To the Nines

  Tank cut another look at Lula. “I don't wear tighty whiteys,” he said.

  “You devil!” Lula yelled. “I bet you go commando.”

  Lula and Connie fanned themselves in the backseat. Tank kept his eyes on the road, but I could see him smiling.

  An hour later, we were in the terminal, standing in line. Seventy-​three people in front of us. An airline employee was going person to person, suggesting electronic ticket holders use the automatic ticketing machines. We looked over at the machines with flocks of people gathered around them.

  “I don't know,” Lula said. “Those people trying to use those machines look pissed off. Don't look to me like they're having a whole lot of luck getting tickets out of those machines. Looks to me like after they waste some time they give up and get back in line over here.”

  We sent Connie over to investigate and we stayed in line. After a couple minutes Connie came back. “I think they're just decoys,” Connie said. “I never saw anybody have any luck getting a ticket out of them.”

  “I bet I know,” Lula said. “You go over there and try to get a ticket and you give them your name and address. And then you don't get a ticket, but you get put on some list for junk mail and telephone solicitors. I bet the airlines make money selling those lists. I bet they get extra on account of they're lists of gullible people who'll buy anything. You didn't give them your name and address, did you, Connie?”

  “That's ridiculous,” Connie said. And because she was snippy when she said it, we all knew she gave the machine her name and address.

  Forty-​five minutes later, we got to the counter and got ticketed. Lula checked two of her bags. Tank didn't have any bags. I carried my single tote bag with me. Connie had one small suitcase on rollers, which she checked.

  “We're on our way now,” Lula said. “Boy, this is gonna be fun. Hold on. What are we doing in another line?”

  “This is the line to go through the security check,” I told her.

  “Say what?”

  We inched our way along again. I had a low-​grade headache from the terminal noise and the tedium and I had a backache from an hour of carrying the tote on my shoulder. Twenty minutes ago I'd dropped the tote onto the floor and now I kicked it along ahead of me. I suspected I was growing pale and in another twenty minutes I'd look like I'd spent fifteen years at TriBro testing nuts and bolts.

  I was first in line. Lula stood behind me. Then Connie. Tank was in line behind Connie. We showed our tickets. We flashed our photo IDs. I approached the conveyor belt leading to the scanner. I placed my tote and my purse on the belt.

  A security attendant asked me to place my shoes on the belt, as well. I looked down at the strappy sandals I'd put on first thing this morning. Brown leather and not a single part of the shoe thicker than an eighth of an inch with the exception of the slim wood stacked stiletto heel, which was a quarter of an inch. Guess security thought I had a bomb in the shoe. Bombs must frequently be hidden in women's strappy sandals.

  I took the shoes off and shuffled barefoot along the filthy floor, through the metal detector. I didn't set the detector off but the security attendant told me I was a random female, so I was pulled aside and asked to stand spread eagle. I supposed they thought I had box cutters hidden under my skintight, slightly see-​through white stretchy shirt. I was wanded and released. My shoes were returned to me after careful scrutiny.

  An attendant in rubber gloves extracted all the items from my tote. Two pairs of bikini panties, a pair of jeans, two little white T-​shirts, white socks, sneakers, a travel box of tampons (just in case), hair spray, roller brush, assorted cosmetics. Forty or fifty people passing by admired the panties and a couple women suggested a different brand of tampon.

  The items were returned to my bag and I was told I could continue on my way. Lula was causing a scene behind me. She had to go through the same routine and they found fried chicken in her purse.

  “You're not allowed to take unpackaged food past security,” the attendant said to Lula.

  “What am I supposed to eat?” Lula wanted to know. “I'm on a diet to be a supermodel. I need this fried chicken. Suppose they don't feed me on the plane?”

  “There are kiosks by the gate that sell food,” Lula was told.

  I looked at the fried chicken displayed on the examining table. A leg and a breast. I guess security was on the lookout for chicken leg bombs.

  “I don't like this,” Lula said, shouldering her bags. “Had to take my shoes off, my jacket off, got felt up under my bra clip. Had to take my belt off. And look at this, I can't button the top snap on my stretch pants and now everybody knows. This here's been a humiliating experience. And on top of it all they took my chicken.”

  Connie had breezed through without a hitch. “That's the way it is now,” Connie said. “You want to be safe, right? This is just a small thing to keep us safe.”

  “Shut up,” Lula said. “I hate people who don't get searched.” Her eyes were wild and her lower lip was jutting out. “I'm feeling a lot of anxiety,” Lula said. “If this was supposed to make me feel safe it isn't working. All I can think of now is terrorists. I wasn't thinking of terrorists before. I need some ham. Where's the place they sell ham?”

  It was announced that our plane was boarding and Tank still hadn't cleared security. I knew he didn't have weapons on him. He'd locked everything in the truck when we parked. They brought a dog in and two armed guards moved closer. Apparently they were picking up traces of explosives on his shoes and clothes. Wow, big surprise there. He had his identification displayed, including a license to carry, but security was having none of it.

  He cut his eyes to me and I sent him a blank-​faced look back. No way was I going to come to his rescue. I wasn't taking any chances on guilt by association. I was afraid the airport gestapo would haul my ass off to a back room and give me a body cavity search.

  I grabbed Lula and pulled her along. Connie followed. We only had a couple minutes until boarding.

  “What about Tank?” Lula asked.

  “He'll catch up with us.” Maybe.

  We got to the gate and Lula was wide-​eyed, looking everywhere. “I don't see no kiosk with fried chicken,” she said. “I just see doughnuts and ice cream and bagels and big pretzels. I can't eat none of that food. Where's the friggin' meat?”

  “Maybe we'll get something on the plane,” I said. “We'll be in the air over dinnertime, so maybe we'll get some dinner.” Yeah, right. If we were flying first class we might get a bag of peanuts.

  We were seated three across, six rows back in coach. Lula was on the aisle. I sat next to her. Tank's seat was empty. Connie sat on the other side of the aisle.

  I called Morelli and told him about the photos.

  “And here's the thing,” I said to Morelli. “I'm sort of on a plane. Singh is in Vegas and I'm going out to apprehend him. So I was thinking maybe you could just let yourself in and, uh, take charge.”

  Silence.

  “Joe?”

  “This is the sort of thing Ranger usually takes.”

  “He has a problem with the state of Nevada.”

  “Okay, let me rerun this,” Morelli said. “You went home to pack and you found more snuff photos. Then you drove to the airport and waited until you were boarded before calling me so it was impossible for me to bring you back to Trenton.”

  “Yup. That's about it.”

  The conversation deteriorated pretty quickly after that, so I said good-​bye and shut my phone off.

  The plane filled and the usual announcements were made. No Tank. I was feeling a little worried without my bodyguard. I had Connie and Lula with me. I liked Connie and Lula, but I suspected they were more liability than asset.

  The flight attendants closed the doors and the plane began taxiing. Lula was singing with her headset on and her eyes shut. Connie was talking to the woman next to her.

  All right, calm down, I told myself. Probably flying to Vegas was safer than staying in Trent
on. Tank would get the next plane and everything would be fine. If I'd stayed with Tank I wouldn't be on the plane. I would have had to call Morelli and he would have insisted I return to Trenton.

  Minutes after taking off it was announced that no food or beverages would be served. “What about peanuts?” Lula yelled out. “Don't we even get any freakin' peanuts?” Lula turned to me. “I want to get off this plane. I'm hungry and I'm uncomfortable. And look at the seat in front of me. It's all ripped. How am I supposed to have confidence when they can't even keep their seats sewed up? I bet some terrorist was practicing on that seat.”

  I put my finger to my eye.

  “You getting that nervous eye twitch back?” Lula asked. “It's from this plane, isn't it? I feel nervous, too. I'm just a bundle of nerves.”

  “It's from you,” I said. “Put your headset back on and listen to your music.”

  An hour into the flight Lula was fidgeting again. “I smell coffee,” she said. “I bet they're gonna give us coffee. Probably they feel bad about treating us like a bunch of cows and they're gonna hand out coffee.” She sniffed the air. “Hey, I smell real food. I smell something cooking.” She hung over the armrest and looked up the aisle at the front of the plane. “It's not first class,” she said. “I can see into first class and they're not getting any food, either.”

  Now I was smelling it. Definitely coffee. And maybe a tomato sauce and pasta dish. And cookies baking!

  “It's like there's ghosts up there,” Lula said. “I haven't seen a flight attendant walk down the aisle since we took off. It's like they vanished and their ghosts are cooking. I'm dying here. I'm starving. I'm getting weak.”

  Connie looked over. “What's going on?”

  “I smell coffee,” Lula said. “I must be hallucinating from hunger.”

  “Maybe the flight attendants are making coffee for the pilots,” Connie said.

  “I don't like the sound of that,” Lula said. “That sounds like an emergency. Like the pilots are tired. Just my luck I get on a plane with a pilot who was up all night. I'm going to be really pissed off if he falls asleep and we crash and we all die and it's before I get to Vegas.”

  Connie went back to her magazine, but Lula was still leaning over the armrest into the aisle. “I can see them!” Lula said. “It's the flight attendants. Someone pulled the curtain aside and I can see the flight attendants eating. They're having coffee and fresh-​baked cookies. Can you freaking believe it? They're not even going to offer any to us.”

  I was starting to think crashing and dying might be the way to go. Compared to another two hours in the air, crashing and dying held some appeal.

  Lula's eyes were slitty and her forehead was scrunched up. She reminded me of a bull pawing the ground, nostrils flaring, shaggy head steaming. “I'm not calling them flight attendants anymore,” Lula said. “I'm calling them stewardesses. See how they like that.”

  “Keep it down,” Connie said. “Maybe they've been working all day and they didn't get a chance to eat.”

  “I've been working all day,” Lula said. “I didn't get a chance to eat. You see anybody feeding me? I guess not. Look at me. I'm beside myself. I feel like the Hulk. Like I'm getting all swollen up with frustration.”

  “Well, take it easy,” I said. “You'll burst something.” “You know what this is?” Lula said. “This here's plane rage.” “Plane rage isn't allowed. It got taken off the allowed activities list along with eating. If you make a scene they'll haul you off in leg irons.”

  “I'm tired of being strapped in here, too,” Lula said. “This seat belt's too tight and it's giving me gas.” “Anything else?” “There's no movie.”

  When we landed at Chicago I positioned myself between Lula and the flight attendants.

  “Keep your head down and walk,” I told Lula. “Don't look at them. Don't talk to them. Don't grab any of them by the throat. We need to get on the next plane. Just keep thinking about Vegas.”

  Our connecting flight was ten gates down. We started walking and almost immediately we hit fast food. Lula hurried over and ordered seven double cheeseburgers. She threw the buns away and ate the rest.

  “I'm impressed,” I said to Lula. “You're really sticking to this diet.” Hard to believe she was going to lose weight on it, but at least she was trying.

  An hour later our row was called to board and Lula, Connie, and I got in line. We reached the gate and I was pulled aside to be searched. Random female.

  “Step over here,” the security attendant said. “And take your shoes off.”

  I looked down at the sandals. “What could you possibly be looking for in these sandals?” I asked.

  “It's standard procedure.”

  “I've already gone through this at Newark!”

  “Sorry. You're going to have to take your shoes off if you want to get on the plane.”

  “Uh-​oh,” Lula said to me. “Your face is getting red. Remember about getting to Vegas. Just take the freakin' shoes off.”

  “It's not like it's personal,” Connie said. “You should be happy security precautions are in place.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I told her. “You're not the one getting picked on. You're not the one getting singled out for a second time. Your tampons and panties aren't getting pawed through.” I stared down at the shoes. There wasn't any way to hide a weapon in them, but I thought I could do some pretty good damage if I hit the security idiot in the head with one. Spike heel directly into the eyeball, I thought. I visualized the bleeding eyeball falling out of the woman's head and felt much more calm. I stepped out of my sandals and waited peacefully for them to be scrutinized.

  When we were seated on the plane Lula turned to me. “You know, sometimes you can be real scary. I don't know what you were thinking back there when you took those shoes off, but all the hair stood up on the back of my neck.”

  “I had airport rage.”

  “Fuckin' A,” Lula said.

  Lula had airport rage when we landed and her luggage wasn't there.

  Connie had us booked into the Luxor. It was on the Strip, and because the bail bonds conferences were held there every year we got good rates.

  “Look at this,” Lula said, head tipped back, taking it all in. “It's a freaking pyramid. It's like being in some big-​ass Egyptian tomb. I love this. I'm ready to gamble. Outta my way. I'm looking for the slots. Where's the blackjack tables?”

  I didn't know where Lula's energy came from. I'd exhausted myself trying to stay calm while mentally maiming airport employees, screaming kids, and security personnel.

  “I'm going to bed,” I told Lula. “We need to get an early start tomorrow, so don't stay out too late.”

  “I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're in Vegas and you're going to bed? Unh uh, girlfriend. I don't think so.”

  “I don't gamble. I'm not good at it.”

  “You can play slots. There's nothing to slots. You put your money in and you push the button.”

  “I'm feeling hot for the craps,” Connie said. “I'm going to drop my suitcase off in the room and then I'm going to hit the craps tables.”

  “You see?” Lula said to me. “You don't come with, I'm gonna be all alone on account of Connie's gonna play craps.”

  Lula had a point. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Lula all alone in Vegas. “Okay,” I said. “I'll tag along, but I'm not playing. I don't know what I'm doing and I always lose.”

  “You gotta play once,” Lula said. “It wouldn't be right if you came to Vegas and didn't even play one slot. I bet there's even a law that says you gotta play a slot.”