“Perhaps in a theoretical way.”
“Neal, close and lock the doors.”
“Done, boss.”
The driver started pounding on the side of the van.
“Sarah, use your iPhone to capture a few seconds of our driver going apeshit.”
“Done.”
I hopped into the driver’s seat. Before he added two and two, we peeled away. I asked Sarah, “Which way to the hangar?”
“Next exit, three buildings on the left.”
“And when we get questioned about why we took off in his van?”
Sarah wore the expression of a child choosing the candy bar she wants. “He kept on saying he wanted to frick me. Like he was obsessed. But I thought, Sarah, you’re a big girl, you can take it. Then he stopped saying ‘fricking’ and started saying ‘fucking’.”
Neal said, “And that’s when Ray and I snapped out of our jetlagged sleep. We couldn’t believe this nasty piece of work was hitting so explicitly on Sarah.” Neal was instantly, deeply, into the story. “ ‘Fricking’ is one thing, but ‘fucking’ is a whole new level.”
“Oh, thank heavens I had you two there to rescue me.”
“Think you’ll be pressing charges, then?”
“I’ll certainly discuss the idea publicly.”
Ah, when life is good, it’s great, isn’t it? Cocktails. Laughter. Me looking like an alpha Jason Bourne–like killing machine in front of the woman I now officially loved. Added bonus: a sidekick to torture who also feeds me good lines. I didn’t want our minivan ride to end, but it did, at a small satellite terminal for private jets.
We pulled up to the curb. The head of local transportation asked, “Where’s Dino?”
I said, “You mean our driver?”
“That’s him.”
“Sarah?”
Sarah took Dino’s dispatcher aside. While she spoke with him, the man nodded gravely and looked suitably outraged. As Sarah came back to us, I heard her say, “For the good of the show—and because right now is more about the memory of Matt Bradley than it is about me—I’m going to let it slide. But you might want to get Dino in for some counselling.”
“You’re a wise and kind woman, Sarah,” I said, and she giggled.
Inside, the hangar lobby resembled the Columbine parking lot, network TV people keeled over and looking miserable in the wake of Mr. Bradley’s death.
Sarah vanished while we stood for a few minutes trying to decipher the action. She returned with a cartoonishly handsome executive-type guy. He barely glanced at us, then asked her, “Are these the two B-unit camera guys?”
“It’s them. Guys, this is Stuart.”
“Great.” Stuart proceeded to ignore us, quizzing Sarah. “Did you get a refund of the Fiji tickets?”
“I did.”
Shit. This guy was Sarah’s boyfriend—my competition.
Sarah turned to us. “Fellas, we’re going to be a little while organizing a thing or two. Go grab a bite from the vending machines.” She gave each of us a pile of U.S. dollar bills and a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for rescuing me back there.”
I said, “Our pleasure, ma’am. I didn’t know Matt Bradley for long, but I know he would have done the same thing.”
She giggled a big satisfying giggle and went off to wherever. But Stuart didn’t follow her. Instead, he came up to me. “Okay, fella,” he rumbled. “I can see you mind-raping my Sarah, so I’ll ask you to stop right now. If I ever get even the slightest inkling that something is happening, I’ll sweep down from the sun with one thousand of my best ninjas and carve you into hamburger. Am I clear?”
“Uh …”
“Am I clear?”
“Right. Loud and clear.”
“When are we leaving for Kiribati?” Neal asked him, trying to break the tension.
“No idea. Screw off, the both of you.” Stuart stalked away.
12
Maybe you have a Stuart McDoucheworthy in your life. Look at me, I’m Stuart. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I’m better-looking than even, say, Matt Damon. I coast on my good looks.
“A right dickhead,” Neal observed.
“No, he can’t be a dick, Neal, because he’s a twat.” At least Matt Damon has the talent to play Jason Bourne. Without his looks, Stuart would be nothing more than, well—he would be nothing more than me. Except I am a well-rounded bloke seasoned by a life of adventure; it kills me to think of all the attention Stuart gets just because he has a fucking chin. I seriously wish that Stuart had spent his entire childhood being serially arse-raped by teachers, scoutmasters, members of the clergy, relatives, policemen, doctors, door-to-door salesmen and all registered sex offenders within a 500-mile radius of his unprotected bedroom.