Misleading Information
- Orin -
I scratched at my beard and wondered just where the hell this young American had gone to. Name of Morrigan was all I knew. Arrivals section looked like a shopping mall on Christmas Eve. Bugger all. I scanned all over, from gates to baggage claim. I checked the single glass elevator leading from the upper concourse. I checked the escalators. The flat screens displaying arrival and departure times confirmed the flight had landed. But there was no sign of this Morrigan bloke anywhere. The whole damn arrival pavilion was a holy show of comings and goings. Such a great effing rake of people, you’d never want to see. All pushing and scuffling about, in a hurry to leave. I couldn’t think of place I wanted to be less, on this particular morning.
My phone sent a vibration through my back pocket, and as I pulled it out, I barked into the speaker. “What?!”
“Do you have him yet, Orin?” rumbled a deep voice.
I leaned against a column and grumbled back, “No. The flight landed forty-five minutes ago, which is plenty enough time for customs and shit. But I been foostering all over this shit show, and haven’t a clue where he’s keeping.”
I fingered the small white signboard, lettered with ‘Keiran Morrigan’. I was supposed to be waving it about like an eejit, but doing that was enough to set me crimson. “I can’t believe I got stuck picking him up,” I whinged.
There was a low laugh from the other side. “Well, you did go up against Keegan in a coin toss, of all things. And him with the luck of—”
“Quiet, asshole,” I grunted, cutting him off. “Do you even know what this guy looks like, Brann? Flying blind here.”
“Nothing specific. I’d look for dark hair, gray eyes, pale skin. It runs in the family.”
“Mar dhea! Every other manky sod taking up space in this airdrome has dark hair and pale skin.”
“But you’ve got the sign. He’ll know you, stands to reason.”
“Brilliant. You’re so helpful. So. Very. Fucking. Helpful.” Brann had a laugh, at my expense, clearly. “Ach, feck off, you dosser,” I said. But it was the more jovial form of the expletive than a more serious “fuck off” might be.
I quickly hung up before Brann could launch another paragraph of jam on yer eggs. For a guy who’s supposed to be some kind of genius, I often wondered if Brann was not quite the full shilling. I rested the sign at my feet, feeling somewhere between confused, stupid, and completely knackered.
In any case, Brann supplied one helpful kernel: if I opened my senses and paid very close attention, I might find Mr. Morrigan. So I did just that.
I drew a deep breath in through my nostrils. The tidal wave of scents was overwhelming. Vehicle exhaust, someone’s crappy cologne, the smoked acid reek of airport coffee, travel funk, and smuggled salami assailed my nose at once. I instantly regretted my decision. Bad idea, very bad idea.
However, trying to isolate individual sounds turned out even more challenging than picking out scents. So many phone calls, yakking on about business, family reunions, gate numbers - inane gibberish bursting everywhere, like popcorn. The riot of chatter bounced and echoed off wall tiles and window glass. It was multi-track chaos, and even worse that trying to sniff somebody out of this Stink-O-Palooza. What good are wolf senses in a garbage chute like this?
In my boredom, my attention fixed on a very pink suitcase. This eyesore had a bad wheel that squeaked no louder than a factory whistle. The small but plucky lass steering this hobbled pink luggage was effin’ and blindin’ a blue streak. Girl cursed well as any sailor with a snoot full of the Black Stuff. She could blister your ears, this one. As a strap busted loose, the bag made a hard starboard turn, hoping to escape. “Bwaughfuckingno this is not okay!” she hollered. “Get back here!” Her outburst brought the day’s first smile to my lips. That bum wheel did another erratic dodge. This resulted in her getting knocked over by the pink abomination she was wrestling with. She landed hard on her bum, which was so fine I almost tried to hold off laughing. But the girl heard me already, which really got her up to 90. She looked to see who was laughing, but she was busy kicking and cussing her banjaxed suitcase, she never did lay eyes on me as the laughing hyena. She struggled to her feet, dragged her wobbling baggage off toward the other side of the terminal, and disappeared into the crowd.
My boredom resumed. Time was passing in a trickling drip, and no sign of this Keiran Morrigan anywhere. I was flapping that poxy sign about like a two-pound bird trying to fly off with a twenty-pound fish. My only hope was eventually Keiran Morrigan would open his eyes and come find me instead.
Exasperated from waiting, I pushed off of the wall and began to approach every dark-haired git who passed, asking if there was any chance in hell he was Keiran Morrigan?
I was just about to buttonhole another metrosexual himbo, when something like a magnetic pull from behind commanded me to stop and look back. At the same time, I heard someone call out “Hello?” I tried to spot the owner of the feminine voice. And it was a voice I thought I knew. It would have been easier to spot her if she’d been saying “Fuck this shit-wheeled can of piss” while kicking her piece of shit carry on. But what she was saying now was “Uh, excuse me? Are you looking for a Morrigan?”
She was still toting that insubordinate pink piece of rubbish. Instead of blinding myself looking at her bag, I looked up, and my eyes met hers. I was gobsmacked again, at the lovely way her peepers were like gray lakes at dawn. And this magnetic pull I was feeling? The
