The Saltport ATM

7. It's a Bird, It's a Private Plane

"I'll be paying," I say. Kristel glances up, brow creasing. "Please take a seat, Two." The men sit down, and I whisper, "it will be cash today."

"Cash? Is something wrong with your card?" Kristel asks.

"No, everything's fine. I just, uh, I have cash with me. It's kind of long and complicated."

"I got that impression, especially since you're paying for the client."

"Definitely complicated," I say. "I'll explain at my next appointment, which I have a feeling will be soon due to all of this." I make a loose gesture toward the three sitting on the furry, pink couches, enveloped in the scent of vanilla perfume.

"Okay." Kristel taps a few things on her screen, then lowers her voice. "I just need to know if you've gone out and gotten yourself a man?"

"No, no," I chuckle. "Nothing like that. I'm fine... sort of." Concern lingers on Kristel's face. "You don't need to worry. I'm just going to book a plane flight for Two and come back in a few hours."

"Sure." Kristel's voice trails off, but she doesn't ask for further details. She's great in that way. I never feel forced to tell her about my life, but she's just so easy to talk to that she could probably get the best spy to reveal secret information.

I pay Kristel for the spa day. Her eyes nearly pop out of her sockets when she sees the cash bag, but I hurry the transaction along to decrease its awkwardness. At last, a masseuse fetches Two, and I'm back on the streets with Left-Scar. As ridiculous as it sounds, Right-Scar decided to guard the prince at the spa. I hope he enjoys the sweet-smelling air freshener they've sprayed in the lobby.

"Where to now?" Left-Scar asks.

"Somewhere I can make a phone call in peace and quiet."

"How about that cafe across the street?" He points to where several wrought iron tables and chairs cluster underneath a blue-and-yellow striped overhang.

My eyes narrow. Left-Scar doesn't seem like the type to do cozy, cute, or aesthetic, and those are all the adjectives I'd use to describe "Le Sucre de Vie," another shop I frequent in Nalta.

What can I say? If I'm going to have a spa day, I might as well treat myself to a latte and a croissant...or two.

A low rumble churns beside me. It takes a moment to realize that it's emitted from Left-Scar. I stare at him for a moment before the tiniest sigh slips from his lungs.

"I didn't get lunch, remember?"

Oh. Of course. Le Sucre de Vie is merely the fastest way to refuel his calorie tank. We cross the street, and a bell chimes as we enter the shop. I sit at a corner table, looking up flights to New York.

There isn't even one flight available. Seriously. Not even one.

Desperation rises in my chest. My thumbs fly more frantically over the screen. I search up airports in the surrounding districts, anywhere within a few hours drive. Other than a five p.m. flight in Miami, the earliest flight I can find is seventy-two hours from now, which is far too late.

I check the time on my phone. It's three in the afternoon, definitely too late to make it to Miami. I flop back in my chair just as Left-Scar sits with two sliced bagels slathered in cream cheese and topped with microgreens. He crunches into it, scattering a few sesame seeds across his plate. He watches me far too intently while he chews, hands folded beneath his chin.

"What?" I ask after a moment.

Left-Scar lifts the bagel half, crunches into it, chews while watching me. Irritation bubbles inside me. The piano notes flowing together overhead does not help.

"If you have something to say, spit it out."

Left-Scar takes his time to swallow. "I doubt you would want to see a half-chewed bagel."

"You know what I mean. What's up with the look?"

"You seem annoyed," he states.

"Um, yeah. There are no flights available."

"How about a private plane?" Left-Scar polishes off the remains of his first bagel half.

I let the thought marinate in my brain. "Perhaps. But where do I even go looking for a private plane?"

Left-Scar shrugs. "Has Google steered you wrong yet?"

He's got a point. I look up private planes, and within five minutes, I've navigated to a local plane rental company. It's crazy to think that these super-rich people's services exist within driving distance. It always seemed like the type of thing you'd find somewhere else, out in California perhaps with the Hollywood stars. And now here I am, looking to rent a private plane.

I dial the phone number. I have a sinking feeling that I'm about to make a fool of myself, but you do what you got to do.

"Hello, this is Silver Bird Rentals. How may I help you?" a female voice asks on the line.

"I was just wondering if I could rent a plane for tomorrow." Never imagined I'd be saying that sentence.

"I'm sorry. All our plane rentals are booked for the next week."

"But—"

"You may consider flying first-class out of the Nalta airport."

"But they don't have any flights to New York!"

"That's unfortunate." The woman doesn't sound the least bit sorry.

"Please, I really need a plane. Isn't there something you can do? Maybe keep me on a wait list or..."

Silence lingers on the other end. Papers shuffle, and a couple of keys clack. My teeth nibble on my lipstick.

Please say there's something. Please!

Why am I so desperate? If I can't get Two to New York, then that's it. I don't have to help him anymore.

My eyes drift across the table, to where Left-Scar is on his last bite of bagel. Then again, his minions might attack me with their tridents if I don't figure something out.

"Are you still there?"

I jump, fingers tightening around my phone to keep from dropping it. "Yes."

"Please wait as I transfer you." Jazz music swings through the phone, competing with the calm, classical strings playing above. After a moment, it fades to a man's bored voice. "Good afternoon."

"Uh, yes. I'm trying to get a private plane to New York."

The man runs through a series of questions about seats, stereo systems, size, color, shape, model number, and the list goes on and on and on. By the end, I'm just saying the first answer that pops into my head.

"Alright," the man finally says. "That will be thirty-three million dollars. Will you be purchasing a pilot as well?"

My jaw goes slack. "E-excuse me?"

"Do you have a license to fly or do you need to hire a pilot? If so, for how long will he be employed?"

"E-employed?"

The man sighs. "Yes, employed."

"I-I'm not sure if I follow. I just need a plane for a one-time trip to New York."

Keys clack on the other side of the phone. "Ma'am, this is for purchasing a private jet. If you need a rental, then let me transfer you—"

"No! Wait." I inhale, trying to collect my thoughts. "But they're out of private planes."

More typing. "That would be correct."

"So my only option is purchasing a private plane?"

"That would be correct."

I sigh, clutching my hair. This is absolutely insane. This is reckless and crazy. What the heck am I going to do with a private jet?

My eyes zero in on Left-Scar. As usual, he watches me intently, an empty plate before him. Before I know it, my sack of money will be equally decimated. I mouth the words "get ready to count" to him, then return to the phone call.

"How much will the pilot cost?"