Transition in Green

At airports or bus terminals Rick Horner always bought something he knew he wouldn’t read, The Wall Street Journal, if he could get it. Rick stood in the check-in line for Northwest Flight 78 to Seattle. He studied the tall, skinny blonde ahead of him and feigned boredom.

When Amy Roth pulled her driver’s license from her purse, her lipstick rolled off the counter. She leaned over to retrieve her lipstick and dropped her purse. A small shopping bag from Le Bon Marché tore and spilled a gift-wrapped box on the floor. Rick glanced up a second with hard eyes and a twitch of his jaw. He resumed looking at the same page of his folded Newsweek, his prop du jour. Nine other Spokane passengers joined the flight for the Seattle leg, the usual, two couples, two college kids, an older black dude, and Blondie. No cops.

“Hi, beautiful.” Rick fixed his attention on the pert, brunette ticket agent. She blushed and giggled. She brushed his hand when she took his driver’s license. She made mistakes as she keyed in his ticket information and had to redo it twice. Rick expected it. He focused intently on her, forced warmth into his smile and asked for a seat next to the blonde who preceded him. “She seems nervous. I can show her the ropes, keep her calm. I fly all the time.”

The ticket agent became an instant co-conspirator and said, “That’s a middle seat, Mr. Horner. She has the window. I could put you on the aisle, one row back. Flight originates in Chicago so we don’t have much flexibility.”

“Piece of cake. The middle seat is fine. She needs someone to look after her.”

He chuckled to himself. This is going to be easy. In the men’s room he checked his teeth, his hair, his best smile. He’d done this so many times. Piece of cake.

Amy sat alone. It was June, a lovely time of year in the Spokane Valley. If she wondered about leaving her hometown, she knew she had no reason to stay. A drop of sweat ran down her backbone. Her high heels pinched. She glanced around and realized she was overdressed compared to the other passengers waiting in the terminal. She wore a strand of faux pearls over a matching light green sweater set and a black gabardine skirt. She pulled her itinerary from her ticket jacket, reread it and ran her fingers over SFO as if she didn't really believe she was on her way to San Francisco. She put the paper away and tugged at her skirt as it crept above her knee. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to fidget. The molded, black plastic seats proved hard and uncomfortable. A few people browsed the shop or the food concession area. Fewer sat.

Passenger Argus Pritchett yawned and ran his hand back and forth over his forehead. He tried to choke down one more swallow of bitter, lukewarm coffee. The travel desk at the Los Angeles Sanitation Department had picked up the cheapest fare for his conference in Chicago, with a stop in Helena on his return. His recycling presentation to members of the governor’s staff in Montana generated some enthusiasm, but not as much as he’d hoped. Engine trouble forced him to layover in Spokane and to take Flight 78 today. He slept badly in the motel room the airline provided. He had not previously visited the city and was unlikely to return.

From habit he surveyed the terminal and picked up the familiar drama unfolding. Pritchett’s eyes narrowed, the right side of his face grimaced. He sighed and noted every detail about the handsome man and his mark.

Caucasian male, 5 feet 10 inches, 190, 38 to 40 years old, hazel eyes, dark, wavy hair, possibly dyed. Roman nose, strong jaw. Ruby ring with small diamond-like stones on left hand, custom shirt, but off-the-rack pants and sports coat. No tie. Expensive, black leather carry-on. Short, stubby fingers. Chews his left thumbnail.

White female, 5 feet 8 inches or 5 feet 9, 122, 17 to 22, blue eyes, blond hair, long and straight with bangs. Eyes droop slightly at outside edges, sharp, high-bridged nose, thin, narrow face, a slightly crooked front tooth, small mouth, full lips. Attractive. Probably has ten bucks hidden in her shoe. Nervous. Bet you’re a hometown kid on your big venture into the world. And that scum has a bead on you before you get on the plane.

Argus shook his head. Once a vice cop, always a vice cop. Give it a rest, old man.