Shaking through Security

Out of the corner of his eye, Mullally saw the flight crew stroll through the waiting area, trundling luggage.  One of the attendants passed him close enough that he smelled something hormonal, a Gerda-type of scent.  The stewardess could have passed for a runway model.

The agent glanced at Mullally and whispered, “A real piece of ass, huh?”

“The real thing,” Mullally grunted, grabbing the stew’s arm.  “Miss Stankewicz?”  He pointed at her luggage tag.  “We got the same name.”

“Really?”  Instead of being annoyed, she smiled and crinkled her blue eyes at him.  “That’s unusual.  A coincidence.”

“Could be.”  Mullally gave her his best 100-watt smile.  “A junkie named Sammy told me to be on the lookout.  Now, would you open that bag in your hand?”

*  *  *

Half an hour later, the security agent handed Mullally a cup of coffee.  “So, tell me how you knew she had the real art and the Russky was carrying bungwad?”





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