I do, however, care that he's a speaker. Finding out he's away on business after I've already sneaked into his house can make for a bad night.
I peruse the list of conferences he has attended, prepared to do a little research on the Holy Internet to see if he's a guest anywhere in the near future. At the bottom of the page in my hand, a list of his upcoming destinations.
My intel are bad ass.
His profile goes on to show he's married with one child, a son. Six years ago, the police had come to his house for a domestic violence dispute which was later thrown out. Of course it was; he's rich. The guy is a dirt bag. I can tell just by glancing at his photo.
Wife beater, I decide.
Besides using his wife as a heavy bag, Phil also likes to play golf. Everyone in Scottsdale plays golf. Waste of ink.
I put his picture on top of the stack of papers again and stare at it. He is bald with big ears. Bet he got picked on a lot about his ears growing up, and now he takes it out on his family. Buddy needs some therapy.
Or a bullet between the eyes. That's faster and cheaper, anyway.
Since I have no feasible in with this guy, I settle on tracking him at a conference. He will be speaking in New Orleans in three days. I search online for maps and information to print out, and call Karl to finalize the arrangements.
***
Ralf Foster's plane is ready to board. I make my way across the terminal toward the loading bridge, bag slung over my shoulder. The attendant scans my ticket and wishes me a good flight. I push a smile and head up the tunnel into the plane.
Some of my IDs show my real picture, and others do not. When flying, it's a good idea to match. It's also a good idea to act friendly. Airport security might get up close and intimate otherwise.
I glance at the seat number on my ticket and sigh. It's always a crap shoot if I get to fly first class or not. Today, it's coach.
After one particularly harrowing flight—stuck between a man who had never been introduced to a toothbrush and kept laughing his rancid breath over me, and a woman who invaded personal space so thoroughly I'm pretty sure a prostate exam was involved—I stormed into the accountant's office to demand he always approve first class.
Unfortunately, the accountant could not help me. As it turned out, this jackassery with the ticket classes has nothing to do with making a pretty budget report for the boss. Karl himself was handling my arrangements. All of them.
I'm not sure why that surprised me. I guess, for a moment, I had thought of myself as a real person.
I can only conclude Karl likes to pull the choke collar every now and then.
The aisle seat is already occupied by a middle-age woman with a pleasant vibe. She's flipping through a magazine. She glances up at me, startled, and then stares.
Sometimes I wonder if people can tell that I'm not like them. Chances are they are just unnerved by the black duster jacket and the fact I look like I've been awake for over twenty-four hours. Probably because I have been.
Kills always make me a little nervous.
“You can take the window, if you like,” I say in my best church-going personality.
Her shoulders relax. “I would be fine with that.”
She scoots over. I stuff my bag into the overhead and drop into the aisle seat.
“Going to Houston?” She's staring at me again.
“No, just a layover to New Orleans.” I lean forward, grab the Sky Mall magazine, and page through it. “Does anyone buy this crap?”
She chuckles, holding up her magazine. Also a copy of Sky Mall. “After a few hours of staring at it, some of it will look pretty useful.” She turns the magazine around so the pages face me and points to an item. “Like this. An alarm clock that flings a little propeller across the room so you have to get it to turn the alarm off.”
“I think I'd just bash the thing until it stops making noise,” I say.
“No kidding.” She smiles and goes back to reading.
Ralf is good with people. I'm not sure if Dimitri is, though
Then again, I'm not even sure who Dimitri is.
***
The trip from Phoenix to Houston is uneventful. On the Houston to New Orleans flight, I sit next to a guy who has in a pair of earbuds and doesn't deem me worthy of striking up a conversation. My favorite sort of travel companion.
After we are in the air, I escape to an empty back row and stretch out to sleep. A few hours later, the flight attendant wakes me to tell me to buckle for landing. I rub my face as I sit and then fasten in. Once unboarded and in the terminal, I bee-line for the car rental. I have no luggage to claim, and I've already reserved a vehicle.
Ralf signs in, and the clerk hands me the keys. I've never been to New Orleans before. I dig the drawl some of the people have. It's like in the movies. And this one guy I game with online, but he's kind of a dick.
That's gamer code for someone who is better.
I step out into the lot, bag over my shoulder, and stare straight up. Gray sky with darker gray clouds. I can't decide if it feels moody or quaint. I decide on the latter and follow the clerk to my car.