around the area, trying to hit her over the head with it.

I need that silencer. It’s essential to my plan. I don’t understand why this family is sitting there. It’s upstairs, by the check in counter, where people sit while waiting for a wheel chair ride to the gate. They’re taking up space that rightfully belongs to people who need help. Of the three, only the little girl seems normal. She’s about three, and has the sense to stay away from her brother. The mom is large, and wearing some sort of shapeless patterned material. I know it can’t be easy being a mom to a six-year-old criminal, but based on her demeanor, where she’s sitting, her unkempt hair, lack of makeup—she’s either given up, or never bothered to start.

I rush over to where the kid is starting to use my five thousand dollar state-of-the-art silencer as a hammer. I come up on him from behind. He winds up, intending to give it a huge, crushing blow against the chair arm, but I snatch it out of his hand and start moving away rapidly.

This event stirs the slumbering seed of motherhood that’s been dormant in this woman since I began watching her. From some unknown pocket of flesh, or possibly her purse, she produces a whistle and blows it fit to bust. The boy is screaming and running after me in a fit of rage. The little girl laughs and claps her hands, thrilled to see her brother bested.

Security converges on me from all sides. I stop where I am, hand over my silencer, and tell them I need to take it with me to have it analyzed. They pass it around and it winds up in the hands of the US Marshall, who shows up with the head of airport security.

The whistling mom, her juvenile delinquent son, and normal daughter are standing with us. The mom is still blowing her whistle. The boy is yelling and kicking the shit out of my leg. I growl at him and he starts crying and hides behind his mother, which causes her to finally remove the whistle from her mouth.

“Did you see that?” she screams. “The bastard stole my son’s toy, and now he’s threatened his life! I want him arrested. Right now! I’m pressing charges!”

“Ma’am,” the Marshall says, “This isn’t your son’s toy.”

“Of course it is,” she says. “I bought it at Wal-Mart yesterday. Cost me nearly twenty dollars.”

He holds the silencer up so she can get a good look at it. “You’re telling me this belongs to you?”

She says, “I bought it for my son. It’s his. And I want it back.”

They look at me. I shrug.

“I was trying to secure the weapon,” I said. “I hadn’t realized it was her weapon.”

“Ma’am,” the Marshall said. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

“What?”

“This is part of a weapon. You claim it’s yours. Now we have to report it.” To me he says, “Sorry, Agent Payne, but we’re going to have to confiscate the silencer. It was found on airport property, and it’s about to become evidence. We’re going to have to keep it.”

“Of course,” I say. “Now that we know it’s hers.”

“Mine?” the woman says. “I thought it was the flute I bought my kid yesterday at Target.”

“You said Wal-Mart,” I pointed out, helpfully.

“You shut the fuck up!” she yells.

The Marshall holding the silencer says, “Come with me, ma’am. And if you blow that whistle again, I’m going to cuff you.” They start walking away, so I start walking in the opposite direction.

“Agent Payne?” he calls out.

Shit. He probably wants to make me part of the paperwork. I turn around.

“Yes?”

“It just dawned on me that no one’s thanked you for your vigilance. I appreciate your quick thinking. Sorry it only served to draw attention to you.”

“No problem.”

We continue walking in opposite directions. The mother is fussing loudly all the way to the door of the Marshall’s Lounge. I keep calling it a lounge, but there’s also a small conference room in there, where the Marshalls can get some work done while waiting for their next assignment. I turn to watch as they enter, and see the boy looking at me angrily. I stick my tongue out at him, and he gives me the finger.

Then I call Lou and order another silencer.

“I can’t get one to fit your gun,” he says. “Yours is custom.”

“Then get me a new gun to go with it.”

“That’s easy. But the bomb’s still a problem.”

“Why?”

“I can’t get anyone there in time that’s not local. And the local guys won’t detonate a bomb in their own airport.”

“Will they bring me one?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Have them bring me the bomb, detonator, gun, and silencer.”

“You up to handling all that by yourself?”

“Unless your guy wants to shoot the bad guys.”

“I’d say you’re on your own.”

We work out the details for how the bomb guy will find me. It won’t be easy, but I’ve established myself among the security folk, and should be able to pull it off.