For a moment, his previous excitement returned to his face.
'Cleese is a WGL fighter, Mom.'
'Yes, Ritchie,' she said, running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to straighten it up, 'I know. The television has been playing highlights of his match virtually non-stop.'
Cleese stood up and bowed at the waist.
'Nice to meet you,' he said.
The woman smiled and put one arm around the young boy’s shoulder.
'You’re quite the media star,' she said with a flirtatious pout. It was an obviously calculated move on her part and one that had undoubtedly worked on men before. 'I hope Ritchie hasn’t been bothering you,'
'No, he’s fine.'
'Well, we’re both big fans of yours. We’ve enjoyed all of your fights and the last fight was one of the best I’ve seen.'
An internal bullshit detector went off like a fire alarm in his head. He had, after all, only had one fight. The woman was obviously making an attempt to ingratiate herself. It might have helped if she’d done a bit of homework. He was merely a target of convenience. The whole thing made him feel a little played.
Cleese looked down and saw a wave of embarrassment wash over Ritchie’s face. He felt sorry for the kid. He knew it was hard to grow up male in the shadow of a single mom. With no dad, he would have little he could call his own—male-wise. In order to survive, he’d have to be tough… and receive a little encouragement.
'Thanks.'
Cleese started signing the card and then stopped.
'Ritchie, was it?'
The boy nodded and smiled.
He quickly scribbled, 'To Ritchie, I’m glad you’re in my corner. Your buddy, Cleese' and handed it to the boy. He was happy when he saw the kid’s eyes light up like a neon sign.
The kid’s mother plucked the card away from him and looked it over.
'Oh, isn’t that great, Ritchie?'
She looked up and smiled again.
'My name’s Judith.'
'Nice to meet you, Judith,' he said and playfully plucked back the card from her and smiled. He handed it back to the kid and ruffled his cap and hair.
'I could sign one of those for you as well, ya know.'
She laughed and lightly touched his arm; another calculated move. Cleese liked the kid right off. Mom, however, was quickly becoming a manipulative pain in his ass. He’d seen her type before… in bars. Brassy and sporting a lethal combination of a severely inflated sense of self and an egotistical sense of entitlement, she’d made presenting herself to men into an art form. Richie had undoubtedly come about as a result of some bad planning and a few missed periods.
Now, he was little more than a fashion accessory.
Looking down at the kid, he felt all the more sorry for him.
Then, to Cleese’s relief, a man in an official looking white shirt walked up and saved him from further interaction with Judith Painintheass. The dude’s hair was cut high and tight and Cleese immediately figured him for ex-military. His posture was a little too straight and his tie was tied a little too perfectly to be anything else. Black epilates and official patches augmented his uniform. A clip-on TSA credential hung like a Christmas tree ornament from his pocket.
'Sir,' he said in an authoritative voice, 'my name is Paul McDaniel and it’ll be my pleasure to escort you to your flight.'
Cleese excused himself, once again smiled at Judith, and then patted Ritchie on the head.
'Be good, Ritchie,' he said. 'And tell that Johnny Mischon I said you were The Man.'
The boy’s face almost split in half from the smile that blossomed there.
As Cleese turned and walked away, he could feel Judith’s disappointed gaze heat up his back. For some reason, he was sure her ego would live.
Paul the Security Guy led the way past the metal detectors and x-ray machines and on toward the departure gates. About midway down the main corridor, he turned and, pulling at the keychain connected to his belt by a retractable cord, used a key to unlock a side door.
'This hallway will get us to your gate faster and help avoid any unwanted attention, Sir,' Paul said. He held the door as Cleese walked through. Cleese got a good vibe off the guy and relaxed a bit. The dude just seemed like someone you’d want to have some beers with; someone who’d done his service when things got tight and was now riding out his time keeping order in the civilian world. Cleese kind of respected that.
'Sir, if I might say something?' Paul asked.
'You can say anything you want there, Paul, as long as you stop calling me ‘Sir.’'
'Fair enough,' he said and smiled.
'Before doing this security gig, I was in the Marines…'
'I sort of figured that out for myself, Paul. You don’t strike me as someone who set out to be Airport Security. No offense.'
'None taken. It’s a paycheck, ya know?'
Cleese laughed.
'I do indeed, Paul.'
'Which brings me to my point.'
Paul looked over at Cleese as they walked with a genuinely questioning face.
'I’ve seen some shit—Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Central America, hell, I even got caught in Newark when the shit with The Dead went down—but I gotta tell ya…'
Cleese interrupted him having already heard this rap a time or two before.
'You’d never do what I do, right?'
'Correct, Sir.'
'Well, Paul, I’ll tell ya… I do what I do, quite frankly, because I was never much good at doing much else. Truth is… you’ve probably done some things I wouldn’t have. So, we’re probably even there. I guess what I’m saying is that we all play the cards we’re dealt because we don’t know no different or we’re too stupid to see a way out.'
Cleese looked over and shook his head.
'For me, it was a little bit of both, actually.'
By now, they’d reached the other end of the hallway. Paul was working at unlocking the door so that they could go out onto the tarmac to where the League’s private plane undoubtedly waited.
'Does that make any kinda sense, Paul?' Cleese asked.
'It does indeed.' Paul said and grinned. He pressed against the bar that released the lock and then once again held the door open. Sunlight spilled into the hallway, momentarily blinding them both. Cleese walked through the doorway and into the morning’s heat.
'On your left,' Paul said and pointed toward the Learjet 60 XR waiting on the airstrip. 'It’s been a pleasure, Sir.'
'For both of us, Paul.' Then, 'I appreciate your help.'
Cleese took a few steps and then turned. He quickly snapped off a quick military salute. Reflexively, Paul returned the gesture. Cleese pointed at him with his index finger and the man raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled.
'Old habits die hard, Paul.'
'They do indeed, Sir,' and he laughed. 'Good luck at your next match, Sir.'
'From your mouth to God’s ear, Buddy.'
'A request, Sir.'
'Go ahead.'
'Nail one of the bastards for me, ok?'
