by A W Hartoin
Fats took a deep breath. It sounded like a fireplace bellows. “You should tell him that getting married is nice. It’s the thing to do when you are in love.”
“I’m going to try something else. The last time I mentioned marriage, he—”
“What? What did he say?” Fats’ voice got tuba deep.
“Nothing. Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Tell me.”
I’m going to pee again.
“It was innocent. He just said that you haven’t known each other that long and there was no hurry. He thought Chuck and I would be getting married first.”
“Do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell him you are marrying Chuck and then maybe he’ll get excited and want to marry.”
The hormones had to be out of control. I might have to call her ob/gyn. “I don’t think men work like that,” I said.
“Who says they don’t?” she asked.
“Um…men.”
“I say we try it,” said Fats.
“I’m not going to pretend to marry Chuck,” I said.
Chuck smiled at me. “We could just get married.”
Oh, my God.
“Do your spreadsheet,” I said to him.
“I’m running out of time here,” said Fats.
“You’re like, what, eight weeks?”
“What’s your point?”
I sat down and put my head on my breakfast bar. “I don’t know.”
“You’ll think of something?” Fats asked.
“I will think of something. Can I get back to my ice cream?”
“Ice cream. I haven’t had ice cream since I don’t know when,” said Fats. “I am starving.”
“I think we may have hit the root of the problem,” I said. “Go eat something.”
“I’m on a low-carb, zero processed sugar diet, you know that.”
“Eat ice cream, I beg you.”
“The baby wants vegetables and tofu.”
Then the baby is crazy.
“You should talk to your doc about your diet. It’s extreme, considering…ya know,” I said.
“You think so?”
“I do.”
She talked about the “baby’s” preference for lean meats and carrots, until I begged off with a claim of nausea from too much ice cream. Like that happens. There’s no such thing.
Chuck saved his spreadsheet and closed my laptop. “Okay. I’ve got to go. Somebody stabbed a couple of tourists.” He checked his phone. “At the Arch.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Looks like it. We will continue this discussion tonight,” he said.
“You’ll be working.”
He thought about it. “You’re probably right. Tomorrow night. It’s a lock. We will pick an apartment and put down a deposit.”
That is not happening.
“Whatever,” I said.
He scowled.
“I love you very much.” I wound his scarf around his neck and only thought about throttling him a tiny bit. “Now catch that attempted murderer.”
“Will do.” Chuck laid a kiss on me that totally made me forget about throttling him and made me start thinking about other things.
“Maybe you should stay,” I purred.
“Morty’s standing behind you.”
“Never mind.”
His phone buzzed again. He checked it and held it up for me to see. It was the FBI. “What is going on? They have been calling me about you.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You’re not answering your phone.”
“Correct.”
Chuck kissed me again. Just a short one. Mildly impressive. “You have to talk to them.”
“They screwed over my family and they’re still doing it. They are dead to me.”
“Tommy won’t like it.”
“Dad doesn’t need to be the FBI’s go-to guy anymore. He can do something else.”
“Oh, yeah? His rep isn’t in the toilet or anything,” said Chuck.
“That’s not my fault.”
“I know, but you have to answer them. It could be interesting.”
“Last time I dealt with the FBI, Kent Blankenship bit me on the face,” I said. “Forget it.”
“Okay, okay. But remember they are the FBI. If they want to talk to you, they’re gonna talk to you.”
I sighed and gave him a little finger wave. Chuck hurried out the door.
“Greece sounds more tempting, don’t it?” asked Uncle Morty with a huge smirk.
“Not remotely.”
Chuck jolted back in the door. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow night. Apartment. Maybe a house. We could buy a house.”
“We’re not buying a house.”
“We could. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Holy crap. Go to work,” I said.
He started to duck out but came right back. “Fats texted. Something about timelines.”
No. No. No.
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I said, pushing his noggin out the door.
“Here it is. She wants to discuss her deadline.”
“Swell.”
“Fats has a deadline? Is she a reporter now?” asked Chuck.
“She’s not a reporter. She’s just driving me crazy for free,” I said.
“Now you’ve got me interested. We can talk about it tomorrow. Call Fats. She wants to meet.” His phone buzzed again. “And call the FBI. They’re driving me nuts.”
I shoved him out and closed the door, leaning back against it and facing a super smug Uncle Morty. “How many things is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to Greece.”
Think of something. Think of something.
He grinned at me. “You got nothing.”
“I could,” I said.
“But ya don’t and you’re going to Greece.”
I sighed, too tired to fight it any longer. “Yeah.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“Eight o’clock show time. Don’t be late.”
“Don’t be smelly,” I said.
Uncle Morty held out his hand and I shook it. I was too tired not to. “Don’t worry about the money. I put some in your account to cover you for a while.”
“Really?” I could’ve cried.
“I’ll take it out of your inheritance.”
“I’m not getting squat.”
“You might get squat. A whole lot of squat, if you help me win Nikki back over.”
“Okay. I’ll do what I can.”
He smiled at me. “I know you will and I’ll make it worth your while. I took a good hard look at your accounts. You need a cash injection. It’s a sad state of affairs.”
“Thanks.”
Uncle Morty left and Skanky looked up from my well-licked sofa, yawning with ice cream on his whiskers.
“I guess I’m going to Greece,” I said.
And then my cat threw up. It was not a good sign.
CHAPTER THREE
OUR UBER DRIVER parked in the departures lane at Lambert and popped his trunk. I got out and stared for a second at all the space. “Where’s your luggage?”
Uncle Morty yanked out his computer bag and a carry-on and eyed my large roller bag. “This is it. Where do you think we’re going? Antarctica? You got a parka in there?”
I hauled out my bag and I’m not going to lie, I might’ve popped out a hernia. “We’re going for three weeks. This is three weeks’ worth of clothes.”
“Greece has washers.”
“I’m not using ‘em. This is a vacation,” I said, hooking my carry-on over my shoulder.
“Well, I ain’t carrying that shit,” said Uncle Morty. “You pack it, you deal with it.”
I rolled my eyes. “I never thought you’d deal with my bag, but you might want to tone it down after we find Nikki.”
He stopped his grumpy march to the airport door and turned
around. “Huh?”
“Men typically offer to help to be polite. Nikki likes polite.”
“Gimme that.” Uncle Morty came back and whipped my roller bag away from me.
I waved to the Uber driver and he rolled down the passenger window. “Good luck!”
“Thanks.”
“You smell great by the way!”
“Tell your friends,” I said, laughing.
He gave me a thumbs-up and drove off, leaving me to follow Uncle Morty into the airport. I slapped on a floppy hat and sunglasses and put my head down.
Nobody noticed me and I’ve never been so grateful, but it didn’t last. Uncle Morty was standing at a kiosk, passport in hand, which should’ve been easy, but it was us, so it wasn’t. There were two gate agents with him and two more on the way. Our reservation must’ve been flagged. I pictured a skunk emoticon next to our names and I couldn’t blame them.
“Mr. Van der Hoof, we just need to make sure there’s no issue with your flight today,” said the lead gate agent.
“There ain’t no issue,” said Uncle Morty. “Does it seem like there’s an issue?”
“No, but on your last flight, there was—”
“That wasn’t you. What the fuck do you care?”
“There’s no need for that kind of language, Mr. Van der Hoof,” she said, looking dangerously like she might call security. Attention was the last thing we needed.
I rushed up and said, “Good morning. What’s the problem?”
“Oh,” said the gate agent with visible relief. “It’s you. Thank goodness.”
And then she did it. She sniffed me.
“That’s the issue!” bellowed Uncle Morty. “Don’t be smelling my niece. That’s just freaking rude.”
Another agent ran over and got in between them. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been instructed to make sure—”
“Now you’re sure!”
I grabbed Uncle Morty’s arm. “They’re sure. They’re sure.” I glared at the agent. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”
“Me, either,” said the original agent. “But after the last time…”
“I get it,” I said, turning and giving Uncle Morty the stink eye. “Don’t you have something to say to these nice people who are going to let us get on a plane to go see Nikki?”
“Get outta my way,” he said. “I got a plane to catch.”
“That’s not it,” I said.
“Gimme an upgrade.”
I groaned. “For God’s sake, apologize for losing your temper and it wouldn’t hurt to tell them who actually stunk last time.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “They’re causing the problem.”
“You caused the original problem.”
“Huh?” the female gate agent asked.
“Tell them,” I said.
Uncle Morty got shifty eyed. “It depends on your point of view. We could’ve flown to Greece. People being snowflakes and fancy ass pain in my—”
“It’s not a POV problem. Tell them.”
He grumbled and groused.
“Do it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Do you want me to get on that plane?” I asked.
Uncle Morty said through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry for yelling and cursing and being an ass.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the male gate agent.
“And?” I said.
“Do I have to?” Uncle Morty asked.
I glared and he said, “It was me that stunk last time, not Mercy. She smelled like roses. I smelled like dumpster fire. It was me.”
The gate agents gaped at us.
“You?” said the female. “But we were told and it was on the news.”
“The news was friggin’ wrong,” said Uncle Morty. “Imagine that.”
The male was doubtful. “That was widely reported and the pictures were very persuasive.”
Uncle Morty pointed at me. “Look at her and look at me. Who do you think made babies cry and a lady barf up her burrito?”
“I see your point,” he said. “May I ask what was going on?”
“No.” Uncle Morty pushed past him and practically punched the big red start button on the check-in kiosk.
I pulled the agents aside and whispered, “There was a breakup. He was in a bad way.”
“Oh,” they said in unison. “Good luck.”
“I hope I won’t need it,” I said with a smile.
I did need it. I needed it bad. As soon as Uncle Morty put my passport in the scanner, the screen went red and security ran up, encircling us.
“What the holy hell?” asked Uncle Morty. “If this is about the stink, I apologized. What do you want from me?”
One of the guards spoke into his walkie and then looked at me. “Miss Carolina Watts?”
“Er…yeah,” I said.
“Take off the hat and glasses.”
I sighed and did as I was told. People were looking and they definitely knew who I was and not because I was DBD’s cover girl or I solved a few murders or had a now infamous bikini shot taken in Honduras. It was because I supposedly smelled.
“It’s her,” said the guard. “Should I cuff her?”
“Cuff me?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” said Uncle Morty.
“Not necessary,” squawked the walkie. “Bring her in.”
“What about her companion?”
“He’s clear.”
The guards took my suitcase, carry-on, and purse. Then they took me by the arms and pulled me away from Uncle Morty.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Uncle Morty yelled. “Let her alone. We’re going to Greece.”
“Feel free to check in, sir,” said the guard. “Miss Watts isn’t going anywhere.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What did I do?”
“You’ve been flagged.”
“As what?”
“A terrorist.”
That’s right. I, Mercy Watts, was on the No Fly List, flagged as a flipping terrorist, and I got all that comes with it. Yanked into the bowels of Lambert Airport, I got searched, strip searched, and then searched again. I got x-rayed, body scanned, bomb sniffed, and they literally took apart my shoes. Those were my new Bob’s and I’d just gotten them broken in.
There was a moment when I thought they might just cut my cast off to see what was inside. Hint: it’s an arm. A supervisor put a halt to that when I said I would sue them, since I had a spiral fracture that was almost healed and that they ought to have known that, if they bothered to google me at all.
So instead, they decided to x-ray my arm three more times from different angles. I’m so gonna get bone cancer.
Then they searched my luggage and bomb sniffed it and scanned it and then repeated the process before taking every single thing I packed out and examining it. I’m pretty sure my thongs did not need three dudes to take a closer look. I half expected them to sniff them and I know I packed ten pairs. I counted. Homeland Security owes me four pairs of Victoria’s Secret lacy thongs. I don’t want to think about where my poor panties are spending their time now.
“Are we done?” I asked. “I can still make the flight.”
“No,” said nondescript Homeland Security guy.
I checked the clock. “Pretty sure I can.”
“You aren’t allowed to leave the country.”
“What in the world is going on? I’m not a terrorist. You know who I am. It’s crazy.”
“You’re on the list.”
“Take me off.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t put you on. It’s not up to me.”
I took a thong out of his hands and put it in my suitcase. “Who did then?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
; “Hello. I have to get off the No Fly List.”
“Good luck with that,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
I started repacking my suitcase. “What do I do?”
“You can submit a form to the Department of Homeland Security. The Traveler Redress Inquiry Program.”
“A form?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then they’ll tell me why I’m on the list?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe’? How can they not tell me?”
“They don’t have to.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t.” With that, he turned around and left me with a sunglass-wearing guard, who absolutely refused to speak, period.
I threw away my Bob’s, put on a pair of beach sandals, and had the exit pointed at. I went out into a maze of halls, passing other hapless travelers with various issues and managed to get pointed at multiple times. There was some video taken and plenty of pictures. I figured I was on YouTube at that very moment, now known as a smelly terrorist, but that didn’t compare to having to face Uncle Morty. If he got on the plane without me, it would be a miracle and miracles were in short supply.
I got turned around a number of times and it took an extra five minutes to get back out into the regular airport and to my dismay Uncle Morty was waiting, red-faced, sweating, and livid.
“Hurry the fuck up!” he bellowed. “We can still make it through security.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m still on the No Fly List,” I said.
“Why? What’d you do?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know what’s going on.”
Uncle Morty began muttering obscenities and walking in a circle, flailing his arms and sweating more and more.
“You’ll have to go without me,” I said. “Apparently, all I can do is fill out a form.”
“A form? What fucking form?”
“I don’t know. Some form.”
He pointed at me. “You!”
“Yeah?”
“Stay here.”
“No problem. The only place I can go is home,” I said.
That made him redder and he marched off yelling for Homeland Security and I’d be lucky if they didn’t arrest him for sheer belligerence.
I pushed my suitcase over to the wall and pulled out my phone. I’d have to tell my parents. Chuck. They couldn’t hear it on the news. Gaskets would be blown and somehow that would be my fault.