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I guess she means well.
Well, except for when I told her I needed the card to sign declaring that I’m checking a firearm.
She about wet her pants. “You have a pistol? And you travel with it?”
Then it really made her mad when I corrected her by quoting the regulations, telling her it was okay to have both the unloaded gun and its ammo in the same bag, as long as they were in a locked case.
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
She practically hissed, “Well, we’ll let our friends at TSA clear that.”
She wasn’t quite so chatty after hanging up with them, having learned that I was right.
The American Airlines desk agent held out a paper ticket.
“Okay, you’re all set,” she said, her tone now professional. “Your first leg, I have you ticketed to Miami on flight six-eight-eight with a connecting flight, five-oh-four, the first flight out to Saint Thomas. I have your bag checked all the way through to your final, SST.” She pulled back to show the back of the ticket. “I’ve stuck your bag tag here, on the back of your ticket. And your inbound”—she paused and glanced at the young woman—“that’s your return flight, I have you booked for next Thursday.”
“Thank you very much,” the young woman said, smiling warmly as she took the ticket. “You’ve been most helpful. I do appreciate it.”
The desk agent smiled back.
“And here’s your ID and debit card,” the agent then said, her tone again cheerful. “Have a nice vacation.”
Well, that seems to have mended the bridge.
“Thank you again very much,” the young woman said.
“Oh, and by the way: Happy birthday, Miss Stewart!”
The young woman looked up. “Excuse me?”
“That’s okay. I see you’re being shy. But celebrate life! Congrats on turning twenty-one last week. It should be a happy, exciting time!”
Yes, it should, she thought, carefully placing the ID and prepaid Visa debit card in her leather clutch near the zippered pocket that held the IDs and debit cards of two other young women.
I’d share that with Alexis Stewart, if she hadn’t stumbled back to Mary’s House and overdosed last month, having never gotten over those years of being raped in foster care.
And with Krystal and all the others . . .
“Well, thank you,” the young woman said, forcing a smile. “It is. This trip actually is a birthday gift. I’m just a bit harried right now.”
“Don’t you worry. You’ll figure out this travel stuff soon enough. You’re young. Have a nice flight.”
[FOUR]
Southwest Chop House
Two Yellowrose Place, Dallas
Sunday, November 16, 9:30 P.M. Texas Standard Time
“We can structure the funds, base them anywhere from Delaware to the Cayman Islands,” Miguel “Mike” Santos, chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners, said, looking between Rapp Badde and Bobby Garcia. “Our preference, of course, having the majority of our investment products there, is the Caymans.”
They were in the posh high-ceilinged lounge of the five-star restaurant. It was about half full, but there was high energy coming from the lively crowd.
/> Ten white-linen-covered tables with deep, high-backed, U-shaped leather seating, each capable of holding six or eight comfortably, lined the walls on either side of a black marble-topped bar in the center of the room. A grand piano was in one corner. At the table nearest the piano, Santos sat opposite Rapp Badde, Santos with a view of the entryway between the bar and restaurant and Badde with a view of the nice-looking crowd—mostly women, including the three who had floated past the SUV—ringing the bar. Bobby Garcia sat between them, with a view of both.
Their waitress, young and attractive, had just delivered their second round of drinks.
