Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 12

12

The money’s in my account—enough for a last-minute round-trip ticket to anywhere in the world, accommodations, plus a whole new wardrobe. Everything first class, of course. Rob wouldn’t dream of asking a colleague to fly coach, but I’d rather flap my arms all the way to Europe than sit up with those pampered scum, and I wouldn’t dare sleep next to any of them.

No, not everyone up in first class is an exploitative cretin. I’ve seen more than one exhausted flunky burning up his frequent flyer miles in a burst of decadence. But it’s the safe way to bet.

I buy a steerage-class ticket for my special nonexistent friend Jane Hellman, who happens to look exactly like me. I stash my black van in a storage unit and prepay for six months, and I send some cash to Dad. He’ll probably just drink it up, but: not my problem. I’d send some to Mom too, but it not like she’s anywhere to be found—she bailed when I was ten. No worries—the only thing I blame her for is not taking me with her.

Anyway: I do spring for an aisle seat. I’m broke, not stupid.

On the leg from Newark to Madrid my faux leather airline seat is wide enough, but the rows are so close I have to either twist my legs on an angle or kick a hole in the back of the seat in front of me so I have a place to put my knees. Fortunately, there’s a six-year-old boy in the seat next to mine, and he doesn’t mind my knees in his space occasionally. Unfortunately, there’s a very bored six-year-old boy in the seat next to mine, and while the noise-canceling headphones handle his voice they don’t stop his almost constant bouncing and twitching and occasional tugging on my arm when he thinks his mom isn’t looking. She is.

I give Mom a smile made of one part sympathy and two parts transparent annoyance. She does her best, but: six years old.

I’d normally spend a flight watching romantic comedies or studying target data on my tablet, but Rob hasn’t sent me any information on the target and I’m really not in the mood for someone else’s new romance. I try watching some cartoon thing about a talking rat that wants to be a chef, but then Junior takes my sleeve to tell me all about it. My Spanish isn’t that good—it’s Mexican, not European—but he still ruins the ending before Mom can shut him down.

We get through the flight without a six-year-old shaped hole in the fuselage. And on the Madrid-Lisbon leg, the suit sitting next to me is more interested in his phone’s solitaire game than in talking to a muscular brunette taller than he is.

I hadn’t told anyone when I was arriving, but as I’m disembarking the announcement asking Señora Hellman, Señora Jane Hellman, to speak to the gate agent somehow doesn’t surprise me. She hands me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

Rob’s number.

I find a quiet corner near a gate reserved for a flight that won’t be leaving for another four hours and call. “You could have just texted me,” I say when he answers.

Rob gives a cultured chuckle—another affectation. I happen to know that when he finds something truly gut-wrenchingly hilarious, he laughs like a braying donkey. “Forgive me, my darling Beaks.”

He wants me to ask how he knew which flight I was coming in on. After three flights in quick succession I’m stiff and achy. The clock has advanced seven hours, making this the start of the day, but I’ve spent the last thirteen hours in a dimly lit flying bus that stank vaguely of pee and jet fuel and burning plastic. My eyes burn like there’s vinegar behind the sockets. “What’s the plan?”

“I believe you’re acquainted with our key grip, Mister Jacka?”

I wince. “I know him.”

“You’ll find him at the baggage claim for your flight.”

I start to reply, but Rob says “I know you have no checked luggage, dearest. But it’s the most convenient meeting place in the oversized rodent maze the locals call an airport. He’ll have a cardboard sign with your name on it, precisely like the other chauffeurs.”

“Fine.”

“We’ll do our first script reading tomorrow morning. You have the rest of the day to acclimate yourself.”

The crowd surges past me as flights arrive and depart. The airport staff busts their butt to keep the place clean, but it still smells of sweaty tired people and overpriced shoddy food, all laid over years or decades of noxious jet fuel fumes. The tile floor has been polished so many times it’s lost its ability to hold wax, and feels dusty beneath my blue sneakers. I really want a shower and a long nap. “I need to stay up the rest of the day. Any place I should go?”

“We have no work scheduled today,” Rob says. “And I know how well you adjust to changing time zones.” Poorly. “If you feel the need for an excursion, I suggest acquainting yourself with public transportation and the major avenues.”

“All right.”

“Mister Jacka has the details of our hotel. And permit me the honor of requesting your company at dinner this evening.”

One side of my mouth quirks up. “An early dinner. I need my cranky sleep.”

“The locals will be scandalized, but as you wish. Four PM, perhaps?”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Informal, of course. I’m presuming you didn’t bring anything appropriate for a more elegant setting.”

“Why would I start now?”

Rob’s voice grows more serious. “We have better things to start.”

“That we do. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

I hang up.

If I had made a list of the people I wanted to not see after Deke’s death, Jacka would be near the top of it.