It was because of this very quirk that I spied a taxi pulling up at the curb. Bayard Montgomery emerged from the backseat on the right and Ellis got out on the left. Bayard wore a black leather jacket and what looked like a black chauffeur’s cap with a shiny patent-leather brim. Ellis was in a white dress shirt with a red sweater across his shoulders, the empty sleeves folded together in front as though holding hands. The driver allowed his taxi to idle while he got out and walked around to the trunk to help remove luggage. He unloaded the large wheeled split duffel and the expandable four-wheeled packing case I’d seen in the foyer at Bayard’s house. After that, he removed the soft-sided carry-on, two medium hard-sided cases, a rolltop backpack, a leather travel tote, three matching pieces of soft-sided luggage in graduating sizes, a garment bag, and an overnight case. This did not look like a weekend in Palm Springs.
Bayard’s travel plans were none of my business and I was close to completing the roundabout and returning to Airport Boulevard when I felt myself squint. I checked the rearview mirror, watching the redcap load the pieces on his cart. I veered into short-term parking a second time and searched for a space. None. Not one. I went around twice, hoping to see taillights that indicated someone was pulling out, but there was no movement. I could be doing this for another twenty minutes while Bayard and Ellis were doing who-knows-what. I found a no-parking lane with diagonal stripes to announce the unsuitability of the space for my purposes. I parked and got out of my car, locking it behind me.
In the terminal, at the American Airlines ticket counter, I saw Bayard take possession of their two boarding passes. He had his soft-sided carry-on and he joined the security line while Ellis went into the gift shop. I watched him buy several fatty snacks, two magazines, and a travel neck roll filled with organic flax. I bent to study something in the window as he walked away with his purchases and headed for security. Bayard had already secured two seats in the waiting area. I glanced at the signage and realized the flight they intended to board was a commuter plane to Phoenix, Arizona. Bayard had mentioned Palm Springs and I could feel my head tilt like a puzzled pup’s at the change in plans.
I had no way to approach them in the area where they were seated since they’d already been through security screening. I was not a ticketed passenger and I wouldn’t be allowed past the first checkpoint. I got as close to them as I could and called Bayard’s name. Seven people turned around to look.
When he lifted his face, I gave him a cheery wave. I gestured for him to join me and he made a comment to Ellis. Thanks to my highly developed lip-reading skills, I saw him saying, “Shit. Go see what she wants.”
Ellis said, “Why me?”
Bayard said, “Never mind. I’ll do it.”
He got up, trying to match my smile with one of his own.
I said, “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just dropping off a friend.”
“Small world,” he said, offering no encouragement.
“Off on your weekend jaunt?”
“Yep.” He pantomimed a golf swing.
“I thought you said Palm Springs. This flight goes to Phoenix.”
“Last-minute switch,” he said. “Our flight was canceled, so we decided on Phoenix instead.”
“I’m sure the golf is every bit as good,” I said.
“And the hotel rates are better.”
“Everything works out for the best,” I said.
He replied, “Nice seeing you,” and returned to his seat. He sent me a faint smile when he was settled again, lest I think his departure was rude. I waved again and turned on my heel.
Now what was I to do?
As I passed the American Airlines ticket counter, I felt a mental nudge. On the scratchpad in Bayard’s library, I’d seen AA with a circle around it. My first association with AA was Alcoholics Anonymous, but American Airlines was probably closer to the truth. I slid a hand in my pocket, congratulating myself on my habit of wearing the same jeans four days in a row. I pulled out the note I’d made: 8760RAK. Maybe not a license plate. The American Airlines check-in line had picked up a host of travelers, so I moved to the United desk.
When the ticket agent looked up as though to check me in, I put my finger on the RAK. “Do you recognize this?”
He glanced down. “It’s an airport code.”
“What airport?”
“Marrakech-Menara Airport. Morocco.”
I nearly laughed. “Really? You can fly from Santa Teresa all the way to Marrakech?”
As though to a simpleton, he said, “Uh, yes. That’s possible in this postmodern era of international travel. All you need is thirty-four hours’ flying time and three to four thousand dollars for the seat.”
“And 8760 is the flight number?”
“You’d have to check with American on that.”
“What’s the routing?”
“Ask them,” he said, not about to extend warm public relations to a rival company.
I walked back to the American Airlines counter and took my place in line. There were three people ahead of me, and as is true of lines in your local bank, these were all customers with “issues” that required long discussions with the ticket agent, frequent references to the computer, head shakes, and more discussion. I checked the departures monitor on the wall behind me and saw that the Phoenix flight was leaving in twenty-six minutes. This is just about the same amount allotted for early boarding, passengers with children, the feeble, and infirm. I leaned sideways and stared at the ticket agent and when he looked up, I pointed to my watch. He was singularly unimpressed with the urgency I hoped to convey. Two minutes later, that passenger left the desk and the next woman in line took his place. I heard the preboarding announcement for the Phoenix flight and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. The woman left and the ticket agent made quick work of the two passengers in front of me.
When I reached the head of the line, he moved a small metal sign to the middle of his station. Next window please.
“Oh no, no, no. Please. I just have a quick question . . .”
“Union rules,” he said primly.
“Fine. I honor that. I appreciate everything the union does for you. All I need to know is the routing from Santa Teresa to Marrakech.”
He blinked and began to rattle off the information. “Phoenix, Philadelphia, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Philadelphia, Chicago, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, Detroit, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Madrid, Marrakech. Phoenix, London, Casablanca, Marrakech. Phoenix, Chicago, JFK, Madrid, Marrakech. Regardless of the route you choose, you’ll be flying into Madrid or Casablanca. I don’t know about the latter, but from Madrid, there’s only one flight to Marrakech and that’s 8760.”
“Thank you.”
I did a 180 turn, looking for a public phone. I saw one next to the door to the ladies’ room. It was currently in use. A woman in heels, wearing a chinchilla coat, was deep in conversation. I crossed to the phone and stood behind her, hoping she’d pick up on the hint. She was heavily perfumed, I noticed now that I was in range of her. She didn’t even look around at me. I stepped to one side and stared at her. She noticed me then and turned protectively, placing a hand over the mouthpiece so I couldn’t hear what she said. I checked my watch pointedly. I tapped my foot. I moved into her line of sight again and did the rolling-hand gesture that means hurry the fuck up. No dice.
I took out my wallet and removed two bills. I leaned close to her ear. “Lady, I will pay you twenty-five dollars to get off the phone right this minute.”
Startled, she looked at me and then at the twenty and the five I held in one hand. She snatched the bills and said to the party on the other end, “I’ll call you back.”
I said, “Oh, wait. Excuse me. Do you have a quarter?”
She sighed heavily, but found one in her coat pocket and placed it in my open palm.