Chapter 30

August 15 – near Colts Run, Loudoun County, Virginia

We’d been here at Whirlwind Virginia for nearly a week now, and we were just settling in. Red did a great job in finding this sprawling ranch nestled on 22 acres. The Timberline Security Company had fenced the property and had installed an inner double-fenced dog compound, when we bought it a few months ago. Out in the ‘back 20’, as we called it, was a helipad that Fingers assured me was less than forty minutes by Sikorsky helicopter from the White House. Of course, we weren’t able to fly to the White House, as Fingers said, “without getting shot down or at least shot at, since I was pretty sure I could keep them from hitting me. One of those things we’ll probably never test because of the ramifications.” But there were airports all over the place we COULD fly to.

I had him make plans to fly into Washington National (later it was called Reagan National), and file them as publicly as possible. We were actually going to fly into a small regional airport in Maryland and take a covered wagon drawn by a dozen mules into the motel we’d rented rooms at. Thereafter, we’d don our buckskins and scalp a few locals. That’d throw off whoever was following us.

We packed a small bag for each of us with a knockout dress for tomorrow night. Well, the knockout dress was for me. The guys are getting the tuxes, with the thin, see-through socks and the shiny shoes. I was gonna wear a fancy pair of thick blue socks with a Navajo design and a pair of red moccasins. The dress was an ankle-length, off the shoulder (left shoulder if you must know) with a slit up the right side to about the middle of my thigh. A totally bodacious Navajo star in turquoise and red went from my neck to my knee, front and back. The Navajo star had a white background. I couldn’t wear any underwear under it.

I tried it on for the guys and they almost didn’t let me get out of the dress before they attacked me.

...

The next morning, in the motel, we had a great breakfast at a place called Dad’s Diner. I mean, how could we resist a stack of pancakes at Dad’s? The diner was a boxcar in length and the back half was the kitchen. There was a counter with a dozen seats; about half full. Dad, it turns out, was an unshaven black man who must have been 50. Or maybe 70. Who could tell? But he made a heck of a good crispy bacon side with hashbrowns, and he even broke his rule and served orange juice, instead of coffee. With the pancakes. The whole thing cost $40, but I left a $15 tip. For the ambiance.

We stumbled back to the room and crashed for a couple of hours. About 4:00 we broke camp and got in the mini-SUV and drove to the place that was going to rent us a limo, complete with driver. I checked in via phone with David and Fingers at the ‘copter at the airport. They were cool with just sitting there in case we needed to make a quick exit.

Then I checked in with Alex and Jim. I didn’t think it strange at all that they were eating a pair of pineapple and ham pizzas, both from Mamma’s, in my haciendas about a thousand miles apart. Alex was planning on watching “16 Candles” afterward, and Jim was planning to play “Duke Nukem” on his laptop. Well, they weren’t IDENTICAL twins.

We suited up and picked up the limo, avec driver, and drove to the Capital Hilton. We were there fashionably early, at 4:40. Bear got us checked in to a room in his name. Who’d look for a trio of Indians in a room for Sun Maritsuki? It was on the third floor, the first one above the ballroom, where the dinner was due to be served.

Up we went and – what else? – raided the edibles and watched the “Phil Donahue” show. It was a show about girls and their fathers. It seemed that the fathers had left the home and the girls didn’t like the fathers, years later.

I hadn’t figured I was going to have to sit in my beautiful dress for a couple of hours, and I got tired of standing. So I slithered out of the dress, and all of a sudden the guys stopped watching the TV. By the time it was puddled around my ankles, I had to tell the guys that I’d make them sorry if they tried anything. Rock said, “Aww. You’re no fun.” I hung the dress in the closet and sat – on the other bed – with my calf-length thick cotton socks and red moccasins and nothing else except my jewelry, with a fan of long black hair down my back, watching Phil Donahue cajole the girls into giving their fathers one more try.

By 7:30, I was getting into my dress again – with help from the ‘hands brothers’ – and I was ready to beard the lions of the oil industry. We walked to the elevators and emerged one floor down at the ballroom.

We were, of course, stopped by the praetorian guards at the door. “I’m Alexis White Owl,” I said. “Mr. Zoot’s party.” I must have said the ‘Open Sesame,’ because they let us in. The guys split up and became mobile potted plants. There they interfaced with other potted plants around the periphery of the room; none of them talking with any of the others. Each looking nervously around the room.

I was stopped often by men who introduced themselves. The guy from Pemex was particularly smarmy. He invaded my personal space and drooled on his ruffled, blue shirt. None of the women present showed any interest in me at all. They all wore red or white or blue dresses, cut to the knee and all of them seemed like carbon copies of each other. I was pretty sure some of them were in the same line of work that I’d practiced in life #1. I sure as hell wasn’t a carbon copy of anybody in the room.

Charlie Zoot wandered by and said I looked ‘smashing.’ I thanked him and turned to face a swarthy man, somewhat overweight, middle-aged who was wearing a beautiful floor length gown of white silk, with a table-cloth on his head, held on by a golden beaded circlet.