ChuckleVision Noir

I'd been smart, played it safe. A younger version of me might have gone in there without backup, got myself shot. Not now. I'd alerted the cops and the Airport staff. I'd been assured that they were doubling security checks on all outward flights. They'd even hired extra staff at the airport. Didn't make a damned bit of difference, of course. Just my luck these days. I waited by the phone, expecting to hear about the raid, but nothing. All night, nothing.

The next day, I called in a favour from a trolley-dolly called Jackie I'd helped out a couple of years back. Over a shot of bourbon on the rocks in Sam's Mile-High Diner, she gave me the low-down on what had happened. Word was, the broad had turned up heavily disguised, and two new employees had helped her get through the airport and on to the flight. Somehow, she'd managed to get all that contraband through security without anyone noticing, one of the men apparently carrying it through the checks for her and blaming it on his belt when the metal detectors went off.

Then, the cops had turned up, for all the good it did. They were sent in the wrong direction and got buried under a falling pile of badly-stacked luggage. By the time the cops had dug their way out, the plane had taken off for Casablanca, along with Roxy Rowlands and the biggest cache of drug money this town had ever seen. What's more, no-one knew where the two new employees were. The only sign was a discarded airport assistance uniform next to the security scanner.