Chapter 13: Redeye to Hell (with Connections)

I CAUGHT THE FIRST FLIGHT to Chicago that I could get a business class seat on. It was a red-eye at 12:20 in the morning. I swung by the office on the way to the airport to grab a few last minute things and write a note for Riley. The brief respite from the rain this morning had ended and I was pelted as I left the cab and moved as quickly as I could into the office.

Riley had found the information that I needed to follow up on, though even she didn’t know yet what I was looking for. Far East Exchange was located, not in Seattle, but in Chicago. It had an address of Wacker Drive near the river. I grabbed a GPS transmitter and programmed the server to broadcast and record my position. Of course, I couldn’t legally broadcast from a commercial flight, but I figured that I would entertain Riley by showing her where I was at any given time.

I didn’t want to just disappear and never be heard of again like Simon. This way, Riley would know where I was at all times. She knew how to “call in the cavalry,” as she liked to say, if there was an emergency. That possibility nagged at me; I could be headed into Mob HQ for all I knew.

She would be pissed that I took this trip without her. Hell, she’d be pissed that I took the trip at all. But I’m not going to play sick just because I’m a little sick.

The flight was comfortable and not too full. I stretched out my legs and considered sleeping. My head was splitting and I detected the change of air pressure as we taxied to the runway. I was getting a little woozy. The vibration of the engines, the movement of take-off, and my general exhaustion, and I was out like a light.

The next thing I knew, the flight attendant was standing over me shaking me by the shoulder and calling my name.

“Mr. Hamar? Mr. Hamar?” I pried my eyes open to look at her. “Sir, we’ve landed. You need to deplane now.”

Damn. It must be an unexpected side-effect of the heart medication. I needed to remember that the change of air pressure was going to affect me more radically than it used to. I gathered up my bag and realized that the plane was empty except for the flight crew, who were preparing to leave the craft, and the service crew who had moved on to clean it. I shook my head to clear it and left for the terminal. I had to pee so badly I was about to wet myself.

As I was leaving the plane the lead flight attendant smiled pleasantly at me and said, “Welcome to Houston, Mr. Hamar.”

I was on the jetway when that hit me. Houston? What the hell was I doing in Houston? There was no sense getting back on the plane. It obviously wasn’t going anyplace. It was 6:30 in the morning. First things first. I had to get to a bathroom or I’d burst right there.

It took longer than I expected.

When I dragged myself out of the restroom, I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth and run a comb through my hair. I looked almost human. Time to locate a service counter and find out why I was in Houston.

“Oh, Mr. Hamar,” the nice woman said. “You were supposed to connect here to a flight on to Chicago. I’m afraid you’ve missed that connection.” I looked at the ticket that I’d bought on-line as the first available flight to Chicago. Seattle to Chicago, connecting in Houston. Too bad I wasn’t collecting frequent flyer miles for this.

“When is the next flight you can get me on?” I asked. She consulted her timetable, tapped on her keys, and said “Hmmm” a lot.

“The first flight that I can get you on in business class is at 2:25 this afternoon,” she said. “If you want to change to coach I could get you out at 11:45.” She smiled at me waiting for an answer. I calculated the stress of waiting versus the stress of flying in a sardine can.

“I’ll take the 2:30 flight, please,” I said. I looked around at the terminal trying to figure out where I was going to hang out for six hours.

“Here you are,” she said handing me a boarding pass. “Gate C33 boarding at 1:45. If you’d like to relax, feel free to use our President’s Club lounge. It’s between gates C22 and C23. Just show your boarding pass.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I headed off down the concourse toward the distant lounge and discovered I had already passed it. I had to turn around and by the time I got there, I’d had to stop twice to rest. When I entered, however, I found a pleasant place with soft furniture and a continental breakfast spread out. It included a self-serve espresso machine. I looked around as if someone might stop me if I had a shot and then pulled it and went to sit down.