The asian chick

I’m doing my best to ignore the blowhard two stools to my left as I try to enjoy my pint of Quilmes lager. I pretend to be interested in the hocky game displayed on one of the two plasma screens over the bar. Our flight is delayed, so I’m killing time in this pub at Ezeiza International Airport, waiting for the pilot to show up and Clyde to return from the men’s. The other screen shows a Rounders game, the blowhard’s focus of attention. Baseball this, Cubs that, the boisterous punter prattles on. As I conjure a plan to quiet this fifty something steelworker, his date arrives, sitting to his left; it’s the Asian chick. By the time she finishes her double martini, her date has switched from sports to romance. Just as disturbing, but at least quieter. Finally, Clyde enters the bar, reporting “They just called our flight”.

 

Walking past the rounders fan and the Asian chick, whom I assumed hadn’t seen me as she hadn’t acknowledged my presence when she came in, she leans back in her barstool. Wordlessly she presses a card into my hand, in a classic brush pass, as I walk behind her. I shove the card in my pocket without looking at it. Later on the plane, I dig out the card, on it is a phone number and a name; Mandy.

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About HybridHitman

Contract killer for hire.
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